The Politics of Breeding

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?

 

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.

 

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?

The Queen has left San Jose

There is a stretch of Interstate 5 between Los Angeles and San Jose that will be scarred forever as a result of the Queen of Spain’s trek to Blogher ’06.It started with multiple stops, one on a dirt road in front of a tractor dealership, in a desperate and very tense attempt to stop the siren wails of one darling daughter. It ended with the Queen, topless, contorting herself in front of a car seat, jamming a tit into a baby’s mouth while the Kaiser drove 80 miles an hour.

And all of this was well before I drunkenly bitched at Dooce.

Make no mistake. Blogher 2006 was the year of the Mommyblog.

The Mom Army* had numbers this year and that really, really pissed off some women. All the panels talked to us. All the sponsors and corporate reps were courting us. The daycare was busy and the breastfeeding room quiet and thoughtful.

And while I stumbled to figure out “why all the hate?� I realized it’s all cyclical. Just because we were the media darlings this year, doesn’t mean women political bloggers or community assistance bloggers won’t hog the limelight next year.

You may not have liked that we were getting attention for posts on diapers and our ovaries, but keep in mind you don’t get anymore woman than mother. They go hand in hand. So make room for us and quit your bitching. You’ll get your turn. And if you don’t, just ride our coattails.

Speaking of bitching. Yes. It’s true. I marched up to Heather Armstrong and wanted to know why there seemed to be a disconnect between the first wave of mommybloggers and the second wave. I was not eloquent. I was not without slur. And being the Queen that I am, I went on and on and made no sense, all while spilling my free zinfandel on the shoes of those with mouth agape around me.

I think I redeemed myself, or at least clarified myself, at the following day’s Mommyblogger session.

Intentional or unintentional, we have formed a very close, strong community through mommyblogging. And I now rely on that community.

Everyday I share my virtual cup of sugar with my mom neighbors. Every day I feel less alone. Everyday I laugh my ass off at our silliness and joke about blow jobs and antidepressants and yes, pasties (Her Bad Mother, I’m looking at you)
As we gain in popularity, I really don’t want to lose that. I really feel that’s what makes us…well, us.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it. For those of you looking to expand (myself included) do you have a plan?

And before I get too serious, yes…there was debauchery and drunkenness and even a criminal element (blame Mocha, I had NOTHING to do with it). But I’ll save that for later. I gotta leave you hangin’. Because, you see…I missed most of EVERYTHING because Count Waffles and Nana got sick on Saturday.

Self fulfilling prophecy, I guess. The Kaiser partied downstairs while I wiped snot and administered children’s Tylenol. 24-hour Mom.

Part two, later. Including my hand holding with Arianna Huffington and my new girl crushes on Lisa Stone, Mir, and Grace Davis.

*IzzyMom is the clever one who made up Mom Army. I’m so not that clever.

On the road

Is there a patron saint of roadtrips with kids? I nominate St. Elmo of the Street.

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We pray to you, St. Elmo, giver of bad grammar, seer of talking doors, to guide us safely to San Jose.

Make our trip free from diaper explosions, screaming explosions, tire explosions, temper explosions, “why? why? why?” explosions-explosions of any kind, really.

Oh, mighty Red One, give my husband the patience to deal with two children, a drunk wife, AND a mother-in-law. See that he is rewarded, nightly, with booze and bj’s.
We ask that you give the small ones slumber. Lots and lots of naps. And an overwhelming sense of calm. Zen, really. We ask you make the children zen until, at least, Sunday night.

We ask that you give Mommy a guilt-free weekend with friends. That she not be compelled to check the status of her children or their caretakers. We ask she also be given a new liver, once the fun is over. And if you see fit, no headaches or other post drinking symptoms. Please make her witty, charming, marketable. Or just witty and charming.
Elmo, hear our prayer.

San Jose, here we come.

$100 later

The Royal Minivan’s airconditioning is fixed. The Count says “But Mommy, ALL my friends put stickers in their car air conditioners.” The nice men at the dealership are saving a “My Little Pony” sticker from the pile of 12 they retrieved.

I HAVE SUPERPOWERS

Not really, but I’m a little tipsy, so I feel like I do.

In an honest effort to up my alkeehall tolerance level before BlogHer rocks the house, I had two, count them, TWO martini’s tonight. I’m such a freaking cheap date. Seriously. What does two drinks cost now-a-days?

Anyhoo, wanted to tell you kids about my kid, the boy one, and his superpowers. He found them yesterday morning in the driveway. His superpowers. Found them just sitting there on the driveway. So he did what any kid would do. He scooped them up, stuck them into his bellybutton, and went on with his day. Said, “There are my superpowers� scoop, sucked in his gut, and kept walking.

Here is the really fun part of that story…it was the Kaiser who saw it all and got to relay the whole thing to me. I love when crap like that happens and Daddy-who-works-ungodly-hours gets to be the one to see the supercool shit. That makes me happy.

Did I mention I swear EVEN more when I’m drunk. If that’s possible.

And about this whole meeting bloggers in real life thing…am really not nervous. Excited, but not nervous. Wondering how I will sneak out to nurse and not drink too too too much to get blogged about later (that freaking queen of spain, had TWO, count them TWO martinis and then went back to her room and NURSED her baby…we should call child protective services) because I KNOW I will end up flashing all of your cameras and I NEVER photograph well (hang on …the boobs photograph ok, the face, not so much) and I’m paranoid that I will not have any editorial control over your blogs. I like control. Yes, that’s one of my many therapy issues. Shut up, I’m getting better.

Anyway, that was my little way of saying one week left until we all meet. And seriously, will you guys know me, or will I need to wear a name tag or crown or something?

p.s. I know you guys are already over my tits because I totally gave you a HUGE picture of them a few posts back and it was like…eh, QofS’s tits again, no biggie.