I had the balls to breed. Ok, I had the ovaries and he had the balls, but you know what I’m saying here. And apparently, that makes me less of a woman.
Stop and laugh about that for a second.
I made the choice to have children. And I’ve noticed lately, some beyootchs (Delta Flight 1781, seat 32B, some women at BlogHer who shall remain linkless, and that one woman I won’t even name because I’m sooooo over it and that little so-called “war�) aren’t too happy that I’ve procreated. I think. Or they aren’t too happy I left the workforce. Or they aren’t too happy I bring those children out in public and on a plane. Or maybe they are not too happy I actually write about my experiences as a mother. I’m not sure. I’m still fuzzy on why they are so cranky.
Maybe it’s not just the procreation that gets them. It’s the fact that I own my breeder status. I own it, I flaunt it, and dammit…I’ve got something to say. Sure I’m also a wife, a daughter, a writer, a reporter, a wannabe chef, a poet, a gardener, a sex goddess, and a sports nut. But my main focus, at this moment, is mother. I reserve the right to change that at any given time. But during this phase of my womanly life, I’m all mom.
My clothing says I nurse proudly. My blog says I cosleep proudly. My minivan just screams “Mooommmmmmmmy� as it motors through suburbia to preschool. You might as well stick me in khaki capri’s and a white t-shirt, label me “generic suburban mom, version 2.0,� and send me off to the PTA meeting.
That is who I was to the bitch who sat in front of my children and I as we travel across the country today. The one who moaned and groaned and when my daughter let out one of maybe two brief cries said “Oh Jesus, kids. Here we go!� She gave us dirty looks, she even gasped and sighed as my son giggled loudly. But her really nasty glares were directed at me. She looked at me like I was a poor excuse for a woman. She looked at me like it was my fault Hillary wasn’t President yet. She looked at me like I let her down.
I wanted to scream “…BUT I USED TO BE A REPORTER! I AM NOT JUST A…�
Why do I feel a need to make sure she knows I’m more than a Mom? Why do I look at these women and feel the urge to give them my resume? Will it somehow subside my Caucasian, stay-at-home, privileged guilt?
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Kelly and I noted that the BlogHer Mommyblogging session was filled with Version 2.0. Our ankle tattoos varied here and there, but the majority of us were white, stay-at-home, Mommybloggers, bitching about how we felt belittled by the term “Mommyblogger.�
Gag.
I used that session to try and get everyone to look ahead. To take this media darling role we’ve been given and shape it.
Maybe we’re still getting all the hate because we’re doing a whole lot of talking and complaining (me included) and not enough action.
Politicians do a lot of socializing. They gab and handshake and hug and talk about the kind of world they envision for their children.
Sounds a lot like Mommybloggers. Maybe that’s why they hate us so much.
So far, my kids have learned colors, letters, numbers and the usual from me. They have also learned that Mommy likes her lattes and her computer. She likes her computer friends so much that we get to go on vacation to see them all. I can’t think of many single moms who can do that. I can’t think of many lower income moms who can do that.
My kids need to learn more. They need to learn that Mommy can raise her kids and make a difference. She can work to see that next years Mommyblogging session isn’t so white. So suburban. She can use her role in today’s hottest new trend to get some laptops for some under priviledged Moms. Maybe internet service. Maybe a trip to BlogHer ’07. And who knows what else. But I’ve got the 24-hour hamster wheel going in my head since I returned from San Jose.
Instead of telling all the haters to stop reading us. Or to recognize what a hard job we have, and how important it is that we raise the next generation. I plan on earning their respect. I plan on working my ass off so the next time I get on a plane with my kids, the woman in front of us smiles at me with respect. Gratitude, even.
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We can’t change our soccer mom image over night. Hell, most of us don’t even come close to fitting that image. And if nothing else, we can show our children what it really means to be a community.
I’ve got the balls. Do you?
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