Back in 2002, while I was out shopping in a boutique in the trendy and exclusive area of the metropolitan core, I realized that I needed something unique to give me an edge. All the other music industry insiders were chomping at the bit to one up their peers. We were known for promenading through the Queen West clubs to be seen. It was expected that we would air kiss our arch-rivals, toss in grand declarations of new accomplishments, while posing listlessly to show that we were utterly bored with the scene.
I arranged a party to celebrate the latest signing to our roster. While the guests sipped champagne, my boss took a moment to commend me publicly to the crowd. I nearly fainted. It was a rare occasion that I was offered praise. More often the moments of glory were never shared. I was thrilled. It was a good thing I managed to maintain my composure or my secret status would have been revealed. I smiled from the inside out because earlier that day I had discovered that I was pregnant.
I had a plan! I would become a hipster parent-memoirist. I would give my children made up names like Syra and Coane. They'd wear environment friendly designer limited edition clothing. They'd have their tiny, pinky finger on the pulse of the punk rock scene. They'd be born with the ability to shun the mainstream.
I'd exploit their brilliant child like ways with their go-go first words and humorous antidotes of suntan lotion substitutes. However I would not do this for profit. No, I'm much too alternative than that! I'd use these new accessories disguised as children so that I could become the most unique and creative individual. I would fashion the modern mother role and be worshipped by Mini-Me #1 and Mini-Me #2.
Our parents shared funny stories about things that we did only they did not hit the publish key on a computer. Instead they picked up the telephone and related our childhood comical behavior to their friends and neighbours. No one questioned if they were trying to maintain a level of hipness by sharing our daily adventures. No one judged our parents on whether they exposed us to Elvis Presley, Led Zeppelin, The Bee Gee's or Raffi.
Parents who blog are not writing to prove to non breeders that they are still free thinking individuals. Having a child does not change that. Yes, we do have another thing that is truly important in our lives that we find fascinating.
Becoming a parent is a defining moment but it does not define me. Much the same way that getting a job is a defining moment but your career does not define you. People are made up of every experience they have encountered and the people that surround them. I wish we could move away from the need to slap a label on it so that it's not so daunting. Now I understand that hipster + parent + blog = scary. Boo!