You Say Goodbye and I Say Hello. Hello. Hello?
I had just returned from an amazing vacation cruise to Alaska with my 80-something mom when I received some very disappointing e-mail news which you probably have read by now: The Silicon Valley Moms web sites are ending.
I felt the floor drop by about two feet. The news caused me to start channeling Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief, memorized eons ago in nursing school:
Stage one: Denial. I don't think I read the e-mail correctly. Surely they are not really ending the websites? Read the e-mail again. That can't be right. Read it one more time.
Stage two: Anger. What! They were still recruiting writers for 50-Something Moms last month! I just started blogging for these guys in April and now its over? I have spent HOURS learning to use their blog format, checking their guidelines, writing and rewriting my submissions, finding a photo source I like etc. and they are ending it? That is just rude.
Stage three: Bargaining. Please let them announce that they are starting something else and that they will still want me to be part of it. I promise I will get my posts done early in the month. I promise I will submit more than my required number of posts to make up for the blogger-slackers. Please let it go on. Please do not let it be ending. Please.
Stage four: Depression. The news is so sad I feel like crying. I love the blog site. I love reading and commenting on the posts, even when I disagree (so very sorry Ann Biddy--please forgive my lack of understanding of your situation). I love seeing my eight posts on the site. I love checking out the daily posts and the personal blogs of the writers. I feel so very sad, so very bummed.
Stage five: Acceptance. Oh alright. Now I'll have some spare time. Maybe I'll give up blogging entirely and have lots of spare time. I bet I can find another wonderful and even better blog site. Or I can go back to just focusing on my personal Channeling Ricky blog. I can make lemonade with my newly acquired lemons.
A key element of Kubler-Ross' grief stages that I recall from my nursing 101 memory bank is that you do not just go into one stage and stay there. You ride the stages like a roller-coaster, not knowing which stage you will be in next until zen-like acceptance (the end of the ride) finally arrives. Of course, some cyberspace readers probably will want to tell me that I have Kubler-Ross all wrong, but it has been 30-something years since nursing school. Two things start to go as you get older. The first is your memory and the second thing I have forgotten.
So it has been a rough week, a sad week, and I am just a newbie in the very large Silicon Valley Moms writers group of 400-something (so it has been reported) members. I can only fathom what the founders and administrative staff, who have been doing these collective websites for four years, are going through. Still, I imagine 400-something sad hearts, just like mine.
I shared my sadness with my 30-something computer genius, unemployed, non-professional but likely semi-pro skate boarder son who sympathetically listened and only said:
"It's the Internet Mom."
Out of the mouth of our babes comes the words of wisdom we seek. The only thing that stays the same is change. There will be other blogs, other collectives and writing opportunities. My blogging skills and my writing will continue to improve without this particular group connection. However, even though the Silicon Valley Moms are ending, I am still just getting started. I will keep blogging, but it will be different.
It will be lonely.
As I write what may well be my final blog for 50-Something Moms, the Beatles tune Hello, Hello plays in my head. The lyrics sum up my thoughts as I offer my personal goodbye to the 50-Something Moms and the whole of the Silicon Valley Moms group, the writers and the administrators:
"I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello."
This is an original post to the 50-Something Moms blog. When Sharon is not trying to make lemonade out of newly acquired lemons, she can be found blogging about mostly nostalgia, most of the time, at Channeling Ricky.