In Which I am a Hypocrite

I’m simply not the type of person who makes New Year’s resolutions.

I don’t see the appeal in promising to do something simply because it’s time to turn the calendar, though I know some people wholeheartedly disagree. I won’t quote any disheartening statistics on the rate of failure resolutions so frequently carry with them or any other disparaging facts; if it gives you motivation and drives you to be the best you can be, who am I to knock that?

A hypocrite, that’s who.

Why am I a hypocrite? Because I may have accidentally stumbled into making a resolution of my own.

I’ve always been a very appearance conscious individual, and someone who has the most amazing fun playing with new cosmetics. My eyebrows are fastidiously groomed, my makeup painstakingly and carefully applied, my outfits considered in advance. It sounds lovely when you put it that way, as though it’s some merit badge of my simply having it together.

That pithy description leaves out the fact that I feel horrid should one of those key components of ‘togetherness’ fall to the wayside. I am guilty of having serious anxiety about leaving my house without makeup, feeling as though I need it in order to say to the world, “yes, I am okay. Yes, things are fine. No, I am not sad, tired, angry, hungry, frustrated, human. I am fine.”

Somewhere along the line, my rouge and eyeliner turned into armor and just stopped being any fun.

When you’re nervous to go barefaced the man you love, the man you’ve promised to spend your life with, the man who watched all the gory details of you birthing his son into the world…

When you realize you’re brandishing perfectly arched brows and contoured foundation as a weapon of self defense…

It hits you that it’s really not fun anymore. 

So, no more. I’ve realized my pitfall, and I’m going to dig my way out of it. Perhaps this, like all other resolutions and self improvement plans, will be much more difficult to put into action than to sit around musing about, and no one’s saying I’m chucking my makeup collection out with the trash, either.

What I am saying, what I am promising, is that I’m done feeling like I need to wear it when I know logically that it just isn’t true.

I was put here to be a mother to by son, a wife, a sister, an aunt, a writer, a blogger, an artist… So many things. I wasn’t put here to be a beautiful beacon of post-maternal allure sponsored by Cover Girl.

And that’s okay.



Hello to the World of Mommy Blogging

I believe there are times when any given person is looking for something meaningful to fill their spare time. I also can’t help but think this thought applies in heavy, super-concentrated doses to stay at home mothers. It’s not as though there’s a terrible amount of spare time as a mother in the first place, but if you’re anything like me, I’ve found myself contemplating a cornucopia of baby related topics even when the tiny apple of my eye has been laid down for a nap and I’m enjoying a stolen moment of time as an adult.

Four and a half months ago, everything changed in such a literal way that the phrase stops sounding cliché, just this once. I became the mother to a beautiful and healthy baby boy, well on the winding road towards being wifed by my partner. Gone were our nights of heading out to the local goth club, though my days of hard partying and late nights had been kissed goodbye a short time before we saw the two lines on the pee stick that foretold where our path was headed.

So now, we’re here. I’ve mused on witty anecdotes on parenthood, lamenting my lack of social interaction or peer support in the journey, and trying to find my ‘sea legs’ since day one, but it’s in complete honesty that I say there was never a spare second to start a blog.

And there never would have been if I hadn’t taken on the perspective that a blog would afford me opportunity to interact with people who are actually interested in hearing about my adventures in early teething hell, how I can’t stay awake through a forty-five minute show with my fiance, how my son giggles uncontrollably at anyone exclaiming ‘boo!’, and… Well, you get the picture.

In the interest of full disclosure, however, it seems fair to lay out why exactly mommy friends are so difficult to come by for me, at least in the flesh. I’m neither ‘crunchy’ nor mod, falling somewhere in the range of soggy Captain Crunch. We practice gentle and attachment parenting, eat food so very not organic that I’m surprised it’s not half cenobite, smoke, have the occasional drink, choose not to vaccinate, and listen to angst ridden shock rockers and metal gods while rocking our babe to sleep.

In short: I do not (and my family does not) fit into any of the convenient ‘check here’ boxes that seem to make life so much easier. I can’t simply move to one side of the line or the other because my opinions are all over the map, quite a lot like my personality. If you enjoy dark humor, mundane tales of life as a stay at home mother and wife, and general commentary on the world at large – you may very well enjoy me.

Stick around, decide for yourself. Interact through the comments, feel free to drop me an e-mail about whatever may be on your mind. Whether you’re one of the anachro-mommies, -daddies, -stepparents, -families or the perfectly even keeled, line toeing among us, let’s get together and make some noise.