It’s SLRs at dawn, the Macbooks are drawn. The cutesy blogging planners are sharpened. The oversized drinking jars of paleo courgettini kale smoothies are gearing up for the battle to end all battles, it’s…..
The Blogging Wars: Positive Bloggers vs. Keeping it Real
It seems that parenting bloggers fall into one of two camps: those who like to tell it AS IT IS, one half eaten carpet-trodden mushy banana at a time, airing their dirty nappies in public, and those who like to #embracethehappy.
I’ll leave you to work out for yourselves which side of this imaginary battle I am on (and the imaginary battle is only going on in my head. I’m not actually declaring war on those who are #blessed. For a start, I would definitely lose. I just can’t compete with the neatness of their blogging corners. Forget I said that, I don’t even have a blogging corner. Who even has a desk that immaculate?)
We are, of course, all different, and have our own skills and interests. My interests just don’t involve clean eating or taking perfect photographs. My photos tend to end up like this.
I was just trying to get a photo. WHY ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE IN THE WAY? ARGH!
I’m afraid I don’t do Believing I Am Worth It. Post-it notes are for using as bookmarks, not for sticking positive affirmations on the bathroom mirror. I haven’t taken a decent selfie since 2008 and I’m not hashtagging the words “cherish,” “blessed” or “loved.”
I wish I was one of those people who has an immaculate office with fresh flowers, pristine Macbook and giant white letters used as bookends, but instead my blogging lair is the bedroom I used to share with my brother in 1985, now just one great big pile of my clothes with Piglet and I sleeping in the middle, tapping away at the Macbook after Piglet has gone to sleep and hoping that the backlight isn’t doing awful things to his circadian rhythms.
I wish I had a husband and a perfect Mum wardrobe of Breton tops to wear every day as I share the photos of our days out on the local windswept beach with our dog, Andrex Puppy, as he trails a perfect ribbon of pristine white toilet paper along behind us in monochrome, and the wind whips my hair into joyful tousled curls.
I wish I had a perfectly co-ordinated kitchen with an Aga and a selection of Emma Bridgewater crockery to showcase my clean eating paleo kale and goji berry muffins.
Actually, I don’t. I think I’ll stay being a single mother and pathological oversharer with a wardrobe full of vintage dresses that don’t fit and “interesting” headpieces with the labels still on. And you’ll just have to put up with my bad photography and occasional rants about how the world is just one big patriarchal conspiracy. There’s room for all of us. Even me.
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