I am bloody well I

So (as I mentioned earlier) I gave up on that misguided (but intriguing) notion of posting as my might-have-been selves. Something about it was too disconnecting, too discontenting, too much like living in some constructed other time and place. Perhaps it was an excuse not to be here and now, because I am finding this time of transition very unsettling and unhappy. I don’t mean that I am despairing. But I am mourning. And I am angry because I know that what needs to happen is not to change anything, but to walk through the sadness until I arrive at a more balanced place again. And I don’t want to. But I am. And in the end, in the final, bitter or sweet end, I only want to be me. Only here. Only now. No matter what.

But the dabbling of my blog toe into the waters of maybe and once upon a time showed me something else, something crucial to why I have been fidgety about blogging at all.

One of the most soul-absorbing (and soul-dismantling) aspects of parenthood (for me, motherhood) is how it virus-like invades all pieces of who we are. Working mother, sleeping mother, writing mother, loving mother, angry mother, cleaning mother, cooking mother, mother out-on-the-town, mother fucker, mother drinking “mother’s little helper,” crashed-like-a-bad-souffle mother, cool mother, hip mother, stay-at-home mother, teaching mother, wow! you don’t look like a mother-mother, soccer mother, ballet mother, stage mother, unhinged mother, mother of all mothers-mother.

And now I find that my blog is being written by a mommy-blogger.

I started blogging because Ed was away so much and I was tired of talking to myself. And while some of the things I said to myself had to do with parenting or the children, many of them didn’t. The blog was a refuge for me, a piece of identity to cling to that was separate from my motherhood, from my children. I, astonishingly, have whole thoughts that have nothing to do with children or parenting and yet here, I found suddenly that I and my little blog were mommy-boxed. Amazing. Astounding. It snuck up on me. It sneezed on its hand and then shook mine.

I in no way want to suggest that mommy-blogging is anything but an admirable, amusing and important form of the art. I adore parenting blogs. I truly think that we need to share our stories, make sense of our lives and muse upon the political and social implications of this pretty basic of human activities. But just as I do not want my motherhood to define my life, I also do not want it to define my blog, especially as this was created to be a retreat for my adult mind.

So I’m shaking off the chains that bind. I am a mother, sure. No getting away from that or escaping how much that absorbs my thoughts and heart. But especially in the face of this move, in the face of all that is asking me to be loving, supportive, self-sacrificing and patient, I have to try and hear my own voice shouting hoarsely in the wilderness. And then I have to write from that place.

Similar Posts:

• A fresh start
• Hot! Hot! Hot!
• Mother’s Day