Lately I admit I have had no desire to write, blog, share. PERIOD. When the sudden change of life events happened I haven’t even had a chance to digest my options, weigh pros and cons, the event horizon landed and now I am left to deal with my spinning.
I talked with my sister the other day (GASP, I know…we may fight but she’s still my sister) and we both agreed on one thing (GASP…I know, we agreed) which is we could shut our blogs down and say “Who gives a fuck.” Because really that is who I am. Â I came to the conclusion that my writing has been driven based on what my audience wants to read, what would be “PG blog material” for PR or whomever. Why do I give a shit about that? I DON’T!
My life is NOT DEFINED by my blog, my blog defines my life.
My writings talk about my feelings, my life, how my life is like everyone else. Struggling to sometimes get through the day feeling unappreciated, alone, at times feeling unloved with the effort and hard work we put into our homes, working an ever thankless job that is glorified to be some great fucking experience. Not everyday is a picnic.
Granted, motherhood has MOMENTS that are to be cherished. When Grant told me when I was 6 months pregnant with the twins and as huge as a house and we went to a wedding, he told me how I looked like a princess. I melted. When the twins told me for the first time “Lub yoo,” I got teary eyed. But other moments and days are robotic, insane, going through the motions of day-to-day.Â Seriously, we can take a licking and keep on ticking.
I also began to ponder how asinine the parent-child relationship is defined. I mean, our children can hit us with no repercussion but if we spank them, child services is banging on our door calling us “abusers.” Do you see the insanity? I am not suggesting we go wail on our children, but come on, the suggestion just screams what the shit. Â I digress. Back to my rant.
Someday’s I find I would rather not blog. Being a mother of twins is challenging. To say the least. Sharing how dealing with two toddlers wears away at every inch of you brings on nay-sayers about “Well I have two toddlers…and they aren’t twins….I can do it.” Good for fucking you. When you deliver two at the same time either through your vagina or an intricately cut incision into your perfectly uncut skin, then let’s talk. It’s not a damn competition…
And that’s where I find myself lacking motivation. The constant judgment of you are only as good a mother as you share on your blog. You are only as good as your blog. I can’t access your blog, blah blah fuckity blah. Let me say this again:
MY. LIFE. IS. NOT. DEFINED. BY. MY. BLOG. MY. LIFE. IS. DEFINED. ON. MY. BLOG.
Which leads me to the fact that if you don’t like that I drop the “f” bomb, don’t read it. I try to limit my use, but why? It’s my blog, these are the feelings and thoughts in my head and really, I use the work fuck as a proposition, noun, verb, adjective, hell, even as a conjunction in my sentences when I talk at home. *GASP and yes….in front of my children. I would rather they hear the word from me than from Billy down the street, then I only have myself to blame for my child telling sixth graders they are “fuckers” and throwing rocks at them in a taunting fashion.
So I beg the question, why worry so much about what other people think? About the language used? Because Barbara Bible-thumping Bozo doesn’t like it? Well go pray for me Barbara. Because some Linda says I won’t get opportunity. Cry me a FUCKING river Linda and write some letter in your basement, since opportunity does not motivate me to write. Or my audience does not appreciate what I am writing about….the fact that my kids do not shit rainbows and sunshine, singing like harmonic angels, and I with my perfect hair…I am just missing some pearls to top off the air of perfection right?
Get the hell outta here. I find that my audience is not who they used to be anymore if in fact my audience even exists. Well, Ellen I know you are reading this, so big hugs to you woman. I am finding I am sick of being like everyone else and their damned canned sunshine, or no, sorry, bottle of sunshine with Xanax or whatever fucking concoction your doctor prescribed with this medicated mommies bullshit. Really? You are proud to be hyped up as a way to deal? Shit…then by all means blog. I have no bottle of hype, I have no medication. However, I have great stories, I have great experiences, I have lots to share that have not been touched on because God, Allah, Buddha, Higher Power, forbid I offend, scare, or not play by the rules. Heaven forbid I admit that some days my life feels like a pile of shit and the people who are my friends abuse my kindness. That some days I want to blog about how my husband could do me the fucking favor of putting the butter knife used to make his sandwich in the dishwasher that is three feet away, rather than leaving it on the counter for HOURS. Other days I want to scream about how my twins are Tasmanian devils when they float from room to room making messes and I wish they would just sit and play with me because I won’t be able to do that later in life with them. Why I do care about these blogging rules and playing by them. I never played by them in real life. So why should I play by the rules now?