Writing is good therapy for me. It gives me focus and prevents me from obsessing and/or caring over the shoe that is lying on its side in my entry way next to its match that is not (I have issues.). I really enjoy writing too. It comes natural for me. You could give me any topic (e.g., a toilet seat, an old shoe, your half eaten sandwich, etc.), and I could write a grammatically correct and very detailed poem or short story about it within the hour. I could make it sad, happy, mysterious, scary…you get the point. I rarely pat myself on the back. I am very hard on myself (my worst critic by far), but here is the truth, most of my blog entries have been written in the 20 minutes it takes my son to eat his breakfast after the girls have left for school. Do I think I have a gift? No. Do I think I have something to work with? Yes. Am I nuts? Absolutely, but I think we have already established that.
Why I didn’t choose writing as a career path discourages me to this day. I try not to live my life obsessing over silly regrets, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder…”What if?” I can’t blame this one on my kids either (Dammit!). They weren’t even around yet when I made one of the most important decisions of my life…”What do I want to be when I grow up?” Don’t get me wrong, I chose a very admirable profession and I think I was pretty good at it on most days. Did I love it? No. Do I want to go back to it? Nope. Will I go back to it someday? Probably. I’m a realist. Ugh.
The fact is, I am a better mom when I have something outside of “being a mom” that makes me happy. A couple weeks ago in a weak and slightly drunk moment, I decided to put myself out there and start this ridiculous blog. Quite frankly, I am having fun. This is a much needed outlet for me. It started as a joke, but has surprisingly turned into a therapeutic adventure of random cathartic admissions. The good, the bad, and the ugly. If all it takes for me to be nicer to my kids is to air my dirty laundry to a computer screen on a daily basis, then blog on I say!
Reality check. My children deserve a mom who doesn’t need anything outside of being their mom to be happy, but they are stuck with me. They piss me off, wipe their disgusting crusty boogers on me, make me drive a god damn minivan, and treat me like a servant daily, but I love them… and I love that they love me. I honestly don’t even mind the snot wiping anymore. Here’s where it gets a bit tricky. I don’t want them to define me. I want to be more than a mom. That sounds bad, doesn’t it? But in 10-15 years when they are adults and move out of the house (God willing), I don’t want to fall into a deep hole of despair because my identity is THEM. There are moms out there who truly believe that their sole purpose in life is to be a mom. I have met some of them. They inspire me and sicken me at the same time. I am clearly not one of them.
Here’s what I have going for me. Hindsight. Here’s what I do not have going for me. Hindsight (it haunts me and I get distracted by it). I spent my 20’s in a drunken state of self denial. Much of my 30’s have been spent wondering why the hell I did some of the things I did during my 20’s…I remember about 50% of it. I can see my 40’s already smirking at me like I’m the butt of their sick and twisted joke. We’ll see…
One thing is certain. By the time I reach 40, I am determined to fill in the blank to this question, “Aside from a topnotch mediocre mom who drinks too much wine, what do you want to be when you grow up?” I think I’ll figure it out, but if not…I always have my children to blame.