It’s Angst Thursday.
What? You’ve never heard of it? So what, I don’t care.
I have angst, and at this moment, it’s towards MOMMY BLOGGERS.
They irritate me to NO end. From taking the time to make stupid artwork out of a toddlers lunch or 15646531564563 ways to make a peanut butter and jelly sammich, I cannot understand their appeal. (It took me a second to realize that I wrote something far too serious or effing long for Tumblr. YaY cut.)
Yet, SO MANY OF THEM stalk me and try to get me to “guest blog” because I’m a single mom surviving widowhood and don’t I have something fascinating to say to all the other moms out there who cloth diaper and watch the Wiggles along with their chubby little cherubs??
No. I do not. I totally screw up this motherhood thing without the added pressure of entering the Digital Equivalent of High School, where I am a perpetual outsider and have little in common with plump, buttery housewives holding overpriced cameras.
Plus, I can’t cook.
They use words and catch phrases like “that just doesn’t seem like a good idea…” or “it’s best if your child avoids that thing…” Like they have SO much experience with millions of perfectly well-adjusted indigo children, changing the world with hand sanitizer and butt paste.
And eco-friendly house cleaning products. OBOY!
Ironically, I have a lot of fun playing around on Pinterest, but only for my own benefit. I do my best to avoid the wacky wedding planners and the “for the kiddos” boards. And I’ll admit to be a total geek about holiday decor as if it’s a valid form of expression. :x
But really, I have a huge aversion to the idea that being a mom makes anyone an expert at anything. I’ve been a mom for 13 years, and I feel a lot less like I know what I’m doing than I did when I was pregnant and reading up on every single thing (which has since been revised. lol). I understand how having a baby can totally preoccupy a woman, especially if she really wants to have children and considers it as important as having a career.
Don’t get me wrong; I feel that having my children is probably my GREATEST accomplishment. I seriously look at my children sometimes and think: “Omg..I can’t believe you’re still alive and have survived my parenting this long!” I know that’s horrible, but it blows my mind that I’m not just responsible for my ridiculous self, but for the health and well-being of two innocent little girls, who trust me with every fiber of their being.
That type of power is overwhelming to me. I lie awake at night thinking about whether or not I’m permanently damaging them in some way because I don’t put up with back-talk or because my daughter and I pretty much like all the same things in relative degrees.
Is it OK that we swap music and go to all-ages together? Am I committing some sort of Mom-faux pas by hanging out with her too much and listening to every little detail of her life? Or how awful is it that my five year old always ends up in my bed? It’s not as if I don’t have room. Am I really that worried that she’ll come home from Prom Night and crawl into bed with me because I don’t force her to stay in her own bed all night long right now?
My girls are everything to me. I honestly feel I would be another worthless schlub if I didn’t have their best interests as my top priorities. It doesn’t make me smug. (at least, I hope not) I don’t want to tell people how to raise their kids. I won’t pretend I don’t see a child suffering if I need to say something, but I keep my parenting private. I don’t want anyone telling me how to do it. I want my daughters to realize that great woman have paved the way for them to have choices and to indulge in things like education, music, the arts and careers. I want them to know that they have CHOICES. I don’t want them to be afraid to make them because the current fad says they can take shortcuts and cut corners if working hard somehow makes them uncomfortable. I want my girls to lasso the stallion of discomfort and make it their own. There is power in the catalyst of pain and struggle, and I want them to know how to harness it.
I wanted them before they were born. I named them, and felt them kick inside my womb. They created me as my body submitted to them.
I don’t think that qualifies me to write about how fabulous I can be at nurturing them, however. I hate that women feel the need to clump together to find an identity, and everyone thinks they’re so clever and original. I hate that they have to compete with each other and respond with sugary-sweet BS, as if they really do care that Jenny’s buttercream frosting is made easier, with less butter, cream and sugar and still tastes like fluffy white sin.
We’re all just learning. I guarantee that when the Mommy Blog craze has outstayed it’s welcome and people are sick and tired of bitching in comments about things that mean nothing to anything, most of the early pioneers of this niche will realize how much of it was nothing but self-serving drivel in order to validate something they shouldn’t have to validate in the first place: Simply being a mom.