I promise not to post constantly about how I am old and the kids are changing and you know back when I was coming up we didn't have this whole "internet" thing you people talk about….
However, just because I won't post about it constantly, doesn't mean I won't post about it.
I have already gotten over the fact that Diana reads blogs. Sort of.
For a while it was all Mimismartypants, all the time, and then it was all over the place, and THEN over the winter break, while she was lolling about, flu- and fever-ridden, I introduced her to Bookshelves of Doom.
And…wow. Where before I bemoaned her loss of innocence, now I think "Yes, she is finding her people!"
It's not that I didn't see that before, exactly. I mean, the whole Mimismartypants thing was about feeling less lonely in the world. And she, Diana, saw it that way too. When I asked her to maybe cut down on the archive exploring (Mimismartypants, if you're out there, Diana is why you have perhaps experienced a 2,000% increase in page views over the past year), she said, "But you don't know how reassuring it is to find SOMEONE in the world with my exact same sense of humor!" Which…well, it just kills me. But even so, it just felt weird that this 12-year-old's ego ideal was a 40-something editor in Chicago who was someone else's mother. Not bad, just weird.
But now, this currently-but-not-for long 13-year-old, who has always been an unbelievably voracious reader, has found someone whose reading taste she shares, whose obsessions make sense to her, who is yet another voice to remind her that she isn't alone in the world with what she loves. Who reminds her that the world is bigger than just middle school. And who doesn't appreciate a reminder of that? I am grateful.
One thought on “Of Blogs, Loneliness, and Teenagers”
Oh lord, I do love that minismartypants blog — the other not so much. I’m impressed with your daughter’s sophistication. When I think of my eighth grade years, I think of my large rose-tinted glasses and my skinny thick-eye-browed face, the book “Jane Eyre,” and skirting the miserable people I went to school with —