It’s a strange thing to see your mother blogging.
Of course, I understand that “mommy bloggers” are a big deal now: influential media outlets that companies aggressively solicit for product endorsements. But if you knew my mother — my adoptive mother, that is — well, it would seem like a strange thing. Almost funny, like nuns playing basketball or retirees robbing banks.
See, my adoptive parents, though very loving, have never been terribly adventurous. Growing up, our vacations were road trips, our dogs were pedigreed, our shirts were very, very plaid.
They aren’t tech-adventurous either. At one point, my father had the opportunity to computerize his customer database — this was in the 1980s, when computers for the common man were just taking off — but dad thought, “What good would that be?” and sunk his money into a low-rent photo processing machine. (I’m happy to report that he now sees the error of his ways.)
My adoptive mother is even worse. She can’t even check the voicemail on her cell phone, bless her heart. If it doesn’t involve a number two pencil and a piece of scratch paper, it’s kind of beyond her.
But my bio-mom, Callie, is a different story. She is cut from different cloth. She’s more adventurous than I am. She’s eager to learn. She’s curious — a born researcher, a natural librarian.
So I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me at all that Callie has not only put her life in Georgia on hold for six months to live in Oxford, England, but that she’s blogging, too. She’s been doing it for weeks, and although she’s only up to about 16 or 17 posts, she seems to be getting a rhythm.
When she masters text messages, I think I’ll panic.