Tag Archives: writing

Virtual Happy Hour.

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It’s Friday night, and if I had the wherewithal to put some real pants on and meet a girlfriend for a drink, I WOULD. Unfortunately, I’ve had the same toothpaste on my zits since this morning and the mere thought of brushing my hair makes me exhausted.

It’s been that kinda week.

If we were to meet for drinks, I’d have a lot to say. First of all, this week of motherhood sucked. If you were silly enough to ask, “How come?” I wouldn’t even feel like rehashing it all. I would just silently pour myself another glass of wine. I would then mention the fact that there is only one of me and there needs to be like, three.

I’m potty-training my middle child again. Hopefully it will stick for real this time, cross your fingers, girlfriend. NOW. Cross them.

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The reason my pants are tight.

The potty trainee gets M&M’s every time he uses the toilet, which is working out well except for the fact that I hand him one or two, and then immediately eat a fistful because potty-training is hell and I loathe it with every fiber of my being.

Then there is the matter of my writing. Excuse me while I pour myself another glass.

This week I hit a low point and found myself wondering if writing is a stupid waste of time. I could spend my time doing a million other, more constructive, things that would better my family … like cooking organically, clipping coupons, or remembering to pay the water bill. I don’t know. Shit like that.

If I didn’t write, I would actually have time to be a decent Room Mom, instead of a total slacker who throws random baked goods and hastily-written checks at the school and swears to herself she will do better next time.

I’m not even making any real money.

I already have so much on my plate.

My extended family is mortified by some of the things that I write. My use of profanity embarrasses them.

I AM AN EMBARRASSMENT TO MY FAMILY.

That’s a hard thing to know. I never set out to be an embarrassment. If I didn’t have this compulsive need to write words and share them with people, maybe everything would be easier. No one would know that I do things like eat my kid’s candy and then lie about it, or drink and swear on occasion. They wouldn’t know how much I struggle to parent my children.

No one would know anything about me at all.

But the problem is, my life would be impossible for me to live healthfully if I couldn’t write about it. I’m not writing for my family. I’m writing for me.

For my sanity.

So I can breathe.

As scary as it can be to put myself out there, I continue to show up and write words because I don’t want to cut my own ear off or whatever happens when a creative person isn’t allowed to create. And honestly, I feel it is my duty to announce to women everywhere that sometimes being a wife and a mother is so hard and insanely frustrating that you just want to take the damn hand mixer and throw it through a window.

You aren’t a failure for feeling that way. You’re normal. That’s my message.

And then two nights ago, as I was dumping the third basket of clean clothes on my bed to fold while I waited for Robbie to come home from work and rescue me from our terrible children, my phone beeped.

I had an e-mail.

I’m going to be in another book.

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I’M GOING TO BE IN A REAL BOOK WITH PAGES!!!!!!!!

A friend shared this in a writing group I’m in today, and I love it. “A blessed unrest.” That is what it’s like to constantly want to write and share your thoughts, profane as they may be.

There is a vitality,
a life force,
a quickening
that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all time,
this expression is unique.

And If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost.
The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine
how good it is
nor how valuable it is
nor how it compares with other expressions.

It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly
to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.
You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate YOU.

Keep the channel open…
No artist is pleased…

There is no satisfaction whatever at anytime
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction
a blessed unrest that keeps us marching
and makes “us” MORE alive than the others.

Martha Graham
( – a letter to Agnes De Mille-)

House Guest.

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Yesterday I had the pleasure of being the “House Guest” over at Housewife Plus, a blog written by a kindred spirit named Sarah. She lives in Maine, her husband builds boats, and she. is. hilarious.

Every Monday, Sarah hosts a House Guest and I was thrilled to hang out over there. She even used the word “y’all” to make me feel at home. Check it out here!

Like what you see? Don’t forget to follow her on Facebook and Twitter! She’s going to be famous one day and you’ll get to say you discovered her when. Just saying.

A Lode Of Honesty.

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Oh, boy.

Let me preface this by saying, please don’t go any further if you are my mother, my grandmother, my mother-in-law (oops, too late) or anyone else who may be offended by inappropriate language and/or knowing about my naked body. Although, if that is the case, is this really the website for you?

(It is not.)

But for everyone else, HI! THIS IS A REALLY BIG DAY FOR ME! One of my essays got published on Mamalode, and I’m super proud of myself — but also cringing a little on the inside. If you read it, you’ll see why.

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Some people have asked me, “Why are you writing such personal things?” Well … I really don’t know. I have a deep well of stories that just need to come out. I don’t really put a lot of thought into the why, I just know what I must do, and what I must do is write. I have so many things to tell. So, so many.

Just wait.

(Want to read my essay? Click here to check it out!)

The Liebster.

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Modern Mommy Madness has been nominated for a Liebster Award! Thank you for noticing me, No Such Fairytale! (Twitter handle: @nosuchfairytale)

201402-LiebsterNow, I’m kind of a Grinch and don’t usually participate in these things … which may explain why only a few hundred people read my blog. But first … are you confused about what I’m talking about? Because up until a few minutes ago I was completely clueless.

The Liebster is an award that only exists on the internet, given to bloggers by other bloggers, generally to bloggers who don’t have a massive following (yet!). The rules are pretty simple, from what I can gather:

1. List 11 random facts about yourself.

2. Answer the questions sent to you.

3.  Nominate 11 bloggers, notify them that they have been nominated, and ask them 11 questions thought up by YOU!

4.  Kick back with a drink. (I added this step.)

Whew! I’m worn out already.

11 Random Facts:

1. I’m left-handed.

2. I went to boarding school for grades 9-12.

3. Bible college was not for me.

4. I did not discover coffee until I was in my twenties.

5. My mother once told me she thinks Starbucks laces their coffee with cocaine.

6. I’m an only child.

7. I have very short eyelashes and was infinitely relieved when my children inherited my husband’s dark, thick lashes.

8. Home ownership was not for me.

9. I am very unclear on how to “bone” a chicken.

10. I used to write bad poetry.

11. Now I write essays.

***

Here are the questions I’ve been given to answer:

1. What’s your drink? What would you order at a bar if there were no repercussions – financial, health, or otherwise?

Very pricey red wine. But I don’t know what kind, because I’ve never been in the position to learn about pricey wines.

 

2. What is your dream vacation?

I have trouble thinking past what it would be like just to escape for a handful of days with my husband. I guess right now, anything would do.

 

3. Tell me about your best day.

My best day … ever? I’ve had a lot of best days. My wedding day, the day I gave birth to each of my three kids, my 34th birthday. Those were all best days.

 

4. What was your first car?

OH. I’m very proud of my first car. It was a 1989 Dodge Diplomat, purchased for $600 cash at the Louisiana State Auction. It was an old cop car — very fast, very beat-up, with no way to get out of the back seat.

 

5. Where did you fit in high school?

Ugh. I don’t want to talk about high school.

 

6. Are you a texter or a caller?

I am very much a texter.

 

7. Everyone is a work in progress. What thing would you change about yourself if you could snap your fingers and make it happen?

I’d choose to be a more relaxed person.

 

8. When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I think part of me always wanted to be a writer.

 

9. Now, what do you want to be when you grow up?

A success.

 

10. What time do you go to bed at night?

Between 10:30-11:00.

 

11. What is your worst habit?

Stressing. I’m a worrier.

 

***

Here are the 11 questions I will direct to the bloggers I’ve nominated:

1. What one thing do you love about yourself?

2. What is your greatest strength?

3. Who do you draw energy from or enjoy being around?

4. What types of activities drain you?

5. What kind of person is your alter ego?

6. Name your favorite comfort food.

7. Favorite place to spend a rainy afternoon.

8. What do you do after the kids go to bed?

9. What do you wish you could change about your life?

10. Do you believe in prayer?

11. What beauty product has never failed you?

***

I nominate:

The Outnumbered Mother

A Mom Of Steel

Family Snodgrass

Finding Fresh

Outsmarted Mommy

Southern Hope Blog

Nicole Decker

Abbie’s Babble

Interior Style by Kiki

You Have Six Kids

Three Monkey Chaos

AND … GO!

When Christians Curse.

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What happens when a person (me) who calls herself a Christian (I am) uses inappropriate language in print?

1. Upon seeing herself in an actual book, she screams “HOLY SHIT!”

2. She burrows under the covers, fearing judgement from those who will read it. Her husband coaxes her out with coffee and scrambled eggs.

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3. Her husband also finds her bio with the rest of the authors, and points out the irony of the F-word being in the same sentence with “loves God.”

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4. They laugh. And cringe. But mostly laugh.

The language. The admission of drinking. The brutal honesty. Is this “Christian?” Some would say no, and I accept that. I was raised a third-generation Seventh-day Adventist, surrounded by wonderful, warm, God-loving people who did not drop F-bombs. I’ve never heard my mother use inappropriate language, and I myself don’t use it out loud that often. I’m thankful for my conservative upbringing, because I do believe in God and I do hold my children to a high moral standard.

I also drink wine at night after I have prayed with them and tucked them into bed.

I try my best not to scream expletives around them, ever.

I sometimes fail at this.

But you know, some people get my writing and some people don’t. That is totally okay. I do not expect everyone everywhere to agree with me or love what I do. I understand if there are people who think I’ve gone off the deep end or turned my back on my upbringing, although both of those assumptions are incorrect.

You know what is a virtually impossible achievement? TO MAKE EVERYONE HAPPY.

I realize that there are lots people out there who don’t want to read my work, and I get that, because I am also very picky about what I read. We are all different and we like different things. That’s a good thing! I embrace diversity. I also know that thinking too much about the opinions of others is the quickest way to kill creativity. My one big rule is this: if my husband is not okay with it, then it doesn’t get published.

I guess my point is, I refuse to allow the fear of judgement to hold me back. This is the one thing I have in common with Taylor Swift. That, and the fact that we’re both very, very white.

This — my writing — is me, in honest form. If I tried hard to glaze over the grittiness of life, then I would not be speaking my truth. Some people are good at writing nicely. I’m good at writing honestly. And honestly, life is hard.

I only recently started referring to myself as a writer. When I say it out loud, it makes me weirdly and inappropriately emotional. My eyes well up and I choke a little, and then I feel stupid. Maybe eventually I’ll get used to saying it, but for now I just feel blessed to be able to back up that title with some pretty awesome accomplishments.

Buckle your seatbelts, bitches.

Tomorrow.

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THE BOOK COMES OUT TOMORROW.

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I’m going puke or cry or jump up and down. I really don’t know which one, or in which order it will happen, but I’m kind of beside myself right now … and my anxiety is manifesting in aggressive behavior towards my husband.

Please buy the book (you can get it here!) and give it a glowing review on Amazon!

WHAT?!

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The amazing and talented Toni Hammer (if you don’t know who she is, you should immediately familiarize yourself) wrote a piece wherein I blabbered on and on and she actually posted it on her website.

You simply must read it. Now! Click here!

Pinch me.

The One Where I Let My Family Off The Hook.

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I feel like I have some explaining to do.

Recently, a new friend said to me “When I started reading your blog I thought you were going to be a certain way, but then I MET you and you are just so … poised. It surprised me.” You know what surprises me? Being called “poised.”

I have also had people expect me to be more “Tina Fey or Amy Poeler-like.” First of all, whoa. I wish I were Tina Fey or Amy Poeler-like. I am SUCH A HUGE FAN OF TINA FEY. She’s a hilarious writer (Bossypants is one of my favorite books) and entertaining to watch on television. I’m sure she is just as fun in person over coffee, not that I’m obsessing over that idea or anything. But I’m not like those ladies, I’m sorry to say. I’m not even all that funny in person. I just nod and smile a lot, and if you take that and add in the blonde hair, well … I’ve had many, many people mistake me for an idiot.

I write because my life is stressful and I struggle with it and mostly because I want other women to know it’s okay to admit that things are hard. I want to give and get solidarity.

Here is where I let my family off the hook.

I come from a very long, very southern line of conservative Christians, and none of them use the word “fuck.” Now that I’ve gone and gotten an essay published, and the title of it includes that word, I feel like I need to make sure everyone knows that I wasn’t raised to talk that way. Please don’t judge my parents or my grandparents and think someone didn’t do their job. I think they fear judgement, from you, from the church, from God … but I assure you, I have good moral character. I am grounded in how I was raised.

I write what I’m inspired to write. Some days it’s really heartfelt. Some days it’s really angry. I don’t feel like I need to make excuses for what I do, because I’m proud of it even though it makes my mother and grandmother and who knows who else cringe and wish I would just STOP TALKING ABOUT DRINKING AND STOP USING THAT LANGUAGE. Well … I could. But then I’d be lying, because while I was raised in a family who did not drink, I happen to really enjoy it.

If I were afraid of judgement, I’d use a pen name. This blog would be very motherhood is amazing and perfect, rather than my children are freaking psychotic.

Asher is three years old now. Do you know what that means? That means he loses it over everything. Do you remember what that’s like? No? You lucky bitch, you’ve blocked it out already. Well, it usually goes something like this, over and over and over throughout the day:

Me: Asher, it’s time to go! Do you want to wear your Crocs or your Pumas?

Asher: I DON’T WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS!

Me: Okay! Let’s get your Pumas.

Asher: I DO IT BY MYSELF.

Me: Okay! I’ll just help you if you ask me to.

Asher: (screaming unintelligibly)

Me: Do you want some help?

Asher: I WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS!

Me: (I get the Crocs)

Asher: I DON’T WANT TO WEAR MY CROCS! I WANT TO WEAR MY PUMAS! I DO IT BY MYSELF! I NEED HELP! DON’T TOUCH ME! HOLD ME!

—

Meanwhile, the “baby,” who is not a baby anymore but I still call her that, has dragged all of her clothes out of every drawer in her room and every pot and pan out onto the kitchen floor. And I can’t blame her, because the shoe drama was mind-numbing and she had to busy herself some kind of way. Good for her. All I want to do is scream “FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” at the top of my lungs.

But I don’t.

I breathe. Sometimes I lose it, but mostly I breathe. I pick up the pots and I stay calm. I check myself so I don’t hurt anyone. And then later, when no one is bothering me, I write about it and I feel cleansed. That’s why I always say that writing is my therapy. The fact that anyone would want to read it never ceases to amaze me. Maybe I need an actual therapist, yes? I may look into that.

My upbringing has nothing to do with my writing. If I wanted to write about what it’s like to be raised so conservatively and discover the joy of a latte at age 21, I could. And I may. But not today.

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