But there's only one M. And no doubt, theres only one Popeye. That being said, this is the beginning of Popeyes and my project. Perhaps amist the pacifiers and puke and early mornings and late dinners (or no dinners) it may wax unfinished as well. But when is a life story ever finished? Even in the lapse of death the history of a life and the markings left behind never conclude what has been.
This is Popeyes adventure.
As I write this, I can't help but be curious: what is ever to come of all these stories, these blogs, if you will, that float out into the public doman. In no other generation has there been the opportunity for us to detail our adventures, not just mommy adventures but many different kinds of adventures, in such careful detail. Will our children one day be able to look back and see the struggles that their mothers wrote for the world to see?
In the case of the mommy bloggers: these details are far too often of childrens incontinence and their mothers fight for identity beyond motherhood. Will our children turn various colors of chagrin as they one day see their own tales of childhood horrors spread out for the world to devour like a buffett of embarressment? Eventually I can see a field of psychology being dedicated to the damage done by blogging. "Sorry, dude. I can't come over tonight. Got to go talk to my Blog-chiatrist." Oh the innocent ways we scar our children... I hope, instead, that our children will be able to grasp their mom's stories and embrace all told as a document of their mothers love.
And so, Popeye, if you are reading this in place of studying for some college exam in the distant, but likely not that distant, future, I sincerely apologize in advance. Rest assured: I'll pay for your therapy.
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