This little corner of the blogosphere is one that I cherish. It has lifted, inspired, guided, championed, supported and tickled this mama more times than I can count. I don’t have to go on extolling the virtues of the mamablogging community, because you’re here too; you already know.
(And you knew this was coming)
There are days when I honestly think that I am the only person out here that actually likes having kids.
I know, I know. It’s not true.
We all write so much about our pride in, and our love for our families. As I’ve said before, and I believe it, our blogs are love letters to our children. And we are a talented bunch, crafting our letters so beautifully; words truly to be cherished.
We also write to unload, to vent, to bitch and to reach out for sympathy when we need to. Of course we do. This part is more about survival than creativity, but it’s still important.
I guess tho, there are days when the scales seem to be tipped, or maybe the moon is full or the tide is out, or maybe the days are too hot or too long, or maybe all sorts of coffee makers went on the fritz simultaneously this morning, or maybe forest fairies forgot to place their magic pebbles on their toadstools and so everything has gone to shit. Dunno. All I know is that there are days when my bloglines give me nothing but misery and fear and complaining, and it just. Gets. Me. Down.
Like I said, we all have our moments, and though I really do try to focus on the good here, I know I’m not to be completely excluded. But we do like to go on, don’t we? We do like to flog those dead horses, Tired, Scared and Suffocated, don’t we? Is that really how we want to define our experiences as mothers?
Anyway, look, now I’m complaining.
So, I’m going to leave you with a cute anecdote, and a plea: Tell me something good. I know it’s there.
Bee, at three, is much too clever. As I struggle to find a creative, inspiring, empowering way to guide and discipline her, she has found an airtight defense to any of her ahem, less desirable actions. An example:
Bee takes a toy out of her sister’s hand, and throws it just out of Dove’s reach. Dove cries. I ask her not to do that again. Bee does it again. When I go to her to try to remedy the issue, explaining why she shouldn’t do it, she looks at me squarely in the eye and smiles an angelic smile.
“I was just joking, Mom.”
Yeah, I’m fucked.