So, a couple months ago, Awkward Mom submitted a guest post to another blog and they decided not to use it. Something about "not quite what we are looking for." We are not exactly shocked by this. Awkward Mom's prose is an acquired taste and she uses entirely too many X-men references to play well beside recipes for homemade sunscreen and well-researched discussions of Dr. Sears and his approach to parenthood. We were gonna scrap the post entirely, but then thought you guys might want to read it. Just for a laugh or two. It takes place in the dark days before Awkward Mom was Awkward Mom. You know, back when she was just plain ol' awkward.
Most comic book origin stories involve some pivotal event that results in the wannabe crime-fighter bursting forth into full-on superhero. Nearly all include radioactive material of some ilk. Awkward Mom’s origin involves things far scarier then radioactive spiders and green gamma rays; Awkward Mom’s beginning involved pregnancy hormones and hemorrhoids.
Once upon a time, I am not the ambitiously average Awkward Mom that you see before you. No, no. Long ago (like 6 years) and far away (In Illinois), I am merely awkwardly trying to save the world. To understand this, I suppose you need a little back story: Somewhere in my teens, I become obsessed with social justice and the idea that I am destined for world saving, so I carry this noble, if slightly naïve, need to college and beyond; acquiring years of experience working in shelters, a social work degree, and this neat trick for getting more ink out of a near-empty ink cartridge. (Non-profits don’t rank office supplies as a high priority.) By the time I arrive at my late-20s, I think I am the next coming of Dorothy Day and Jane Adams. I am not. I am a social worker, married to a med student, doing mental health counseling in a small non-profit in
Central Illinois. It is
rewarding and all, but I am starting to want more. I start to contemplate a
trip to South America, but Awkward Dad gently
tells me that I am too old for the Peace Corps. “But hey, Erin
(going by my alter-ego then), guess what you aren’t too old for!”
I haven’t really thought about children lately. We were always too busy and we were sure-as-shooting too poor. We were also fostering about 12 cats at the time (hey, animals need saving too!), and they filled my life with warmth, and all the pottying work that I imagined children would produce. However, when I had previously made my I-don’t-really-need-children-to-be-fulfilled-in-life proclamation, I was in my early twenties, hadn’t met Awkward Dad yet, and was eating Raman Noodles for all meals. Needless to say, things had changed.
It is embarrassing simple; my light-bulb moment. I just look at Awkward Dad, who I guess is technically Awkward Med. Student at the time, and I picture him as a father. It doesn’t even take a second to do this. It is instantaneous and all it really takes to get me on board. It is the idea that I am not having a child alone or with some Neanderthal who dragged me back to his cave. I am maybe having a child with the person that I have picked to ride shotgun with me on life’s road trip. OK, maybe I better ride shotgun though, Awkward Dad is a terrible navigator. Point is, once I picture Awkward Med. Student as Awkward Dad, it all becomes totally doable. At least one of us will know what we are doing, especially if I end up giving birth in a car or something. We go out and buy prenatal vitamins that night.
Now, I don’t have to teach you guys about the birds and bees, right? Well, if anyone needs a refresher, just do any search on the internet. Any search, seriously. The end result of the birding and the beeing is Super Fetus. And the aforementioned hormones and hemorrhoids, but you guys can use your imaginations there; mine is about the most standard pregnancy in history. The only weird thing is that my bump doesn’t show very well (I am carrying high and right under some, if I do say so myself , fairly impressive boobs), so most people seem to think that I have merely been drinking a lot of beer and don’t ask me when I am due. That this upsets me amuses me now, after child 3, but at the time, it is quite traumatic. But not as traumatic as Super Fetus being a little rock star and deciding to come 10 days late, with a healthy helping of pitocin and an emergency C-section.
But what isn’t traumatic at all is this happy shift in my path and my passion. I like Super Baby so much that, within 4 years, I have 2 more of them. Fun thing: I spent years trying to save the world and these three just do it without even the benefit of any degrees or cartridge tricks. Must be superheroes.
That the Supers Kids are superheroes goes without saying; some are born superheroes. (Hello, X-men?) Maybe Awkward Mom’s origin is less about becoming a superhero herself and more about making room for a few in her life. Being a sidekick can be a pretty sweet gig too. Just ask Robin. OK, don’t ask the one that the Joker killed; ask one of the other two.
Thanks for reading, Readers. Guess we didn't want that one to go to waste. We'll return you to some quite awkward Special Olympic posts next; that is, if no one wants to guest post.... We here at Awkward Mom have a policy that we don't reject any guest posts, which is probably made doable by the fact that we rarely get any, but nevertheless, send 'em on over! We would love to hear how you guys became parents, how you stay sane as parents, what makes you insane as parents, why you never want to be parents, and anything in-between!
Send it over and we'll post it!
Send it over and we'll post it!