Zibby Mag

By Zibby Owens

Two short missives you do have time to read

Part One: The Loss of a Revered Mom Blogger

Above is my copy of Heather Armstrong’s memoir from 2009. I read it then, when my twins were just two years old and clung to every single word. Yes! This! I felt seen and understood.

The book has permanent residence on my colored bookshelf, right as you walk into my office on the bottom left. I’ve followed Heather B. Armstrong ever since 2009, feeling like comrades-in-arms, in the trenches together. I read her second book. I thought of her as an old friend. With affection.

I was — fittingly — going down the elevator with my kids on the way to school drop-off when I read that she had taken her own life. I gasped, covered my mouth, and cried “No!”

“What? What?” the kids asked.

I couldn’t even respond.

“Mom, what?”

The elevator hit the lobby as I said, “An author I loved just died.”

“I don’t want you to die,” my son said.

“How?” my daughter asked.

“She died by suicide.”

“Did you know her?”

We walked outside to the cab as I quietly said, “Yes. And no. I knew her well, but she didn’t know me.”

Feeling the loss of a public figure is still a gut punch, especially a mom leader like Heather, someone whose struggles I intimately felt and related to. The fact that she died by her own hand slays me. I thought we were getting through all this — together?! Did we not know each other?! I felt similarity about Kate Spade. In this vast extended tribe of women in it together, we had somehow let each other down.

I know Heather’s depression was drug-resistant. And I feel like I’ve recently learned even more about how that feels from Bethanne Patrick’s Plan B. But still. And to think the mean, bitter voices of snarky critics contributed to Heather’s demise? Horrific. Honestly online bullying like this should be a crime. I mean, isn’t it? The New York Post pointed to leaders of the charge. No consequences here? It’s okay to just bash each other? Who says? Where are the guardrails?

I didn’t know Heather Armstrong. But in reading her work, I felt like I did. People come up to me now and say, “I feel like I know you!”

They do. You do. I did. And yet, did I? What do we owe people we “know” and why didn’t we all “know” to help?

Part Two: Working Motherhood and Perfectionism

Yesterday, I interrupted the kid-focused activities on Mother’s Day so my son and I could go to the Webby Awards portrait session while my (younger) daughter went to acting…AND MY SON TOOK THE PHOTO ABOVE.

Seriously. The official photographer looked at them and was like, “Yeah, those are better than mine.”

I’d just asked my son to take a few behind-the-scenes shots…but he got the best ones.

Mostly, I was so proud to hold this award up in front of him for winning the People’s Voice for Best Cultural Website/Blog for Zibby Mag. After all, he helped me win it by campaigning all over school.

I’m not a perfect mother. I get stressed. I drop balls. I’m on my phone and computer too much. I probably should force the kids to do eight million activities, but I don’t. We just hang out a lot on my custody days.

But having my four kids be proud of me now? It’s like beyond my wildest dreams.

I “stayed home” (haha) for 11 years to be with the kids every step of the way. And now they’re here, rooting for me, as I navigate intense working motherhood. It’s pretty awesome.

The photo above was two seconds out of a typical Sunday of pick-ups, drop-offs, dishes, trash, laundry, etc. But it signifies so much more. The fact that I now carve out a little time to pursue who I am doesn’t hurt the kids; it helps them see what’s possible. Tonight is the Webby Awards ceremony and while the kids won’t be there with me, I know they’ll be cheering.

There are a lot of ways to be a good mom — and it doesn’t always mean perfectionism on forms or on the calendar. It might just mean messing things up that don’t matter to make room for what really does. That’s a lesson worth teaching.

I’ll take a zillion more pictures of them as they grow up and every so often, they’ll take a quick one of me. Perfectly imperfect.