Oh, how the world of non-communicative, virtual communications gets my panties in a bundle.
If raising children is real, immediate, a truly felt, lived, intimate, and responsive reality, everything else is so, well, fake.
Like I had a fake conversation with a (supposedly) real person at amazon.com. Did you know you could call these people? And listen to them read scripts and put you on hold for hours, all so you can send them your money? Yes, well, if you're interested in wasting some time, you can do just that.
And, for heaven's sake, stop inviting me to join a "social networking" site and invite me over for dinner. I don't want 100 friends who don't know anything about me, or conversely know everything about me but don't know me at all.
It's a vast soul-less mecca out there, and yet, perversely, it's all we have sometimes. We're so rushed we can't make time for friends, because we have to spend all our time on the unfriendly computer with its wild deceptions.
What can I say? If I filled this site with lots of naked pictures of myself doing raunchy things, I would be so popular. But just writing about motherhood? I say, if sex is original (which it's not), than so is motherhood. And it's live and vital and rich, whereas virtual coitus, not so much.
Wouldn't it be nice if, when you called some place, any place, there were a real voice on the other side?
Hey, I've got my daughter hugging trees. You can't hug your monitor. Go ahead. Try it. I dare you.