I just finished reading the most eloquently written blog post on Facebook. A friend shared it from mom.me and I was enticed only because some other friends complimented it/shared it again and I suddenly felt challenged. And I admit- it was beautifully delivered. It’s everything an English professor could ever dream of. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t piss me off.
Here’s the link: My Dear Firstborn, You’ll Never Know
As expected, it is written in the softspoken, cliché-ish, almost lullaby-like tone of yet another mommy-blogger who clearly loves her child more than any other mothers on the planet could ever possibly dare to love their own. I mean clearly. And it was absolutely crucial for her to prove her case via impeccable (sickening) writing techniques, that like 2% of the world’s population worth of mommies possess. And I think it’s total bullshit.
For the record, I choose not to write about my children, or the blissful experience that is motherhood on this blog. I chose not to be a mommy-blogger. Because I am a mommy. 24/7, 365, for the REST of my life. Because I can choose when and if to write on a blog, but I cannot choose when and if to be mommy. Ever.
But finally… my children are out of diapers and wiping their own asses, taking showers on their own, serving their own bowls of milk and cereal on an early Sunday morning without waking me up (they’re so sweet), cleaning their rooms, and generally, doing as I say. Finally- I can spare a few hours every night to do the thing that sets my soul on fire.
You have to understand that writing keeps me sane. It reminds me that I am my own person. It reminds me that my identity in this life is not limited to “mommy”, because I’m still Elizabeth. It reminds me that I’m witty, and messy, and funny, and smart, and an independent woman-and these reminders bring me a sense of inner peace you know?
Writing reminds me that I serve a purpose in this life other than to be labeled as a laundry slave, a chef, a boo-boo kisser, a maid, a sex object, a bill payer, an employee , a dishwasher. I can go on, but I meant to keep this “short” (whatever that means).
This blog was supposed to be my escape.
And while I sat in my car and read that post, waves of guilt rushed through the mom in me, and waves of jealousy rushed through the writer in me and I was drowning in these feelings!
But the mommy in me says: no one fucks with my kids. NO ONE. Without my kids- I am nothing. And should God even think he will ever take my kids from me, he better make room for 3. I don’t need to justify how much I love my kids through my writing. I’d much rather show them. Every. Single. Day.
And the wanna-be-writer in me says: I wish I was more respectable. I wish I possessed the skills to express myself in a clear, concise, classy fashion without using the millions of vulgar fuckeries that I do; without having to add so much drama and extra color that whatever I wrote is unrecognizable by the time I’m done; without being so blunt and shout-out that it actually scares readers away as opposed to attracting any at all…but I can’t help the way that I’m wired. I cannot control the workings of my DNA.
I’ve tried to be that person. But it never lasts because it’s not authentic. And a writer who lacks authenticity, is no writer at all. Once my writing starts feeling like a sham, I land myself in a depressive identity crisis. That’s when the fear kicks in. That’s when darkness wraps itself around me slowly…sternly. An anaconda of emotions. It weakens me. And so the beast becomes the prey.
All because I don’t feel worthy of myself. All All because I allow myself to question my abilities. All because I momentarily tend to forget who I am. What I am. And why I do this to begin with.
And this post. This is why I write. To find the strength to persevere. To remind myself that a flower doesn’t need to compete with other flowers- it just grows. To remind myself that not everyone will approve and that it’s OK. To remind myself that I am enough. Enough for my kids. For my hubby. For my family. For my friends. For this world. And for this fucking blog.
The Un-Mommy Blogger.