This is the place where we admit it all. Where we say what we can’t say to our friends at the playground. To our neighbors at a backyard barbecue. Where we coddle the voice that sits within. The one that whines in frustration at all the chores and the failures. The deeds undone. The lives we don’t have. But we want. The people we see inside ourselves. But can’t always become.
This is the place where we try not to portray ourselves as someone in particular. We place no judgment. We find no fear. We look for resolve.
This is the place. Where I am most me.
And perhaps this is what is most scary. About being a mommy. That motherhood requires this place. For me. Right now. A secret world of blogs and tweets. Perceptions unveiled. Truths revealed. Melodies sung among a harmony of sisters online. Women. Mothers. Caretakers.
And I am just one woman.
I’m not scary smart. I don’t have a superior IQ. I’m not scary beautiful. My face bears no resemblance to an Italian Renaissance sculpture – except for maybe its pallor. I’m not scary gifted. I have no defining talent. No artistic outlet or craft, nor study nor hobby that regularly distracts me from the mundane. No natural ability that defines me in any sense. Besides parenting, that is. And everything that “parent” connotes.
I’m not scary emotional. I’m not scary stylish. I’m not scary mommish. I’m not scary conservative, or liberal, or bland. I’m not scary obstinate, nor scary lame. I’m not scary rich. But I’m wealthy. Yes I’m oh very scary wealthy.
there are these children.
These, them, those guys over there. Yup, right there. The ones that are tackling each other in the next room. I have them. They are my weakness. They breed my weakness. And I have no trouble admitting to it. Any of it. My love for them and my contempt. My anger and dismay about everything they take from me and all that I am not because of them. My ache and joy and every wish for everything they hope for and deserve.
Because of this scary, scary wealth, I am very scary honest. This, above all else, is what makes me a scary mom: my need to breathe honesty and truth about everything and all that I have become since children poured from my womb and broadened the capacity of my heart to love.
I struggle with this need for transparency. This need to explore the depths of emotion brought on by mothering three children. By raising my boys in the best way I know how. With trial and error. With great failures and even greater successes. I don’t need to list all that I do wrong. Nor tag all my flaws. They are there to be seen. I curse. I cry. I crave freedom. I expose it all for the world to see. And though sometimes I fear what the world sees in me, I fear not what I see in myself. It is my sole reason for truth. For honest emotion. For honestly writing about these emotions.
I need to be everything that I can be. This is my only shot. I am their only mother. This “gig.” This oh so overwhelming gig of motherhood. Caretaker. Mouthfeeder. Nurturer. Hugger. Kisser. Keeper of the hearts in this home of ours. It is a tall order. To fill it is daunting. I’m not sure I know how. Will ever know. Should even strive to know. What I do know is I put one toe out there and let the rest follow along. I have to trust that what I am about to do is all that I can do in any given moment, and yet remember that there is always another way to do it, and I am not stuck. And I can always just stop, and give someone a hug. And admit I am often clueless. And move on. And try again.
What I hope is that this honesty enriches my life – and the lives around me. That giving this of myself will be a model for my children. That they will see how hard I work to share my truest thoughts with them and the people that I love. And that no one will hold it against me that I’ve found a small niche of the universe to share it with.
I can’t take credit for the super awesome writing above. It was written by Sarah of Momalom blog.
As I sit here I so wish I had the courage and the brains to have come up with something so honest and inspiring. But how true it is. I write in my blog and I write for my child, I write for my husband, I write for my sanity, I write for my memory, I write for my grandchildren, and their children….BUT I find that I censor myself for fear of alienating someone.
When I had first started blogging, I had a friend that had listed me as one of the blog she follows. So I quickly made sure I was following her on my sidebar and that people knew I was reading her blog. Then one day, as I was reading her blog, I noticed that she had taken my link off. I was worried that I had said something to offend her. Because occasionally, I cuss, because I am a potty mouth, because it feels. so. damn. good! And I started cheating myself. Censoring myself. And sometimes I would think of clever things to say, things that sooo defined me, or moved me, or inspired me, and I couldn’t. And now I wish I had. Because I want my son to know me for ME. Because in this chaos that is life as a mommy and wife, I don’t always have time to censor myself. So when Cole thinks back and can’t remember Mommy ever saying “What the French Toast” it doesn’t jog his memory. So today, Mommy is saying, without any fear of being honest:
“What the Fuck! Put my link back on your damn blog!!!!”
And also, if you ever say fuck and damn, I will never buy you another car or truck. Ever. You hear me Cole? Now get to bed damnit!!!!
And also, thank you to those that read my blog and continue to read my blog after I said fuck and damn over and over again. That was liberating!
You still there?