It is at moments like this, late at night, when the house is quiet and I have some space to think that I come to some realizations…mainly about who I am and what I do in this here world. I realize as I sit here deciding what I ought to be writing that all I can think of has to do with parenting.
It is just then I am filled with an even mix of dread and relief.
Criminy. I really AM a “mommy blogger.”
I try to avoid labels. I really do. It’s not a judgement. I’m not slamming anyone. I just live in the mindset of the flaming enneagram 4…the individual, the bohemian, the tortured artist…even those labels chafe a little on me. This is where I draw my tender hand to my forehead in the old “woe is me” gesture.
Alas, I am in fact a “mommy blogger.” I am filled with dread because it’s a label and because it’s a very specific label. It’s two words I have trouble rolling around on my tongue. Each word speaks “not enough” to me. It’s my own failing, I admit. Again, it’s not a slamming of anyone, mommys OR bloggers. I like mommys, I like bloggers, I like mommy bloggers.
I didn’t think I’d ever be one.
I don’t know who I thought I’d be. Well, actually, yes I do know who I thought I’d be. By now I imagined I’d be an aging rockstar, a female Peter Gabriel in fact. My music would be my therapy and we’d all indulge. It’s a brilliant fantasy and it lasted until I was about 30. This was about when I figured out that I wasn’t going to be a rockstar and that perhaps that was a rather short-sighted, unrealistic and unsustainable goal, after all. I wish I had put a goal in place to become an awesome musician instead…but that’s another post altogether.
I didn’t think I’d be a mommy of 4. I don’t know that I thought I’d be a mommy at all. It wasn’t that I was against having children, it was more that I didn’t have the longing for a family. I always thought there was something else for me.
When I hit 30 I had my first child, my daughter. This changed me down to the core. It woke up something in me I had not even imagined. This is a very good thing. Still, I have trouble with the label. I don’t feel capable of the job, I don’t feel worthy of the responsibility. I fully admit that. I think I do ok. I hope I do.
Opening Mrs Metaphor was the first time I had put thoughts to paper and shown them around in years…..years! My early stuff on Mrs Metaphor was pretty haughty. I was aiming for a certain tone, an intellectual elitist. Reading the early posts now just sound to me like I’m the stuck up know-it-all kids I avoided in grade school. It’s entirely possible I was the stuck up know-it-all kid everyone else avoided in grade school come to think of it. I’ll allow for that.
But I wasn’t a blogger, I’d insist, as if the title was commonplace and weary. “I write on a blog,” I’d intone. It was then and it was through this that I discovered I was a writer. Writing on Mrs Metaphor all those years ago woke her up. I had long forgotten my love of writing. I had LONG forgotten that I could even use the term “writer” to describe myself. It was the act of starting this blog that ignited this dormant part of me. I’m forever changed, to the core because of it. I don’t feel capable of the title, I don’t feel worthy of the responsibility. I know a lot of amazing writers, I still find it hard to sit alongside and wear the label on my shirt around them…even as they affirm it in me. I think I do ok. I hope I do.
Criminy, I’m a mommy blogger. Who knew?
I’m a mommy blogger…and thanks be to God…