It’s not funny.
I started mommy blogging when I became an “ex wife” (a title I’m oh-so glad to hold). It was therapeutic. I could talk about how hard it was to be a single-parent and how crazy my kids can be. I was getting paid to do it too, which doesn’t always happen — a dream come true.
After my 5-blog contract, I got an email saying, “we’d love for you to write more, but could you give it a more ‘playful’ angle?”
I’m a single mom with two kids under the age of 7. You want playful? Because all I can seem to muster is pure, unadulterated, dark sarcasm. I could probably do ridiculous. My kids are beautiful, evil, and awfully persistent, but all I can think about is how close we are to nap/bedtime and the multiple ways in which I am presently or inevitably screwing up their lives.
So I didn’t write back. People are trying to pay me to write something and I can’t do it. I just can’t. IT’S NOT FUNNY. I don’t feel playful. I’m trying to get my son to read and my daughter to sleep and the meals cooked and to work on time and it’s not funny. Not any of it.
So fuck you.
Except every night I sit at my computer (or glance at it before I pass out) and screeeeam at myself: SOMEONE IS WILLING TO PAY YOU TO WRITE THINGS! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU — MAKE IT UP IF YOU HAVE TO — JUST WRIIIIITE.
When though? When?
My weekdays basically go like this: Wake up, breakfast, dress kids, dress yourself, rush to school, rush to work, inhale coffee, eat at your desk, rush to daycare, rush home, ask children about their day, cook food, eat food, FORCE FOOD DOWN CHILDREN’S TINY THROATS, make pleasant conversation, tidy up, help with homework, argue about homework, pick up mess, get kids in bath, brush teeth, put on PJs, negotiate storytelling, get them to bed, fall asleep with them, wake up at 2am, go to my own bed, fall asleep, and… my weekends include trying to get laundry done, groceries, taking the kids to the park, preparing meals, and sitting and relaxing for 2 seconds ffs. <repeat ad nauseam>
Such an inspiring existence I lead.
I’m fucking 37 years old. You’ve got to be kidding me. This is not what I want for my life. This is not what I want to be teaching my kids about my life.
I’m done. I’m done not being inspired. I’m done with the ad nauseam — there’s gotta be a solution that I’m not finding or resources I’m not tapping into.
But first — I gotta put the kids to bed.
Pray for me.