Dear World...No More Mommy Memoirs/Blogs

I love moms. Who is my favorite person currently living? My mother. I can honestly say, “Some of my best friends are moms.” I know more women with children than without. So this isn’t one of my player hating, jealous, ugh “Babies ain’t all that! Whateves!” blog entries. The thing giving me the red ass is the proliferation of mommy memoirs/blogs. Women have been having babies as long as we have been mammals. And whatever primitive thing we were when we crawled out of the primordial ooze also reproduced and nurtured it’s young. Therefore unless you are raising your young in one of the following hypothetical situations: My baby was stolen by feral dogs, and now that he’s home he still refuses to be housebroken; My 6 year old  has Benjamin Button disease and keeps buying beer for his older brother; I have never been pregnant or adopted a child, and have no fucking clue who this person is, or why she insists that I make her a grilled cheese sandwich…You have nothing interesting or new to say on the subject of motherhood. All you’re giving other mothers is a chance to admit their own fears, and telling their stories back to them in a more funny or erudite way. 

Because you reader, usually get me, I feel like I understand you. So I know what you’re thinking…Umm. If I don’t like mommy memoirs/blogs why do I read them? The answer? I try not to. I buy books and have them snuck by me. The two most dramatic instances were “Yes Please” by Amy Poehler and “Mile Markers” by Kristin Armstrong. I was aware of the fact that Amy Poehler has two children, but I don’t really think of her as a mom. I think of her as a comedian, actress, and women’s advocate. And I assumed her book would be for the most part about that. But nope. I read about her labor and delivery story, her attempts to get pregnant, the mommy wars, and how hard it is to raise children. And I didn’t fucking care. And to be honest I’d be surprised if any women I know who are mothers would’ve wanted to read it. I don’t feel like anyone would’ve picked up “Yes Please” looking for a mommy memoir. The book was marketed as a Bad Ass Motherfucker of awesome singing her song and telling her whole life, as Roberta Flack would put it. She has only been a mother for six years, and it is the least interesting thing about her. Why would it be 60% of her book? And if you’re reading “Mile Markers” by Kristin Armstrong because you love running, you are going to walk away with a raging case of literary blue balls. She’s going to get you excited and then leave you hanging time and time again. I don’t want you to think I want the maternal female voice silenced. I don’t. I just want it to have its place like the Star Wars fanatic voice, Clown P*porn voice, or the White Supremacist voice. You have to want it and look for it. Plus I would like to think that if people put down the books and turn off their IPads women will talk directly to each other and communicate. And that would result in the sense of community that women so desperately want that the blogosphere is a poor substitute for.  Plus I’ll be less grumpy. 

And wouldn’t that be nice? I hear you saying, “Whatever! I bet you $100 that if her cobweb filled root cellar of a womb can still miraculously produce fruit she’ll start a mommy blog ten minutes after the stick turns blue.” I will take that bet. I am very self-aware and honest with myself. If I should ever catch a man, I will be the most obnoxious Bridezilla in recorded history. I’ve waited nearly 40 years for this dude. You will know his name. You will see his face in your dreams. There is no detail about him that you will not commit to memory through unwilling Clockwork Orange–style  discussions. I will post Facebook pictures of us doing everything except pooping. I have grown lonely and weird and if I find love the entire world will have to endure my joy. But if I am blessed with motherhood. I’ll be content to share that experience with a small cadre of friends and family. You’ll never convince me that motherhood isn’t as beautiful and fulfilling if you can’t endanger your child’s safety by splashing them all over the internet and telling every detail of their life to strangers. But you are welcome to try. But as previously stated, you’d have to sneak it by me by ostensibly writing about something else. 

 Again. Big Fan of moms. Here's a picture of me with mine.

Again. Big Fan of moms. Here's a picture of me with mine.