Mommy Wanabees and Monkey Poop

chimp_does_hamlet copyI don’t get a lot of snarky comments on my blog, and for that I’m grateful.

But this showed up the other day:

“To be honest, I didn’t see the Mommy relationship in this blog…”

Huh. Suddenly I’m in English Lit class circa 1990.

The comment was left on a site that compiles a pool of “mommy bloggers,” on which I’ve listed my blog. The site drives a fair amount of traffic my way, assuming I can keep toward the top of the polls. It’s the reason I keep nagging you to click on the button at the bottom of each post.

So I’m a “mommy blogger” specifically in the humor category. There are others blogs here in the contest and giveaway category, stay at home mom category, adoptive parents, special needs parenting, and … you get the picture.

I Googled it, and couldn’t find a clinical definition of “mommy blogger.” No Wiki entry either. Although I don’t always write about being a mom, I didn’t think it presumptuous to list my blog on this site. I didn’t have kids just to have something to write about, it’s just a huge perk.

I call this blog Manic Mumbling mostly because I’m too lazy to adhere to a theme. The sub head: Musings of a Mediocre Mother is because I like alliteration.

To be honest, I don’t really consider myself a blogger either. I write. I put some of what I write out there in the blogosphere. I get feedback. It keeps me going.

Nope. Not (necessarily) a “Mommy blogger.” There’s plenty of other stuff I do, but am not:

I’m also not (really) a runner, although I do run. Last year I ran a total of 750 miles and 8 events of half marathon length or longer. But I’d hate to puff my chest out as badass runner girl and then have someone see me actually running. I’ve seen the race pictures. Somehow no photographer has ever caught me in the act of lifting either foot off the ground. I can only surmise that, when I think I’m blazing along ala Chariots of Fire, I’m actually employing a technique more akin to the shifting of the earth’s crustal plates, moving along only slightly faster than continental drift.

I attend church regularly and pray daily, but I actually have a hard time calling myself a “Christian.” I’m more of the Just-Trying-to-Figure-Stuff-Out sect. Jesus tends to be the one I work with in this endeavor. He listens well and without interruption. I figure he knows that the whole Christian moniker comes with a lot of baggage, and we can be chill for now.

I vote my conscience and not always for one particular party. I have conservative friends who think I’m liberal. I have liberal friends who think I’m conservative.  I once had a professor who spouted political sentiments all semester long. We argued constantly. I didn’t disagree with him, really. But his pithy statements were so shallow, and it made me mad he would assume we would soak up all his hyperbole without question. I’d have argued with him from either side of the coin.

I was born a Virgo, but I think I should have been a Leo. We’ve kind of been over that.

I prepare food. Sometimes it’s palatable, unless you ask my kids. I’m super picky about ingredients and presentation, even though I frequently destroy my kitchen, and sometimes take so long with whatever I’m doing, I forget to finish. But I don’t consider myself a cook, much less a chef.

So, yeah. I write. I put a lot of what I write in this blog. I list this blog on a site that touts itself as a directory for “mommy bloggers.” I’m a mom as well, so a fair number of my entries are going to have to do with parenting: figuring it out, messing it up.

I also have an occasional stray thought that isn’t about being a mom. Sometimes write about stuff that doesn’t involve my kids. Crazy, but true.

Only a limited number of people can call me mommy, and they actually don’t. And as far as “mommy blogger,” well, if you read much of what I put out, you’re going to regularly alight on non mommy material.

In fact, it’s possible you’re reading this and a little disappointed because you hoped it was going to be about pitting cherries again, or ex-boyfriends, or fishing.

But keep reading. It’s like the infinite monkey theorem. Sooner or later there’s going to be Shakespeare in the form of motherly insight, and won’t that be rewarding?

In the meantime, if you’re wandering through a room full of primates sitting at typewriters, prepare to duck. Monkeys get writer’s block too. And when they’re stymied, they fling poo.

PS I know the photo is of a chimp, not a monkey. But he’s doing Macbeth. That’s just plain awesome.

PPS I hope you’ll check out my latest contribution to Huffington Post. My little introvert doesn’t often agree to be the subject of my blog, so I figured I should go big with this one.

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photo by: Riley and Amos

5 thoughts on “Mommy Wanabees and Monkey Poop

  1. The first blog I ever loved was Dooce (who went on to become THE mommy blogger) and I loved her for all her other stories and just because she was funny in general, so I agree with you. I also struggle with categorizing my blog for the same reasons. Sometimes I travel, sometimes I run, sometimes I have really bad dates — I write about all of it! But try to find a category for that…
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