OK. Netflix is watching the children for an hour and I need to write something. What should I write? Hmmm..OK. No pressure, Awkward Mom. Just let the words flow. Come on. Let the words flow. Gush. Pour. Trickle. Anything. What is going on?
Potty Training? No, that is still way too raw. And gross. Super Toddler's current case of the middles? Nah, haven't quite figured that one out yet enough to write about it. Super Baby's recent extreme attachment to me? Nope, boring. Our complete and utter Christmas unpreparedness might be beneficial for folks who want to feel better than someone? No, I think our readers probably feel better about themselves when they read most of what I write and if I start writing about my Christmas to-do list (which is about 14 pages long), I will just start clicking over to Amazon and ordering things and I gave myself this hour to write.
Why are you writing, Awkward Mom? You aren't very good at it. Oh Lord, who invited Self-Doubt to my writing time?! Oh, who am I kidding; he never leaves. Why should I leave, Awkward Mom? You have made such a hospitable home for me here with your neurotic self-loathing. It is way too cozy here, I am never leaving. In fact, I invited my friend, Envy, over to hang out too.
Ugh. Envy. I just got her to leave! Well, she is back, so get to reading all those other blogs by all those other (much funnier and socially aware) Moms so that we can do a duet about your inadequacy and failure as a writer. Of course, calling yourself a writer is kinda a stretch, isn't it? It isn't like you are published or paid or producing proud and potent prose. In fact, you are mostly typing out awkward alliterative arguments for why Awkward Dad should be the one staying home with the kids. Are you serious, Self-Doubt? You are gonna pull that one? I thought I got over that one after Super Toddler's birth. Well, it appears not. Of course, he can't stay home, can he? Since he is a doctor who makes way more money that you ever would have made as a social worker.
Super Preschooler: Hey Mom, it is time to change the video and I want an orange.
Responsible Me Out-Loud: OK. I'll be right there. Wouldn't you rather have an apple? I think the apples are riper.
Selfish Me In-My-Head: Ugh! Aren't you old enough to figure out the remote control yet? An orange? Really? So that my hands can reek of orange for the rest of this little hour that is supposed to be mine. Just mine.
Super Preschooler: Ummm...Mom? You coming?
Me: Yes, hang on!
OK. Back. Is Self-Doubt gone? Sometimes, if I am really busy with the kids, he gets bored and leaves. Don't see him. Of course, he left Envy here, sleeping right on my heart. Shush, don't wake her. I have been doing a fair amount of battle with her recently. I kinda want to be a writer. Not that I am pursuing this with any vigor or passion; Self-Doubt sees to that. But I have an interest, so I read a lot of other Mom blogs, just to see what is out there and well, that is totally blowing up in my face because of this heart-guest I have. Envy climbs into my mind and builds up these walls of resentment and jealously; they are so thick that I can't see over them to the clever writing and brilliant insights of my sister bloggers.
Super Preschooler: Mom...
Me: Honey, it is Mommy's writing hour and she is having an identity crisis here. Could this wait?
Super Preschooler: No. I need some grapes.
Me: Sigh. OK, hang on.
Where was I? Ah yes, women who I want to be happy for, who I want to champion like an entire pep squad. Women who I just end up glaring at through the little green-tinged holes Envy leaves in her hate-walls; holes that distort and blur until all I see are women who have it easier/better and are cleaner/more organized/funnier/smart/better. Women who certainly wouldn't want to bother with me. Women who I should just leave the blogging to already; I mean, who really wants to read anything I write. Oh, hi, Self-Doubt, I was wondering where you went. Just had to grab a snack, but I brought back some friends. Say hi to the twins; Frantic and Scattered Thoughts. Great, I am sure they will fit in just fine around here. Just shove Envy over, she won't wake, she had a busy day yesterday.
Super Toddler: My turn! My turn! I want Bo! Bo on the Go!
Me: Oh, Honey. That show is kinda (awful/stupid/pointless/confusing/written by people clearly on drugs/weird with a theme song that will haunt me all evening) not my favorite...maybe...
Super Toddler: BO! BO! BO! BO!
Me: Sigh. OK. Fine.
Back. Where is everyone? Could they all really be gone? Here, quick, before they get back. Look at this:
Well, you could be like that but you prefer to lounge in the harsh prickly grass of what-ifs and should-haves, don't you? Certainly are hungry today, aren't you, Self-Doubt? Who did you bring this time? Oh, some folks you know: Regret, Inertia, and Self-Pity. Good friends with that last one, aren't you? Getting a little crowded in here, Self-Doubt. This was supposed to be my writing time, not my self-exploration time, you know. With you, dear Awkward Mom, they are usually one and the same. Can you tell me the last time that you wrote some actual fiction? A poem? Anything that wasn't about your failed attempts at motherhood?
Super Preschooler: Mom, I need a banana.
Me: Good Lord, are you the fruit bandit? Sweetie, they are on the counter, and Baby, Mommy is fighting some serious demons over here, maybe we could pick a longer show this time, maybe?
Super Preschooler: Wonder Pets?
Me: Really? (ugh.) Wouldn't you rather watch Sesame Street or Word World? No? OK.
Back. Is he serious? Self-Doubt is gone again! Probably to go round-up more minions to mock my motherhood. Fabulous. Well, while he is gone, check this out:
He is fearless. And when he cuddles up to me, sometimes I feel fearless too.
Well, that is awesome, Awkward Mom, but Super Cat is sacked out on the bed and I thought you could use some more company, so I brought Frustrated Perfectionism and Sluggish Self-Esteem out of retirement, just for you. Oh, OK, well, thanks, Self-Doubt. Ummm, just stash them somewhere over there, I guess. So, what are you talking about? Your lack of writing ability? Your failed wit? Your messy house? The well is so full here, Awkward Mom. We could go on for days really. Yeah, that isn't really my idea of a good time, Self-Doubt. I am kinda trying to pull it together over here and write something that might benefit someone. Maybe just me, but you know, something helpful. Gee, Awkward Mom, I don't know where you would get the idea that anyone in their right mind would want to read anything that you have to write. I mean, you aren't exactly Perfect Mom, now are you? In fact, I don't even think you are in the running for Perfect Mom's slightly less perfect cousin-in-law. In fact, I would say that you are, without doubt, one of the biggest, more complete, total and utter, absolutely....
Me: Ouch! Watch it! Why are you swinging that over here?
Super Preschooler: I thought you might need help with the dragons you are fighting.
Me: Demons...Oh, never mind. Yes, thank you, Super P. But remember, poofing doesn't need contact to work, right?
Super Preschooler: Right. Sorry. Did I get them?
Me: Yeah. You know what? I think you got all of them! Of course, I might need some help to chase them away again tomorrow, but you poofed them very well. Thank you.
Super Preschooler: No problem. Now, about that orange.....
Awkward Mom is currently sacked out on the bed with Super Cat, a very attached Super Baby, a bouncing Super Toddler, and a Super Preschooler singing a Bo on the Go/Wonder Pets theme song mash-up. And she totally reeks of oranges.
If anyone feels like wrapping gifts, Awkward Mom's got the job for you! She pays in Egg Nog and Candy Canes. Catch ya later, Readers!
Kinda makes me wish we hadn't gone to the flat screen. It is a lot easier to battle Self-Doubt and his minions when you have a guard cat.