It seems that everyone has a blog these days. Even my husband has one, except he receives payment for his. I, on the other hand, only receive the pleasure of heaping my emotional vomit upon you from time to time. I have buried my creative streak for the last year and I have now decided that perhaps this would be a new venue to pursue. That is, before blogging is replaced with twittering, twattering, or whatever new craze passes me by as I wipe poopie butts.
The purpose of this blog is to journal my process of finding my place in the land of playdates, classes, and diaper changes; all while being the undercover mother. What does it mean to be an undercover mother? To me it is a mom trying to find where she belongs in this subgroup of species known as mothers. Let me tell you, there are so many types of moms it's intimidating. There are moms that never venture out of the home, stuck in a no man's land of sweat pants and ponytails (trust me we've all been there. Why do you think moms chop off all their hair?) There are moms that strive to look like they stepped out of Vogue magazine and expect their husbands, children, homes, cars and animals to follow suit. There are the moms that set the bar so high for their children. I am convinced they are making up for their own short comings (You know the type—the ones that have tutors for their children to make sure they are prepared for pre-school). The list goes on and on.
Then there are the undercover mothers like me, stuck in the middle, not sure where they belong, or even where they want to belong. If you are like me and you are the queen of constant thoughts, you might even lie awake twice a month pondering whether you should buy Leave it to Beaver on DVD to learn how to run a household. So that is what this blog is about. Discovering what kind of mom I want to be, what kind of wife I want to be, and what kind of household I want to run. It may not be a feminist's wet dream and it certainly won't be free of vulgarity but hopefully it will make me a good mommy.
Let me give you a brief rundown of myself. I am a 29 year old first time mother, and yes, despite the fact that my fingers are still fat and bloated, so I can't wear rings, I do have a husband—somewhere. I am an only child and I had absolutely no experience with little ones. When I babysat in my neighborhood, my mother had to come with me to help (I kept the money). My mother and I had an extremely close relationship growing up and she raised me to be a "free spirit" (more on that later). My husband and I find this highly amusing because my mother and father are glued to Fox News and are devout Republicans. I'm assuming she is secretly dying to break free from Glen Beck's tight squeeze on her brain. Why else would she have raised me to be a tattooed weirdo?
I grew up as a quasi spoiled child. I never had any interest in wearing designer clothes or material possessions; in fact, most of my shopping was done at Good Will. I was however, waited on hand and foot. I refused to make my bed, clean my room, wash dishes, fold clothes, wash clothes or do anything that had to do with work. My mother did it all. I had to call someone to tell me how to work a dishwasher once. These are things I am not exactly proud of but I do find amusing. I know how sad and pathetic it sounds. My days were spent at a small liberal private school (yet again, why did my conservative parents send me here??) and my nights were spent dining with my parents friends at local restaurants or at the country club.
You see this is why I am such a confused human being in need of much therapy. My conservative parents sent me to hippie high (we learned about social nihilism in 7th grade), yet they wanted me to take golf lessons and learn to play classical piano. In addition I was constantly associating with my parents' peers rather then children my own age. I was supposed to be a free spirit that used a 9 iron??????? I started to color my white blonde hair in with magic markers at age 9. When my mom took me to her hair salon at age 6 I told them I wanted purple hair. My entire life consisted of trying to raise me with one sent of fantastical ideals, yet prepare me to marry one of the heirs to the koosh ball industry. I currently take .75 milligrams of Efexor XR if anyone would like to send me some.
When I hit my late teens/early 20's I ran further from the country club straight into the gutter and formed a punk band. Yet another place I never fully fit in. I was just as happy listening to Brittney Spears as I was to Fear. I didn't have the "street cred" to be accepted by the crusties, or street punks (though I suspect their upbringings were similar to mine, they were just better liars), I wasn't mean enough to be a skin chick, and I didn't have the discipline to be straightedge (lest you forget, rich white girls drink to forget their problems). So I hung out with the other mismatched nice, yet musically snobby, pop punk kids. I really hated pop punk music. I formed a band and lived the lie of someone who loved being on stage and drank my way across the country and back. Have you seen the movie The Rose? I'm sure that would have been me if I hadn't quit when I did, except minus the talent. Please keep in mind that this is the short sarcastic version of my life. There was actually quite a bit of happiness and fun times, but I'm sure you don't want to hear about that. Here is an interesting story. You would think a touring punk band would spend their down time trashing hotel rooms. We went to Wal-Mart and bought a puzzle with Kitty Cats on it. We went back to the hotel room, turned on CSI and put it together.
After 10 years of being in a band, watching fights (which I hate), kids drinking underage in alleys (lame), and trying to mother everyone in sight I was wiped out. Having a golf caddy didn't sound too bad. So I quit. Luckily my amazing husband (who was in the band with me) supported me and agreed it was time to have a normal life that didn't involve living out of a van.
So to bring you up to speed, we packed up, moved to