I have an issue. A big one.
As I've mentioned before I'm an avid reader and as a general rule of thumb, I think reading is a great way to spend your time, whether you're reading ESPN magazine or Charles Dickens. I've always believed reading expands your mind and improves your vocabulary in such a drastic way that it really doesn't matter what you're reading as long as you're reading something.
That is, until now.
For months I'd been hearing about the "Fifty Shades" trilogy. Written by an unknown mother-of-two, it became an instant sensation subsequently making the New York Times Bestseller List its bitch in practically no time at all after being released. Everyone from Ellen Degeneres to the moms at the school drop-off were talking about the books. Raving about them, actually. Everyone said they were dark, they were sexy, and they would leave the reader utterly captivated.
Everyone was wrong.
A few weeks ago when Josh gave me the trilogy for Mother's Day and I practically did back-flips across my living room out of sheer joy and excitement. Finally! The books I'd heard so much about! I dove into them immediately, with what I have to admit was the highest of expectations. Sure the hype surrounding the books was a big factor, but even more so was the fact they were written by someone completely unknown, and a stay-at-home mom of two at that. So right off the bat, I felt a certain sense of "Solidarity, sister!" and more than a little hopeful that if this woman could do it then hey, maybe I could too. And then I had to ruin it by actually reading the books.
I'm neither talented nor patient enough to sit here and give you all an actual review of the combined 1,600+ pages of these books, but here's my four sentence synopsis. The books follow the tumultuous relationship between Anastasia Steele, a character so grating and annoying she makes Bella what's-her-face from the 'Twilight' series come off like the Dali Lama, and Christian Grey, a controlling, domineering psychopath gazillionaire whose traumatic childhood is supposed to serve as a plausible excuse for an addiction to S&M. It's the classic "boy meets girl, boy wants to do kinky things, but girl is so amazing that boy decides to change his whole whips and chains lifestyle to accommodate her". It's extremely heavy on the sex, extremely light on plot, and basically reads like a rejected scrip for a Lifetime made-for-TV movie. It's unrealistic in every sense of the word and equal parts cheesy and gag-worthy (for instance, I am in no way a prude, but I honestly could have gone my whole life without knowing what an anal plug was...Yowza) and frankly not worth the paper they're printed on.
I know that sounds harsh and makes me sound like a real bonafide literary douche bag, so I feel like now would be a good time to confess to you guys that under ordinary circumstances, I absolutely love chick lit. My love for the genre is my dirty little secret and there's nothing more I love on a stressful day than a fun, easy read to take me away to another world. What I'm trying to say here is, despite what you're about to read, I am by no means a book snob. The problem is, these particular books aren't fun, the characters are so unrealistic and two-dimensional that it makes reading about them feel like a chore, and whatever place the writer is trying to take me to is a place I don't think I really want to go. And as much as I want to maintain my feeling of solidarity with a fellow writer mom and applaud her success, I've found that I just can't. And the reason that I can't is because I'm baffled about why these books are so successful in the first place.
Allow me, if you will, to climb back up on my soapbox for a minute. After reading these books, I was retrospectively amazed that they were written by a woman, and a mother at that, as opposed to a horny eighth grade boy. The writing is cringe-worthy, unless you happen to love reading the phrases "sultry grey eyes" or "looked up at him through my lashes" over and over again, in which case, read these books, please, because you will probably love them and forever hate that random raving domestic diva lunatic who wouldn't even use them for kindle in her fireplace. However, if you're willing to bear with me for a minute, I feel like I have some good reasons behind disliking these books.
First and foremost, let's take a minute to be honest here. These books are popular because they "push the envelope" and this might be my biggest issue of all. I'm all for testing your boundaries, challenging yourself, and making the world notice you because you don't do everything like everyone else. I'm just tired of seeing the envelope pushed in what I feel is the wrong direction. In other words, I'm tired of the shock value. I'm sick of people being famous for being controversial, loud-mouthed or just plain ridiculous (Snooki, anyone?!). I can tell you why these books are so famous in three letters: S-E-X. That's it. They're not popular because they are well-written, they're not popular because they will make you think about the world in a way you never have before, they're popular because every five pages there's a long, drawn out, descriptive sex scene. Basically, it's book porn and I personally thought the sex factor got old fast, but from what I've heard, it's precisely that factor that made most people keep coming back for more. It's the old adage that sex sells and it must be true since all three books continue to dominate (no pun intended) the top three positions on the New York Times Best seller list for fourteen consecutive weeks, which in my humble opinion just proves that sex, controversy, and our addiction to peeking into other people's lives via reality TV are the ingredients for making millions.
Secondly, these books light the fire under countless improbable myths about relationships. The books are a "will they/won't they" emotional roller coaster filled with drama from beginning to end. I repeatedly wanted to reach through the books and slap the characters (though probably not in the way they would have wanted, if you catch my drift) because I want to know where the law is that relationships have to be dramatic. They don't. I am by no means a relationship expert, but I do know that you don't have to get over a big, dramatic hurdle in order to have a successful relationship. What's worse is that these two characters are in no way compatible with one another, but along comes the contemptible Anastasia Steele who decides that if she doesn't like this guy the way he is, she will simply change him. And she does so successfully. HELLO! Red flag, anyone? Rule number one of relationships is the same thing I tell my kids when I make them broccoli for dinner: "You get what you get and you don't get upset". Here in reality, there is no magically changing someone. You either love people for who they are or you move on. These books further contribute to the Disney Princess inspired/Meg Ryan movie ideals of what a relationship "should" be like and our collective misconstrued perceptions are probably why most relationships don't work out in the first place.There is no "should". There are happy relationships but no magical "happily ever after" and certainly no Christian Grey coming to rescue you from your woes in his own personal helicopter. Sorry kids, it just doesn't work that way. These books facilitate so many nonsensical beliefs that I'd suggest they be banned, if only they wouldn't be joining the ranks of actual brilliant works like "To Kill A Mockingbird" or "Catcher In The Rye" and thereby be placed on a literary pedestal until the end of time. And believe me when I say that is the absolute last thing I want to see happen to these books.
By now you might be thinking that I'm reading entirely too much into what are supposed to be fun books and I will admit that you're probably right. It's not like someone held a gun to my head to read them, so maybe I should just sit back with the rest of the world and accept whatever garbage is slung my way because at least people are still making an effort to write books. But maybe I shouldn't. And maybe you shouldn't either. Maybe we should consider raising our standards. Maybe it's time to push the envelope in the right direction for a change.
Until then..."Laters, baby"...
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Plan B
Here's the thing: I really want to be a writer. When it all boils down to it, I don't care
if it's writing for SNL or writing a book that no one ever reads and
eventually uses exclusively as a door stop, I just want to write. I hope someone
somewhere has a pleasant experience reading what I write, but even if they don't, I'll be
doing this way past the point of the world begging me to stop.
That being said, the road to success is paved with speed bumps, dead ends, and being pulled over for speeding around every corner. In my short life as a blogger I've discovered that I either have too much experience for a project or, more likely, too little experience for a bigger, better project and it's usually the latter that I really want to do (which is why I'm currently seething in jealousy as James Franco gets to write blogs for the Huffington Post. Come on, dude! You already have a job!). Coupled with my paper-thin self-esteem and tendency to feel sorry for myself at the drop of a hat, I've come to realize that all this "paying my dues" business really, really sucks. The rejection alone is enough to drive a sane person insane and reduce a person who already dabbles in insanity into a shaking, obsessive-compulsive mess. I am determined to overcome the rejection (I mean hey, if I can overcome being rejected by 90% of the guys in my high school, I can certainly overcome this) but in the meantime, I'm a firm believer in remaining proactive. And to me, proactive means a back-up plan.
But now this issue is, what to do with an English degree if you're not writing? The logical choice would be to fall back on the good old theory that those who cannot do teach. But what about those of us who aren't logical, but instead remain illogical, delusional, or just plain crazy? What are our options? I've spent a lot of time pondering this and like most reasonable solutions to career problems, mine came to me in a dream.
As much as I love to write, I love to read and I've always believed that those loves go hand-in-hand. Reading has made me a better writer and I've been inspired by Augusten Burroughs, Wally Lamb, Jennifer Weiner and everyone in between. There's nothing I love more than curling up in a comfortable chair with a good book and a glass of wine, which has to be why my subconscious gently nudged me to a solution so simple, I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
I had a dream that I opened up a combination library and bar. If it sounds like a really sexy idea to you, please feel free to take a second to pump the brakes. The image in my mind is more "sitting in worn leather chairs discussing the merits of Joyce Carol Oates over tumblers of whiskey" and less "frat boys doing shots of vodka out of some drunk girl's belly button". The servers would be actual librarians who could tell you which wine would pair well with the book you're reading. And because I don't want it to come across as too pretentious and there's nothing I love more in the world that a good pun, my library bar would have an awesome pun-tastic name. In my dream I couldn't decide between "Tequila Mockingbird" and "Girls Gone Oscar Wilde", but I think either way I have a winner. It will be both sophisticated and fun, a place where book nerds like me can unite with fellow book nerds and have a good time. It will be like one giant, fun book club meeting. It will be legandary.
Okay, so maybe it's not the most practical plan b but at this particular moment in my life, funding and operating something that doesn't even exist anywhere sounds a hell of a lot easier than becoming a published writer, and more fun too.
By the way, subscribers to this blog will drink free. And James Franco is not invited.
That being said, the road to success is paved with speed bumps, dead ends, and being pulled over for speeding around every corner. In my short life as a blogger I've discovered that I either have too much experience for a project or, more likely, too little experience for a bigger, better project and it's usually the latter that I really want to do (which is why I'm currently seething in jealousy as James Franco gets to write blogs for the Huffington Post. Come on, dude! You already have a job!). Coupled with my paper-thin self-esteem and tendency to feel sorry for myself at the drop of a hat, I've come to realize that all this "paying my dues" business really, really sucks. The rejection alone is enough to drive a sane person insane and reduce a person who already dabbles in insanity into a shaking, obsessive-compulsive mess. I am determined to overcome the rejection (I mean hey, if I can overcome being rejected by 90% of the guys in my high school, I can certainly overcome this) but in the meantime, I'm a firm believer in remaining proactive. And to me, proactive means a back-up plan.
But now this issue is, what to do with an English degree if you're not writing? The logical choice would be to fall back on the good old theory that those who cannot do teach. But what about those of us who aren't logical, but instead remain illogical, delusional, or just plain crazy? What are our options? I've spent a lot of time pondering this and like most reasonable solutions to career problems, mine came to me in a dream.
As much as I love to write, I love to read and I've always believed that those loves go hand-in-hand. Reading has made me a better writer and I've been inspired by Augusten Burroughs, Wally Lamb, Jennifer Weiner and everyone in between. There's nothing I love more than curling up in a comfortable chair with a good book and a glass of wine, which has to be why my subconscious gently nudged me to a solution so simple, I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
I had a dream that I opened up a combination library and bar. If it sounds like a really sexy idea to you, please feel free to take a second to pump the brakes. The image in my mind is more "sitting in worn leather chairs discussing the merits of Joyce Carol Oates over tumblers of whiskey" and less "frat boys doing shots of vodka out of some drunk girl's belly button". The servers would be actual librarians who could tell you which wine would pair well with the book you're reading. And because I don't want it to come across as too pretentious and there's nothing I love more in the world that a good pun, my library bar would have an awesome pun-tastic name. In my dream I couldn't decide between "Tequila Mockingbird" and "Girls Gone Oscar Wilde", but I think either way I have a winner. It will be both sophisticated and fun, a place where book nerds like me can unite with fellow book nerds and have a good time. It will be like one giant, fun book club meeting. It will be legandary.
Okay, so maybe it's not the most practical plan b but at this particular moment in my life, funding and operating something that doesn't even exist anywhere sounds a hell of a lot easier than becoming a published writer, and more fun too.
By the way, subscribers to this blog will drink free. And James Franco is not invited.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
It's All Been Done
I recently had the opportunity to write for a great site run by two of the greatest guys I know. The site is called Film Informants ( https://www.facebook.com/FilmInformants) and I would highly recommend checking it out if you're a movie enthusiast. A big thanks to Adam and Jeremy for giving the opportunity to clog up their awesome blog with my snarky ranting. I appreciate the opportunity and as always, you guys rock. Anyway, this is what I wrote:
I'm a movie fanatic. Comedies, dramas, documentaries, I love it all.
But for quite some time now I've been noticing a disturbing trend. Hollywood has gotten, for lack of a better word, lazy. The movie industry is becoming less and less creative and no one even cares. And it shows.
Practically everything these days is a remake of a classic, in hopes of marketing the same story to a new generation, otherwise known as utilizing a billion dollar budget on a stale story performed by sub-par actors. Everything from The Karate Kid, to Footloose, to 21 Jump Street have been remade over the last couple of years, and they never hold a candle to the originals (Replacing Ralph Macchio with Jayden Smith?! OH the humanity!). It recently made news that Michael Bay took on the project of remaking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which put him squarely in the number one spot on my hit list as I have no doubt that he will take a classic staple of my childhood and turn it into nothing more than creepy CGI turtles blowing shit up. I honestly cringe at the thought of all of the great movies that will someday be remade into limp reproductions of the amazing originals. I'll put it this way, if Michael Bay (or anyone else for that matter) decides to redo "The Breakfast Club", I might never watch another movie again as long as I live.
There's also been an increased interest in making books into movies, though this has been, for the most part, considerably more successful than the remakes. 2011's 'The Help' was, in my opinion, one of the best book-to-movie adaptations I've seen in awhile and it managed to pull in a respectable 169 million dollars domestically. This, of course, is a small number compared to the hype-machines that are Twilight ('Eclipse' was it's highest grosser, bringing in 300 million domestically) and The Hunger Games (393 million domestically and still going strong in a dollar theater near you), which honestly may have been one of the worst book-to-movie adaptations I've ever seen (Come on! They didn't even explain the rules of the games! I adored the books, but I'm sorry, the movie broke my literary heart and I could probably go on about my disappointment forever. Don't worry, I won't). But book adaptations, no matter how successful they are or aren't, still seem like a bit of a cop out to me. When you begin with a book, the story has already been written for you and there's usually a decent following so just add a spoonful of hype and a dash of Zack Efron and you have a recipe for a successful movie, insofar as "successful" means teenage girls will flock to it and it will make a respectable amount of money.
Hollywood's third and final tool to avoid doing any actual work is the wide wonderful world of sequels. Despite the fact that it's been ten years since Men In Black 2, they're back with Men In Black 3. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm guessing it involves gooey, creepy looking space creatures, erasing memories, and clever Will Smith one-liners, much like its predecessors. Okay fine, I'll probably see it, but only because I'm a child of the 90s and therefore can't resist the temptation of spending a couple of hours with Will Smith (what IS it about that guy??). With the upcoming releases of Ice Age 4 and Madagascar 3, it's obvious that creatively, Hollywood isn't doing much better in the kid's department. In other words, when in doubt, just continue with a story that you already know people like and will pay to go see. Success!
Maybe I'm just cynical, but when you take all these things and couple them with the fact that a movie costs around $12 per person unless you go before 2 PM, it doesn't exactly make me want to sprint to the movie theater for just anything. A worthwhile movie needs a well-written plot, decent actors, nice cinematography or at the very least, a shirtless Bradley Cooper. Not to mention the fact that for us, actually getting out and going to a movie is a rare date night and involves finding a baby sitter and engaging in beauty regiments that don't involve sticking my wet hair out of a car window and letting nature do all the work. So it has to be worth it and frankly these days it's usually not.
If I sound bitter, it's only because I am. I remember the good old days when I anxiously bit my nails throughout the Oscars because I wanted all of the movies to win, as opposed to these days when I either a) Have never even heard of the nominated movie or b) Have no desire to watch the nominated movie. I miss going to a movie and wishing I could immediately watch it all over again as soon as it ends. I miss the days when a trip to Redbox didn't feel like a tedious chore of sifting through hundreds of straight-to-DVD choices before I realize that I am wasting my time. Most of all, I miss the days of not sounding like a 90 year-old reminiscing about the "good old days" when it comes to film. I just miss the excitement of a great movie, one that doesn't need to be the top story on every talk show to convince me I want to go see it. I just want to see something that lives up to the expectations I have for it. I want to see something that isn't a slightly different version of a movie I've already seen, a crappy adaptation, or yet another sequel. I want to be impressed. Actually, I just want to see something that doesn't suck.
Come on Hollywood, is that so much to ask?
I'm a movie fanatic. Comedies, dramas, documentaries, I love it all.
But for quite some time now I've been noticing a disturbing trend. Hollywood has gotten, for lack of a better word, lazy. The movie industry is becoming less and less creative and no one even cares. And it shows.
Practically everything these days is a remake of a classic, in hopes of marketing the same story to a new generation, otherwise known as utilizing a billion dollar budget on a stale story performed by sub-par actors. Everything from The Karate Kid, to Footloose, to 21 Jump Street have been remade over the last couple of years, and they never hold a candle to the originals (Replacing Ralph Macchio with Jayden Smith?! OH the humanity!). It recently made news that Michael Bay took on the project of remaking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which put him squarely in the number one spot on my hit list as I have no doubt that he will take a classic staple of my childhood and turn it into nothing more than creepy CGI turtles blowing shit up. I honestly cringe at the thought of all of the great movies that will someday be remade into limp reproductions of the amazing originals. I'll put it this way, if Michael Bay (or anyone else for that matter) decides to redo "The Breakfast Club", I might never watch another movie again as long as I live.
There's also been an increased interest in making books into movies, though this has been, for the most part, considerably more successful than the remakes. 2011's 'The Help' was, in my opinion, one of the best book-to-movie adaptations I've seen in awhile and it managed to pull in a respectable 169 million dollars domestically. This, of course, is a small number compared to the hype-machines that are Twilight ('Eclipse' was it's highest grosser, bringing in 300 million domestically) and The Hunger Games (393 million domestically and still going strong in a dollar theater near you), which honestly may have been one of the worst book-to-movie adaptations I've ever seen (Come on! They didn't even explain the rules of the games! I adored the books, but I'm sorry, the movie broke my literary heart and I could probably go on about my disappointment forever. Don't worry, I won't). But book adaptations, no matter how successful they are or aren't, still seem like a bit of a cop out to me. When you begin with a book, the story has already been written for you and there's usually a decent following so just add a spoonful of hype and a dash of Zack Efron and you have a recipe for a successful movie, insofar as "successful" means teenage girls will flock to it and it will make a respectable amount of money.
Hollywood's third and final tool to avoid doing any actual work is the wide wonderful world of sequels. Despite the fact that it's been ten years since Men In Black 2, they're back with Men In Black 3. I haven't seen it yet, but I'm guessing it involves gooey, creepy looking space creatures, erasing memories, and clever Will Smith one-liners, much like its predecessors. Okay fine, I'll probably see it, but only because I'm a child of the 90s and therefore can't resist the temptation of spending a couple of hours with Will Smith (what IS it about that guy??). With the upcoming releases of Ice Age 4 and Madagascar 3, it's obvious that creatively, Hollywood isn't doing much better in the kid's department. In other words, when in doubt, just continue with a story that you already know people like and will pay to go see. Success!
Maybe I'm just cynical, but when you take all these things and couple them with the fact that a movie costs around $12 per person unless you go before 2 PM, it doesn't exactly make me want to sprint to the movie theater for just anything. A worthwhile movie needs a well-written plot, decent actors, nice cinematography or at the very least, a shirtless Bradley Cooper. Not to mention the fact that for us, actually getting out and going to a movie is a rare date night and involves finding a baby sitter and engaging in beauty regiments that don't involve sticking my wet hair out of a car window and letting nature do all the work. So it has to be worth it and frankly these days it's usually not.
If I sound bitter, it's only because I am. I remember the good old days when I anxiously bit my nails throughout the Oscars because I wanted all of the movies to win, as opposed to these days when I either a) Have never even heard of the nominated movie or b) Have no desire to watch the nominated movie. I miss going to a movie and wishing I could immediately watch it all over again as soon as it ends. I miss the days when a trip to Redbox didn't feel like a tedious chore of sifting through hundreds of straight-to-DVD choices before I realize that I am wasting my time. Most of all, I miss the days of not sounding like a 90 year-old reminiscing about the "good old days" when it comes to film. I just miss the excitement of a great movie, one that doesn't need to be the top story on every talk show to convince me I want to go see it. I just want to see something that lives up to the expectations I have for it. I want to see something that isn't a slightly different version of a movie I've already seen, a crappy adaptation, or yet another sequel. I want to be impressed. Actually, I just want to see something that doesn't suck.
Come on Hollywood, is that so much to ask?
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The Boob Heard Around The World
Let's talk about boobs. Specifically, these boobs:
Unsurprisingly, I have some thoughts on what has now undoubtedly become one of the most controversial magazine covers of all time, but before we get to that, I want to share a story with you guys.
When I was pregnant with Layla I, like most women who are pregnant with their first child, was thrilled and excited about all of the things I'd be able to do, including breastfeeding. I read every baby/parenting book I could get my hands on and spent nine months preparing to transform myself into the best mom ever. I figured I would breastfeed for at least a year and then make my own baby food. I hadn't even laid eyes on my baby yet, but I wanted to do everything in my power to give her every advantage possible, beginning on day one. All of my books said "breast was best", so breast it was.
Unfortunately, it turned out that nature had other plans.
I'll spare you all the specifics, but after three weeks of trying to breastfeed, trying different pumps, teas, ointments, herbal remedies, positioning the baby at every angle known to mankind and endless consultations with various (often frustrated) lactation specialists, I was diagnosed with lactation failure, a condition in which you physically can't produce milk no matter how hard you try, that effects about 15% of women in the United States. As a die-hard perfectionist and overachiever, the word failure clung to me like a bad smell. I started Layla on formula (because frankly, a kid's gotta eat) and would cry every time I fed her. So much for being the perfect mom. She was brand new and I felt like I had already failed her. Shame doesn't even begin to cover what I felt.
As is the case with most things in life, my defective boob situation got worse before it got better.
I was one of the first of my friends to get married and have kids and as a result found myself pretty isolated and invariably privy to the random moms of the playground, doctor's office and grocery store, women who would physically shudder when they saw a can of formula, whom I later dubbed "the Boob Nazis". I was years away from the tight-knit group of mom friends I have now, years away from sympathetic ears and examples of both breast and bottle feeding done right. Back when Layla was born, I was more or less on my own and the Boob Nazis of the world had no qualms about telling me how wrong my choice to not breastfeed was, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a choice. And I heard everything from "you're just being lazy" to "I would rather leave my baby with a serial killer than feed him formula" (yes, someone actually said that to me. To my face. But that one was so ridiculous that I had to laugh it off). The cruelest comment was hurled at me when Layla was about nine months old by a woman at the park with three kids crammed into a two-seater stroller who, when I tried to justify the bottle I was feeding my baby said "It's shouldn't be called lactation failure. It should be called motherhood failure". That one, I'm sad to say, I didn't laugh off.
By the time Ben came, I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't change my own personal biology and that was okay. If I woke up one morning and decided that I wanted to be six inches shorter, people would tell me that it was impossible and I was crazy for thinking I could do it, so why should my ability (or lack thereof) to breastfeed be any different? It had taken a few years, but my skin was thicker and my resolution was strong. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I no longer felt like a walking target, I was no longer treated like one.
So, by now you're probably wondering what that long rant had to do with the cover of Time Magazine and here it is. Within the first ten seconds of seeing the cover of the magazine, a line from one of my favorite songs popped into my head; "The steel-eyed, tight jaw say it all". In other words, the look on her face is defiant, challenging you to disagree with her, encouraging you to compare yourself to her and find yourself lacking, a Boob Nazi at her finest. The title underneath her ("Are you mom enough") is frankly the icing on the shit cake. It implies that this woman who is parading her child across an International magazine is a better mom because she continues to selflessly breastfeed her child.. I don't think she is a better mom and I definitely don't think her actions can fall into the selfless category anymore. In fact, I think that, if anything, she's exploiting her child for the sake of pushing her own agenda. Breastfeeding is fantastic, but at a certain point it doesn't really benefit a child anymore, not to mention the fact that it's just plain creepy to see someone who's old enough to write their name and ride a bike on a magazine with a mouthful of ta-ta. I question exactly how much she was thinking of her child by agreeing to be on this cover. Did she stop to think about how this will literally follow him around for his entire life? If he ever runs for a political office, this will definitely come back to haunt him. When he gets married and his best man gives a speech at the rehearsal dinner, $100 says he shows this picture. He'll be teased at school and ridiculed for God knows how long. And for what? So she can prove she's super mom? Ha!
My bottom line is this: Motherhood is not a competitive sport and I am so incredibly sick of seeing it treated like one. Showing someone up, outdoing someone, or telling a perfect stranger in a grocery store or park that they are a failure as a mother because they aren't doing things the way you did them is simply not okay. I'm deeply offended by this magazine cover, not because of the act of breastfeeding itself, but because it facilitates the debate that this is a black and white, right or wrong issue. It's not. In fact, I challenge Time Magazine to do an alternative cover, with healthy, active bottle fed kids. To acknowledge the fact that lactation failure exists, or that parents who adopt have to formula feed or that how you feed your baby is your choice (because it is a choice, Boob Nazis of the world) and what really matters is that you are a loving, caring parent who is taking care of your child to the best of your abilities. The lesson that took me years to learn is that as long as my kids think I'm a good mom, that's enough for me.
I am "Mom Enough" and my kids, not what they drank as infants, are the proof.
When I was pregnant with Layla I, like most women who are pregnant with their first child, was thrilled and excited about all of the things I'd be able to do, including breastfeeding. I read every baby/parenting book I could get my hands on and spent nine months preparing to transform myself into the best mom ever. I figured I would breastfeed for at least a year and then make my own baby food. I hadn't even laid eyes on my baby yet, but I wanted to do everything in my power to give her every advantage possible, beginning on day one. All of my books said "breast was best", so breast it was.
Unfortunately, it turned out that nature had other plans.
I'll spare you all the specifics, but after three weeks of trying to breastfeed, trying different pumps, teas, ointments, herbal remedies, positioning the baby at every angle known to mankind and endless consultations with various (often frustrated) lactation specialists, I was diagnosed with lactation failure, a condition in which you physically can't produce milk no matter how hard you try, that effects about 15% of women in the United States. As a die-hard perfectionist and overachiever, the word failure clung to me like a bad smell. I started Layla on formula (because frankly, a kid's gotta eat) and would cry every time I fed her. So much for being the perfect mom. She was brand new and I felt like I had already failed her. Shame doesn't even begin to cover what I felt.
As is the case with most things in life, my defective boob situation got worse before it got better.
I was one of the first of my friends to get married and have kids and as a result found myself pretty isolated and invariably privy to the random moms of the playground, doctor's office and grocery store, women who would physically shudder when they saw a can of formula, whom I later dubbed "the Boob Nazis". I was years away from the tight-knit group of mom friends I have now, years away from sympathetic ears and examples of both breast and bottle feeding done right. Back when Layla was born, I was more or less on my own and the Boob Nazis of the world had no qualms about telling me how wrong my choice to not breastfeed was, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a choice. And I heard everything from "you're just being lazy" to "I would rather leave my baby with a serial killer than feed him formula" (yes, someone actually said that to me. To my face. But that one was so ridiculous that I had to laugh it off). The cruelest comment was hurled at me when Layla was about nine months old by a woman at the park with three kids crammed into a two-seater stroller who, when I tried to justify the bottle I was feeding my baby said "It's shouldn't be called lactation failure. It should be called motherhood failure". That one, I'm sad to say, I didn't laugh off.
By the time Ben came, I had come to the conclusion that I couldn't change my own personal biology and that was okay. If I woke up one morning and decided that I wanted to be six inches shorter, people would tell me that it was impossible and I was crazy for thinking I could do it, so why should my ability (or lack thereof) to breastfeed be any different? It had taken a few years, but my skin was thicker and my resolution was strong. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that once I no longer felt like a walking target, I was no longer treated like one.
So, by now you're probably wondering what that long rant had to do with the cover of Time Magazine and here it is. Within the first ten seconds of seeing the cover of the magazine, a line from one of my favorite songs popped into my head; "The steel-eyed, tight jaw say it all". In other words, the look on her face is defiant, challenging you to disagree with her, encouraging you to compare yourself to her and find yourself lacking, a Boob Nazi at her finest. The title underneath her ("Are you mom enough") is frankly the icing on the shit cake. It implies that this woman who is parading her child across an International magazine is a better mom because she continues to selflessly breastfeed her child.. I don't think she is a better mom and I definitely don't think her actions can fall into the selfless category anymore. In fact, I think that, if anything, she's exploiting her child for the sake of pushing her own agenda. Breastfeeding is fantastic, but at a certain point it doesn't really benefit a child anymore, not to mention the fact that it's just plain creepy to see someone who's old enough to write their name and ride a bike on a magazine with a mouthful of ta-ta. I question exactly how much she was thinking of her child by agreeing to be on this cover. Did she stop to think about how this will literally follow him around for his entire life? If he ever runs for a political office, this will definitely come back to haunt him. When he gets married and his best man gives a speech at the rehearsal dinner, $100 says he shows this picture. He'll be teased at school and ridiculed for God knows how long. And for what? So she can prove she's super mom? Ha!
My bottom line is this: Motherhood is not a competitive sport and I am so incredibly sick of seeing it treated like one. Showing someone up, outdoing someone, or telling a perfect stranger in a grocery store or park that they are a failure as a mother because they aren't doing things the way you did them is simply not okay. I'm deeply offended by this magazine cover, not because of the act of breastfeeding itself, but because it facilitates the debate that this is a black and white, right or wrong issue. It's not. In fact, I challenge Time Magazine to do an alternative cover, with healthy, active bottle fed kids. To acknowledge the fact that lactation failure exists, or that parents who adopt have to formula feed or that how you feed your baby is your choice (because it is a choice, Boob Nazis of the world) and what really matters is that you are a loving, caring parent who is taking care of your child to the best of your abilities. The lesson that took me years to learn is that as long as my kids think I'm a good mom, that's enough for me.
I am "Mom Enough" and my kids, not what they drank as infants, are the proof.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Motherhood And The Never-Ending Quest For Perfection
The thing about parenthood is you never know exactly how you're going to react to it or what kind of parent you'll be until parenthood stops being hypothetical and starts getting real (pardon my blatant "Real World" intro knock off). Once you're responsible for the livelihood of another human being (or two or three or four...), it's natural to want to do the best job you can, to be the perfect mom. You can hope to be the mom who bakes organic muffins, packs healthy mulit-cultural school lunches, never raises her voice, always has a clean house and impeccable kids, but the fact is that you might never be that mom. In fact, that mom might not even exist. Perfection just might be a colossal mirage.
In my opinion, the idea of perfection is perpetuated by two things: The media and women who give the impression that everything comes easily to them, whether it actually does or not.
The media's kind of a given. Watch any cartoon from Dora the Explorer to Sesame Street (because if you have kids I can already safely assume that you watch very little adult TV) and you'll notice that the kids never have messy rooms, the moms are never covered in spit up or finger paint, and no one ever seems to lose their tempers, or even get annoyed with their children (and really, there's absolutely no freaking way that Dora The Explorer's parents don't want to lose it every time she asks them a rhetorical question and waits a solid seven minutes to answer it). I realize that we, as intelligent adults, have long understood that we can't believe everything you see on TV, but tell us that on a day when two kids have vomited grape Pedialyte into your hair and you have to hide in the bathroom and scream into a pillow to stop yourself from screaming at them, and all you want is to live in a lively, mess-free house like Dora's parents get to. And don't act like that never happens to you. Let's be honest. Some sort of variation of that situation happens to absolutely everyone at least once.
Which brings me to my second point, effortless Mommyhood. I'm fortunate enough to have some really great friends with whom I can be completely honest and vice versa. I don't think anything saves your sanity more as a mom than a like-minded mommy-friend. Granted, I know that the wonderful guy who generously donated half of his DNA to produce our children and has subsequently done an amazing job helping to raise them, understands what I'm going through too. Just not in the same way. He leaves the house for work everyday and gets to miss a full eight hours of tantrums, messes, chicken nuggets and begging to watch TV a thousand times after I've already said no (I might actually resent him for this if he didn't also miss eight hours of hugs, giggling, and trips to the library and park). Fellow moms don't miss a beat and it's nice to have someone who can tell you that you're not crazy because your kids are driving you nuts, and that you can go over to their house for margaritas and to just let all of the kids run around and be nuts together. A good mommy-friend is even better, and infinitely more fun and less expensive, than seeing a shrink.
Unfortunately, motherhood doesn't always appear to be so psychosis-inducing to everyone. There are the 'perfect mommies' and they are the soul-sucking worst. You know the type. They always look perfect, have endless patience, sweet voices and talk enthusiastically about crafts. They're the kind of women who lost baby weight with ease and who never answer "How are you?" with anything other than "Fantastic!". No matter what they're doing, they always appear to be doing it effortlessly.
If you just read that and thought "You mean, good moms?", stop reading. Right now. Stop reading this and never come back here. Seriously.
Because truthfully, unless these women are really good at faking enthusiasm or on some serious drugs, I'm not completely certain they are real. At least, not every day. I'm smart enough to realize this, but not smart enough to remember it when I'm on my eighth-consecutive bad day and I see another mom just breeze through life like motherhood is the most natural thing in the world to her. And she's almost always dressed better than I am. If that makes me sound jealous or bitter, it's only because I am.
I try to be a perfect mom, I really do, I just can't seem to pull it off as convincingly as other people. Do I love my children more than anything? Without a doubt. Do I play with them and talk to them and try to encourage their mental and physical growth in every way I can? Absolutely. Do I occasionally lose my temper or wish for more sleep or to just go to the bathroom by myself? You betcha.
Allow me to bear a bit of my soul for a minute: I think Mandarin Chinese classes for a three-year-old are absolutely insane. I find expensive "learning toys" asinine, especially since my kids will inevitably only be interested in coloring on the box it came in (and will eventually wind up breaking the toy). While a big fan of schedules, I think it's ridiculous to micro-manage my two-year-old's day. Which is why I feel like a horrible mother when the perfect moms try to talk to me enthusiastically about all of these things. I'm a good mom but I'm far from perfect. And if I'm being perfectly honest, then I admit that I hate how I sometimes allow that lack of perfection to irritate me so much.
The conclusion I've reached is this: The media is too far gone for us to even contemplate changing anything about it, so let's all just agree to remind ourselves that neither Dora nor her perpetually perfect parents or gigantic football-shaped head are real. Better yet, just turn off the TV altogether.
As for the perfect moms...let's all try to remember that they might be an urban myth. You never know what goes on behind closed doors and that face of perfection might be a fraud. Those moms just might be as tired and frustrated as the rest of us, if not more so, and just have a better game face. If that's the case, then I wish they would stop pretending to be perfect because it can't possibly feel very good for them and it actually makes the rest of us feel really bad too. Instead, slumming it with the imperfect moms might be just what the doctor ordered! So come on down to our level! You might be appalled by the fact that since Ben is such a deep sleeper and it's so hard to wake him up that I let Layla bang her toy drum in his face, but I do. And that's okay. The moms I'm privileged to call my friends are honest and non-judgmental and above all, have fantastic senses of humor, which you have to have if you ever have a kid that poops on you. And if you're anything like me, you might take solace in the fact that none of us really have a clue what we're doing, but we're doing the best we can anyway and getting through it all together.
And if you are actually a perfect mom...well...good for you. Keep up the good work. And if you see one of us lowly imperfect moms looking particularly disheveled and frustrated and you can find it in your heart to take your own perfection down a notch, that would be great.
In my opinion, the idea of perfection is perpetuated by two things: The media and women who give the impression that everything comes easily to them, whether it actually does or not.
The media's kind of a given. Watch any cartoon from Dora the Explorer to Sesame Street (because if you have kids I can already safely assume that you watch very little adult TV) and you'll notice that the kids never have messy rooms, the moms are never covered in spit up or finger paint, and no one ever seems to lose their tempers, or even get annoyed with their children (and really, there's absolutely no freaking way that Dora The Explorer's parents don't want to lose it every time she asks them a rhetorical question and waits a solid seven minutes to answer it). I realize that we, as intelligent adults, have long understood that we can't believe everything you see on TV, but tell us that on a day when two kids have vomited grape Pedialyte into your hair and you have to hide in the bathroom and scream into a pillow to stop yourself from screaming at them, and all you want is to live in a lively, mess-free house like Dora's parents get to. And don't act like that never happens to you. Let's be honest. Some sort of variation of that situation happens to absolutely everyone at least once.
Which brings me to my second point, effortless Mommyhood. I'm fortunate enough to have some really great friends with whom I can be completely honest and vice versa. I don't think anything saves your sanity more as a mom than a like-minded mommy-friend. Granted, I know that the wonderful guy who generously donated half of his DNA to produce our children and has subsequently done an amazing job helping to raise them, understands what I'm going through too. Just not in the same way. He leaves the house for work everyday and gets to miss a full eight hours of tantrums, messes, chicken nuggets and begging to watch TV a thousand times after I've already said no (I might actually resent him for this if he didn't also miss eight hours of hugs, giggling, and trips to the library and park). Fellow moms don't miss a beat and it's nice to have someone who can tell you that you're not crazy because your kids are driving you nuts, and that you can go over to their house for margaritas and to just let all of the kids run around and be nuts together. A good mommy-friend is even better, and infinitely more fun and less expensive, than seeing a shrink.
Unfortunately, motherhood doesn't always appear to be so psychosis-inducing to everyone. There are the 'perfect mommies' and they are the soul-sucking worst. You know the type. They always look perfect, have endless patience, sweet voices and talk enthusiastically about crafts. They're the kind of women who lost baby weight with ease and who never answer "How are you?" with anything other than "Fantastic!". No matter what they're doing, they always appear to be doing it effortlessly.
If you just read that and thought "You mean, good moms?", stop reading. Right now. Stop reading this and never come back here. Seriously.
Because truthfully, unless these women are really good at faking enthusiasm or on some serious drugs, I'm not completely certain they are real. At least, not every day. I'm smart enough to realize this, but not smart enough to remember it when I'm on my eighth-consecutive bad day and I see another mom just breeze through life like motherhood is the most natural thing in the world to her. And she's almost always dressed better than I am. If that makes me sound jealous or bitter, it's only because I am.
I try to be a perfect mom, I really do, I just can't seem to pull it off as convincingly as other people. Do I love my children more than anything? Without a doubt. Do I play with them and talk to them and try to encourage their mental and physical growth in every way I can? Absolutely. Do I occasionally lose my temper or wish for more sleep or to just go to the bathroom by myself? You betcha.
Allow me to bear a bit of my soul for a minute: I think Mandarin Chinese classes for a three-year-old are absolutely insane. I find expensive "learning toys" asinine, especially since my kids will inevitably only be interested in coloring on the box it came in (and will eventually wind up breaking the toy). While a big fan of schedules, I think it's ridiculous to micro-manage my two-year-old's day. Which is why I feel like a horrible mother when the perfect moms try to talk to me enthusiastically about all of these things. I'm a good mom but I'm far from perfect. And if I'm being perfectly honest, then I admit that I hate how I sometimes allow that lack of perfection to irritate me so much.
The conclusion I've reached is this: The media is too far gone for us to even contemplate changing anything about it, so let's all just agree to remind ourselves that neither Dora nor her perpetually perfect parents or gigantic football-shaped head are real. Better yet, just turn off the TV altogether.
As for the perfect moms...let's all try to remember that they might be an urban myth. You never know what goes on behind closed doors and that face of perfection might be a fraud. Those moms just might be as tired and frustrated as the rest of us, if not more so, and just have a better game face. If that's the case, then I wish they would stop pretending to be perfect because it can't possibly feel very good for them and it actually makes the rest of us feel really bad too. Instead, slumming it with the imperfect moms might be just what the doctor ordered! So come on down to our level! You might be appalled by the fact that since Ben is such a deep sleeper and it's so hard to wake him up that I let Layla bang her toy drum in his face, but I do. And that's okay. The moms I'm privileged to call my friends are honest and non-judgmental and above all, have fantastic senses of humor, which you have to have if you ever have a kid that poops on you. And if you're anything like me, you might take solace in the fact that none of us really have a clue what we're doing, but we're doing the best we can anyway and getting through it all together.
And if you are actually a perfect mom...well...good for you. Keep up the good work. And if you see one of us lowly imperfect moms looking particularly disheveled and frustrated and you can find it in your heart to take your own perfection down a notch, that would be great.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Don't You Ever Grow Up
No one ever tells you that registering your kid for kindergarten involves a boat load of paperwork, all of which asks the same general questions over and over until you begin to feel your eyes involuntarily cross. Needless to say, this tedious experience can give you a lot of time to think.
And as I spent what felt like a solid six hours filing out said paperwork, all I could think about was how I have absolutely no idea how I went from the shock of finding out I was pregnant with our first child to suddenly having a child old enough to be a kindergartener.
Layla was an extremely good baby, to make the understatement of the century. She's always had a happy, mellow disposition. In fact, the day she was born, she didn't even cry, which actually really freaked me out at the time. I had always sort of figured it was a requirement for babies to cry and if they didn't, it meant they weren't breathing. Layla was breathing just fine, but instead of crying she was just sort of looking around and moaning softly while she was being examined and wrapped up. Once the nurse put her in my arms, she looked at me like she knew exactly who I was, stopped moaning immediately and fell into a deep sleep.
Her disposition is so sunny, in fact, that she didn't even cry when the nurses gave her her first bath to remove all that lovely post-birth gunk. Not only did she not cry or appear upset about it in any way, she actually looked like she enjoyed it (in direct contrast with her brother, who screamed so loudly and for so long that I started to wonder if he was being bathed with nails). It wasn't until years later, when she became the kid who hated to be sticky or have dirty hands that it all made sense to me. She looked like she was enjoying it because the crazy kid actually was enjoying it.
Not much changed after that first day.
Layla started sleeping through the night when she was three weeks old. She ate everything that was put before her (and still does). If you told her to stop doing something, she stopped. She's patient. She listens. She cooperates. Last week at her preschool, a child brought a type of juice that we don't allow her to have at home (way too much sugar). She knew it was against the rules to have it at home and assumed that rule extended to school too. So she didn't drink it. Most kids would jump at the opportunity to do something that their parents don't allow them to, but that's not how Layla rolls.
Layla is funny, sweet and kind. She's a morning person (just like her dad) and always thinks about others. She has grown from a fantastic baby to an amazing little girl.
The only thing Layla has ever done (be it completely inadvertently) was put the idea into our heads that we are the most amazing parents ever and that parenting is easy. Because of Layla, I had no idea why anyone ever said being a parent was a difficult job. Sure, it was a lot of work and could feel tedious at times, but she has had so few bad days or bad stages that it all felt like a cake walk. Which, of course, is why we had Ben, who has seemingly done everything in his power to take the idea that parenting is easy right out of our heads (but more about little dude later, this is Layla's blog).
I can only assume that my luck will eventually run out and that my perfect, angelic daughter will turn into a psychopath once she hits about thirteen and decides that out of all the people she hates, she hates her mom the most. I hope that's not the case, but because I'm not taking any chances, I'm going to enjoy every peaceful moment until that ugly beast called puberty strikes.
Anyway, back to registration. I can only assume that the purpose of all that horrendous paperwork is to keep all of us who can't believe our child is old enough to be in elementary school from bursting into tears and clinging to our children. While it is a solid attempt on the part of public schools, I'm sorry to say it didn't really work. It didn't distract me from reminiscing or wondering how we got to this point in Layla's life so fast. If anything, it gave me time to think about it more. And it definitely didn't distract me from crying my eyes out.
My baby is growing up and she's growing up way too fast. And I know that no matter how much I drag my feet or wish for her to slow down, I can't stop the inevitable. And no amount of paperwork will distract me from just how much that breaks my heart.
And as I spent what felt like a solid six hours filing out said paperwork, all I could think about was how I have absolutely no idea how I went from the shock of finding out I was pregnant with our first child to suddenly having a child old enough to be a kindergartener.
Layla was an extremely good baby, to make the understatement of the century. She's always had a happy, mellow disposition. In fact, the day she was born, she didn't even cry, which actually really freaked me out at the time. I had always sort of figured it was a requirement for babies to cry and if they didn't, it meant they weren't breathing. Layla was breathing just fine, but instead of crying she was just sort of looking around and moaning softly while she was being examined and wrapped up. Once the nurse put her in my arms, she looked at me like she knew exactly who I was, stopped moaning immediately and fell into a deep sleep.
Layla started sleeping through the night when she was three weeks old. She ate everything that was put before her (and still does). If you told her to stop doing something, she stopped. She's patient. She listens. She cooperates. Last week at her preschool, a child brought a type of juice that we don't allow her to have at home (way too much sugar). She knew it was against the rules to have it at home and assumed that rule extended to school too. So she didn't drink it. Most kids would jump at the opportunity to do something that their parents don't allow them to, but that's not how Layla rolls.
The only thing Layla has ever done (be it completely inadvertently) was put the idea into our heads that we are the most amazing parents ever and that parenting is easy. Because of Layla, I had no idea why anyone ever said being a parent was a difficult job. Sure, it was a lot of work and could feel tedious at times, but she has had so few bad days or bad stages that it all felt like a cake walk. Which, of course, is why we had Ben, who has seemingly done everything in his power to take the idea that parenting is easy right out of our heads (but more about little dude later, this is Layla's blog).
I can only assume that my luck will eventually run out and that my perfect, angelic daughter will turn into a psychopath once she hits about thirteen and decides that out of all the people she hates, she hates her mom the most. I hope that's not the case, but because I'm not taking any chances, I'm going to enjoy every peaceful moment until that ugly beast called puberty strikes.
Anyway, back to registration. I can only assume that the purpose of all that horrendous paperwork is to keep all of us who can't believe our child is old enough to be in elementary school from bursting into tears and clinging to our children. While it is a solid attempt on the part of public schools, I'm sorry to say it didn't really work. It didn't distract me from reminiscing or wondering how we got to this point in Layla's life so fast. If anything, it gave me time to think about it more. And it definitely didn't distract me from crying my eyes out.
My baby is growing up and she's growing up way too fast. And I know that no matter how much I drag my feet or wish for her to slow down, I can't stop the inevitable. And no amount of paperwork will distract me from just how much that breaks my heart.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Will Write For Your Entertainment
Of all the things in the world I could have decided to be, I had to decide I wanted to be a writer.
Deciding to become a professional writer is a lot like deciding you want to become a professional baseball player. It's mind-bogglingly competitive, there are millions of people more talented (or more motivated) than you trying to do the same thing, and people tend to feign enthusiasm for your career choice, while secretly tallying up the odds of you ever making a career out of writing, baseball, underwater basket-weaving, or whatever highly unattainable career goal you're trying to reach. And unfortunately, being as this is real life and not The Hunger Games, the odds may not be ever in your favor.
I guess I must secretly be a half-glass-empty kind of person, because I constantly worry about those nagging odds and how much or little they might be in my favor when it comes to becoming a professional writer. Because I'm smart enough to know that talent does play into these odds, I spend a lot of my very limited free time trolling the blog world for both inspiration and to check out the competition. Since I'm still not completely sure what it is that I'm doing here exactly, I have no choice but to turn to the internet. Which, unless you're watching ridiculous sketches on Funny Or Die, is almost always a mistake.
The first thing that occurred to me through my extensive research is that if it's a "Mommy Blog" I'm trying to write here, then I'm going about it the wrong way. Step one, according to the internet, is to marry someone famous, have their children, and gain instant fame as a baby guru, with thousands following your blog. Well, okay...clearly I messed up step one. I could try to convince Josh to let me engage in some kind of reverse polygamy in which I have several (famous) husbands in addition to him, but let's face it: If I had more than one husband, they'd just form their own fantasy baseball league and I'd be stuck with even more laundry. Aside from the obvious fact that I love my husband and my husband alone, I just don't have the energy or time management skills for more than one. So clearly that option is out.
There's always the 'creep everyone out' route, as recently made famous by Alicia Silverstone, who recorded herself pre-chewing her baby's food and spitting it in the baby's mouth and successfully managed to gross out the entire world. While Ben and Layla are too old and my stomach is too weak for this option to ever come to fruition, I haven't ruled out trying it to see their reactions (but not filming it because if Alicia Silverstone has taught us anything, it's that we DO NOT want to see that).
Finally, I've noticed is that most of these "Mommy Blogs" chronicle their child's every move. I'm not talking about milestones or frustrations or any of the normal, run-of-the-mill baby things. I'm talking about the kind of over-sharing that involves telling your readers how many times a day your baby poops (There is actually a real blog where the writer does just this. Who would want to read that, you ask? Apparently the eighty-two people who subscribe to it do. I know. I don't get it either). These blogs not only scare the bejesus out of me, but serve as a reminder that while your children should be your top priority, I truly believe (for the sake of your own sanity as a human being) they shouldn't be the only thing you can think to talk about. I have a few friends who write delightful blogs about varying subjects and those blogs are a joy to read (mostly because they're not about poop. I have to deal with it enough, why read about it too?!) and yet, none of us are 'making it' as writers. But why?
My ongoing struggle with being a blogger (aside from the fact that I don't particularly enjoy referring to myself as a blogger) is that I want to build an audience and to try to get my best material out there, but I really have no idea how to go about this. I have a sneaking suspicion it's because I'm not 'hungry' enough. While I can easily pick out the internet crazies I can just as easily pick out the internet geniuses who are doing this so much better than I am. I consider throwing in the towel on a writing career daily, but then what? They say 'Those who cannot do teach' but what about those who cannot do and don't have patience to teach? What then? All I can picture is standing outside all of the major TV networks with a cardboard sign that reads 'Will write for your entertainment' with my resume/screenplay/novel/excerpts from my blog in my back pocket. It's not a pretty picture.
Unfortunately, my worries don't stop there. Currently my book club is reading 'The Psychopath Test' by Jon Ronson (which I would highly recommend) and according to the book, one of the classic characteristics of a psychopath is a lack of unrealistic long-term goals. Is wanting to be the next Tina Fey an unrealistic long-term goal? Because who wouldn't want to be this lady??
So let's review: I am trying to break into one of the world's most impossible professions, I married for love and not celebrity (which is only a mistake if you want to be a famous writer without having to do anything or have any real talent), and thanks to Jon Ronson, I now have a deep-rooted paranoia that I'm a psychopath (the blog stalking that I participate in on a daily basis does very little to dispute my psychopath theory, just in case anyone is wondering). Fantastic.
For now, if anyone needs me, I'll be scanning the internet for mommy blogs, writing lengthy, irrational-sounding emails to Jon Ronson about the state of my sanity, and checking out the mechanics of underwater basket-weaving as a back-up career. Wish me luck.
Deciding to become a professional writer is a lot like deciding you want to become a professional baseball player. It's mind-bogglingly competitive, there are millions of people more talented (or more motivated) than you trying to do the same thing, and people tend to feign enthusiasm for your career choice, while secretly tallying up the odds of you ever making a career out of writing, baseball, underwater basket-weaving, or whatever highly unattainable career goal you're trying to reach. And unfortunately, being as this is real life and not The Hunger Games, the odds may not be ever in your favor.
I guess I must secretly be a half-glass-empty kind of person, because I constantly worry about those nagging odds and how much or little they might be in my favor when it comes to becoming a professional writer. Because I'm smart enough to know that talent does play into these odds, I spend a lot of my very limited free time trolling the blog world for both inspiration and to check out the competition. Since I'm still not completely sure what it is that I'm doing here exactly, I have no choice but to turn to the internet. Which, unless you're watching ridiculous sketches on Funny Or Die, is almost always a mistake.
The first thing that occurred to me through my extensive research is that if it's a "Mommy Blog" I'm trying to write here, then I'm going about it the wrong way. Step one, according to the internet, is to marry someone famous, have their children, and gain instant fame as a baby guru, with thousands following your blog. Well, okay...clearly I messed up step one. I could try to convince Josh to let me engage in some kind of reverse polygamy in which I have several (famous) husbands in addition to him, but let's face it: If I had more than one husband, they'd just form their own fantasy baseball league and I'd be stuck with even more laundry. Aside from the obvious fact that I love my husband and my husband alone, I just don't have the energy or time management skills for more than one. So clearly that option is out.
There's always the 'creep everyone out' route, as recently made famous by Alicia Silverstone, who recorded herself pre-chewing her baby's food and spitting it in the baby's mouth and successfully managed to gross out the entire world. While Ben and Layla are too old and my stomach is too weak for this option to ever come to fruition, I haven't ruled out trying it to see their reactions (but not filming it because if Alicia Silverstone has taught us anything, it's that we DO NOT want to see that).
Finally, I've noticed is that most of these "Mommy Blogs" chronicle their child's every move. I'm not talking about milestones or frustrations or any of the normal, run-of-the-mill baby things. I'm talking about the kind of over-sharing that involves telling your readers how many times a day your baby poops (There is actually a real blog where the writer does just this. Who would want to read that, you ask? Apparently the eighty-two people who subscribe to it do. I know. I don't get it either). These blogs not only scare the bejesus out of me, but serve as a reminder that while your children should be your top priority, I truly believe (for the sake of your own sanity as a human being) they shouldn't be the only thing you can think to talk about. I have a few friends who write delightful blogs about varying subjects and those blogs are a joy to read (mostly because they're not about poop. I have to deal with it enough, why read about it too?!) and yet, none of us are 'making it' as writers. But why?
My ongoing struggle with being a blogger (aside from the fact that I don't particularly enjoy referring to myself as a blogger) is that I want to build an audience and to try to get my best material out there, but I really have no idea how to go about this. I have a sneaking suspicion it's because I'm not 'hungry' enough. While I can easily pick out the internet crazies I can just as easily pick out the internet geniuses who are doing this so much better than I am. I consider throwing in the towel on a writing career daily, but then what? They say 'Those who cannot do teach' but what about those who cannot do and don't have patience to teach? What then? All I can picture is standing outside all of the major TV networks with a cardboard sign that reads 'Will write for your entertainment' with my resume/screenplay/novel/excerpts from my blog in my back pocket. It's not a pretty picture.
Unfortunately, my worries don't stop there. Currently my book club is reading 'The Psychopath Test' by Jon Ronson (which I would highly recommend) and according to the book, one of the classic characteristics of a psychopath is a lack of unrealistic long-term goals. Is wanting to be the next Tina Fey an unrealistic long-term goal? Because who wouldn't want to be this lady??
For now, if anyone needs me, I'll be scanning the internet for mommy blogs, writing lengthy, irrational-sounding emails to Jon Ronson about the state of my sanity, and checking out the mechanics of underwater basket-weaving as a back-up career. Wish me luck.
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