Oops, I Did It Again

It was one year ago today that I uploaded a very personal essay I had written in the throes of the most stressful time of my life (thus far) onto something called "Blogger" and hoped that someone out there would read it, identify with it, and then offer some validation in the form of feedback.  In other words, millennial technological naval gazing at its finest.  You know the story.  I was stressed.  I was sad.  I had lost some people close to me and I had watched others suffer.  I was taking on what I thought was too much responsibility for someone my age.  I was pretty angry.  I was insecure; trying to be the best mother I could be while trying to be the best daughter I could be while trying to be the best wife and woman and person I could be.  I wanted to cry, but I had to laugh too.  I wanted someone to laugh with me.  When I failed, I wanted someone to say that she failed too.  And when I was alone, I wanted someone to say, “No, you’re not alone.”  Hence, the mommy blog.

I’ve been asked, “What’s the point of writing a blog, much less a mommy blog?  Who cares what you have to say anyway?  Why would people read your blog?”  I’ve asked myself those questions too.  You may not care at all what I have to say.  You may be the one who asked me those questions.  After laboring over those questions for a year, I have an answer. 

Because I said so.

I’m kidding.  The truth is, I don’t know, dang.  I don’t know what the point was of writing my experience and putting it on the “internet” for “everyone to see.”  I don’t know if anyone cares about what I have to say.  I admit, the blog has taken a back seat to some other things going on in my life and I haven’t kept up with it as much as I should.  I’m sure you’ve all been hanging on the edge of your seats hungry with anticipation, anxiously awaiting any word on my son’s nose picking, winky touching, letter writing, poop leaking, gas passing (oops, that was me), binky loving, song singing, fit throwing phases.  Well, haven’t you?  I don’t even pretend that you do.  I’m not that naïve.

I will say this; I have a lot of fun when I write.  And what little feedback I do get from other moms satisfies a very specific longing in my scatterbrained, insecure mind.   You don’t have to agree with me or do what I do in order for this to work.  We just have to be there for each other.  That’s how that works.

Not that long ago over coffee I told a friend of mine, who asked how my son was doing, that I am officially the mother of a pre-schooler.  I talked about my son for another thirty seconds before I somehow managed to make the conversation all about me.  I told my friend that I’m completely intimidated, once again, by the seemingly perfect supermoms at his school.  My rambling was an echo to what I said almost a year ago when my son was in pre-preschool (and yes, once again, that is a real thing).  It went something like, “They drive shiny mini-vans or giant SUV’s that they must surely take through the car wash at least once a week.  They wear tight yoga pants, as if all they do for the two hours their children are in school is work out.  They have perfect ponytails and no fly aways.  And get this, they flooded my inbox with ideas and assignments a month and a half before the classroom’s Halloween party, the party for which I had to volunteer when the teacher cornered me.  I volunteered to bring goodie bags, which was a huge mistake. Because now I feel all this pressure since one of the supermoms already brought goodie bags for her daughter’s birthday and I swear Martha Stewart made them…”  I continued on with other examples of why I thought these moms had it all together and why, once again, I felt like I would never fit in to this suburban Stepford mommy culture, all because so and so’s mommy made cute birthday goodie bags.  My friend stopped me, “You think they are supermoms but you make this judgment call after seeing them a total of what, not even five minutes a week?”  I said, “But you don’t know what these women look like.  You don’t see them.  You didn’t see those goodie bags.”  My friend said, “Don’t you think they could be thinking the same thing about you?”  I laughed at that.  “Trust me, nobody thinks that about me.”  Right?  Then my mind flashed back to a conversation I had just a few days earlier with another mommy friend from church who told me she thought I didn’t like her when we first met.  “Me?” I said defensively.   She told me how she thought I was “one of those moms” who only wanted to be friends with perfect moms.  “Me?” I said again in disbelief.  I laughed at that misconception and said, “That was before you knew me, right?”  I then admitted to her that I didn’t like to eat around her because she is in very good shape and I thought she might be judgmental of my food options. We agreed that too often our own insecurities block us from seeing the truth about others sometimes and, flash forward.  I told my friend that night over coffee that “You’re right,” which is really hard for me to do.  I see these women for about a minute twice a week.  I never thought I was a judgmental person but I…me?...yes, even I judge people. 

Shut up.  You know you do it too.

I am trying to raise a son who will respect and appreciate differences, not be frightened by them.  And yet here I was, intimidated and judgmental over what, a goodie bag?  Who does that?  Better yet, what has my life been reduced to?  What did I think, that the kids would line up the goodie bags and do some sort of American Idol panel judging of them?  “Katie’s mommy really made the bags her own.”   “Buddy’s mommy tried her best but overall the bags were a little pitchy, dawg.”  “Junior’s mommy should choose a different dream.”  My son doesn’t even wait until we’re in the car to tear into his goodie bag when he gets one and the contents of the bag last about two seconds before he’s gobbled them up, or stepped on them, or lost them.  So if it’s not the kids I’m worried about, who then?  Ah, the supermoms.  I don’t want to come in last place when I am judged in the great Mommy Beauty Pageant.  Of course, that’s all in my head.  There is no pageant and even if there was, there are no impartial judges.  The expectations we have of ourselves far exceed anyone else’s expectations of us.  It’s stupid. 

In all likelihood, so and so’s mommy put together those goodie bags to show how much she loves her daughter and how special her birthday is to her, not to make the other moms in the class (i.e. me)  feel bad.  That must be her way of doing things, just like I have my own way of doing things.  Not better.  Not worse.  Just different.  I post videos of my son saying his ABCs backwards on my Facebook page, not because I am trying to make other moms feel bad, but because, and let’s be honest, it’s difficult for even grown ups to do.  Seriously though, it’s because no one loves my son like I do.  I am his mommy and I am proud of him.  Plus, and I’ve said this before, he is a genius.  I don’t know if I can take the credit for his brains.  It’s best to just give mad props to God for that.

It’s easy to judge people when you are not walking in their shoes.  Just last night I watched a show on T.V. about a “working mom.”  She and her husband enrolled in a new age baby class to learn the proper “peek-a-boo” technique (it was actually a pretty hilarious show) and her biggest nemesis in the class was a, gasp, stay at home mom who of course was portrayed as super judgmental and superior to the working mom.  I’ve seen this before, in another show, and in a popular movie that was just released.  Is this what people think of me?  That because I am a stay at home mom I think my parenting is superior to others?  They don’t know me.  They don’t know how insecure I really am and how goodie bags cause me anxiety.  They’ve never read my blog.  If they did they’d know I will simultaneously defend my decision to stay home and support their decision to work.  In the words of my dear husband, “I’m doing the best I can.” And I have every reason to believe that you are too.

Once again I have to say that I think if women didn’t compete so much with each other and just learned how to support one another we’d be so much better off, myself included.  I have to always remind myself that it’s not a competition; I’m not going to come in last place and there is no first place.  Insecurity holds us back and stops us from getting close to other women, women that could support us and lift us up if we’d only let them.  We’re not “The Real Housewives of Fill in the Blank.”  We’re real.  I’m reminded of a friend of mine who is literally one of the prettiest women I know.  Looking at her you’d never guess that she struggles with anything, much less with what the rest of us do, insecurity, self acceptance, parenting.  Before I got to know her, I actually thought that there was probably no reason as to why she would want to be my friend.  Now I’m glad that I overcame that initial intimidation and because of it, I think we are both benefiting from knowing and supporting each other.  It just goes to show, you have to go deeper.  You can’t look at someone and figure them out right away, especially other women.  Chances are you will have more in common than you think.

…Which brings me to the big day of the Halloween party.  I was ready to prove that I was just as super as all those other supermoms.  I even wrote every child’s name on the foam pumpkin that was attached to each bag.  I had curled all the ribbon that was left after tying perfect little bows on the bags after stuffing them full of play dough and bubbles, stickers and suckers and peanut free (I learned my lesson) candy.  As I walked in with the box of my most carefully packaged, kick-ass (if I do say so myself) goodie bags, an unusually tall blonde mom stopped me and asked me to carry in some balloons, which I gladly did, and she was very grateful.  She was wearing a witch’s hat and to my surprise, was prepared enough to bring hats for all of the moms to wear, which she thought “would be fun.”  With our hats on and "The Monster Mash" playing, we all decorated the room and set up the crafts for the party and eagerly anticipated the return of the kids from outside.  And for the first time, I actually talked to some supermoms and found out that most of them loved parties, had great senses of humor and were not so different from me after all.  The blonde Amazonian supermom even complained about having to spend extra money on balloons because the dollar store doesn’t sell helium anymore.  “Yes, I know!” I said, shocked that someone who looked like her shopped at the dollar store.  I later found out she was the very same so and so’s mom and the designer of those trendy little birthday goodie bags.  And she was very nice.  I left that party super impressed, but this time I was impressed with myself.  Yes, I can still learn lessons, even in my thirties.  It was fun to wear the witch’s hat.  It was a great party.  Supermoms are a myth.  We’re all just moms.  We can support each other.  We can learn from each other.  Look, mom, I’m growing.

The contents of my son's goodie bag are still rolling around in the floor of my car.

A year ago I ended my first blog entry screaming at the top of my lungs, wondering if anyone was out there, if anyone was listening.  Now that I’ve calmed down I know that, yes, you’re out there.  Thankfully, I’m a little less stressed now, a little less angry and sad, and only a little insecure (around party time).  I’m still in the middle of this very crowded landscape of mommy blogs but I’m not screaming anymore.  I’ve found that I don’t have to scream at all to be heard.  I just have to follow the very first rule my mother ever taught me.  Be yourself.

Thanks for listening.