Well, that’s doubtful.
But my husband is slightly interested in my new decision to start to blog. I think he might be worried that I will include in this script details of our sexcapades, as if his weekly ritual of taking off his glasses and grunting “wanna do it” would make it to my blog. Of course, it just did… but I digress.
Honestly, one of the reasons I wanted to blog, as I told him today at lunch, is because more than anything, I would love to be a columnist. I mean, I don’t want to WORK for that job. I just want someone to HAND it to me. It doesn’t have to be a big paper or magazine or website. But the idea of sitting around writing what you know is pretty much my dream job.
I notice with a lot of blogs, and even with just a few entries under my belt, however, that lots of women tend to turn their blogs in to their children’s blogs. Here’s what Johnny did today, here’s what little Sally had to eat, oh Junior had the most adorable dump in his pants! Squeeeeeeee!! And sure, being a mother to two little boys is something that I KNOW, and hence, if I am going to write what I know, then the boys are going to be my subject matter, and often.
But they aren’t all that I am. Right? I mean, does that make me a bad mother to want to write about how bad the Cubs are or how I am working my butt off at the gym in an attempt to put on some muscle or how freakishly stoked I am that I FINALLY inheritied my Mom’s fine China (seriously, it’s good stuff).
I remember shortly after Hank was born, looking at him, and honest to God thinking,
“this is why I was put on this Earth, to be this boy’s mother.”
What.The.Hell? It’s like the kid came out of me, and *BOOM* no more Marney. Just Hank’s Mom. I think I even changed my e-mail signature to actually say, “Hank’s Mom.” I mean, don’t get me wrong, Hank is awesome. And I have every intention of writing about him frequently, as he is, as his teacher put it, “a joy.” I mean look at him:
He was a Cub this year. For God’s sake, a CUB. It’s like a little preview into the future.
And take a look at his brother:
That’s right, my three year old is wearing a Santa hat while boxing his reflection. It’s like I don’t need to think of what to write, it COMES directly to me.
Still, I am not just a mother. Sure I was put on earth to be their mother. But that’s not it. I mean, if that was it, I could lay down and die now, because the action is complete: They’re born! I just cannot think of what made me think that having children was my reason for being, when I still KNEW that there were other things I wanted in my life. Not instead of them. Not in spite of them. But ALONG with them.
So when I add up all my life long dreams, I can go back to childhood and know that one thing I did, non-stop, was write. Some of my childhood writings were saved. Some were ruined in the great basement flood of 2007. Some are still folded up and placed in the center of books in my Mom’s house, because she used to do that on purpose so she would find it again one day and relive a nice memory. And because I am my mother, I admit, I do that too with my kid’s drawings and stuff.
But when the day comes that I pull out an old copy of whatever and find a picture that George drew or a spelling test Hank took tucked into it, I don’t want to be sad thinking about it, and how much I miss being a Mom to little boys. I want to be happy, and remember how nice it was to have little ones, but relieved that raising them didn’t take over my life. I don’t want a Mom blog. I want a Marney blog. In a way, it’s my dream job come true — minus the salary. But meh, I can live with that.