Giddy. I am giddy. If my 15-year old were to begin blogging, he would say, “Yea, whatever. So this is my blog.” I would be amazed at his content, and he would shrug his brilliant little shoulders at me.

But I, the silly old mom, past her prime in so many ways, say, “Dude.”  (That sounds strange coming from my mouth, but I say it anyway). “Dude. Look at that. It says ‘Hello World!’ I have become a part of the cool world, the rad world, the opposite of the frumpy mom, junior-high teacher in ‘What Not to Wear’ clothes. Dude, just look at that.”

Of course, I shall not tell my son to look at anything. I shall not let him see any of the drivel that I type; he will never know. Okay, maybe he will know, but he won’t care.

Therein lies the beauty. Unlike a post on a facebook page, my new home in the blog world allows me to post inane comments about myself, my children, and the shenanigans of our home, and they will not care. It will all simply pass them by. I can use words like giddy and dude and bypass the eyerolling of my spawn.

Yes, dude, life is good, and I am giddy.