A Mommy Story

Hey everyone, in case you didn’t know, there’s a Blog Exchange going on today. Please welcome Izzy to A Mommy Story as today’s guest blogger! You can find me over on her blog today. Oh, and buy one of her t-shirts! Regular programming will resume on March 2.

—

I signed up for this blog exchange thing but I never considered what the topic would be or whether it would be a hard one for me or whatever. I’ve always been good under pressure and been able to crank out something that, if nothing else, would be good for a laugh. But this has me stumped. Do I even KNOW what it means to be a woman? Does anyone? I get up in the morning and I’m a woman. I’ve never been anything else. What could I possibly compare it to? Being a girl?

The idea that I’m a “woman” freaks me out. I say the words… I. AM. A. WOMAN. And you know what I think of? I think of that Enjoli commercial from the seventies where the lady belts out that dumb song about bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan yada yada. We all know it. No need to sing the whole dang thing for you. But that is what I think of when I hear those words. My subconscious mind has sucked up an ad campaign and inserted it where something serious and thoughtful should be. I can’t decide if that is comical or just plain pathetic. How much of my idea of being a woman is generated by external factors? Most likely, all of it. We look around and sure we have role models but when we have to measure ourselves against something, what are we using as a yardstick? Never mind. I won’t even delve into the quagmire of how the media chews us up and spits us back out at ourselves as something totally unattainable. That’s a given. I still need to figure out what being woman means to me. And so the search continues…

Until recently, I never even thought of myself as a WOMAN. That was reserved for older people, like matronly, older mother-types, grandmothers etc. I was a GIRL, a hip, happening chick. Not old. Not matronly and definitely not a ma’am. Somewhere in the recent past, though, I’ve accepted that I am, in fact, a grown woman and someone’s, actually make that two someone’s, mother. It was a long hard road to get here and I’m not even sure I can articulate the identity crisis I had when my first child was born. Between the psyche-in-a-blender experiences of PPD and my daughter’s colic, and the reality of having this little being to suddenly love, care for and bond with, I had no clue who I was anymore. I suddenly felt the need to be, well… good and extra-capable and beyond reproach. I felt so…judged. And so hopelessly inept. Was I really being judged or was I putting a world of pressure on myself to be something, an ideal mother that doesn’t exist anywhere except in our minds, the by-product of decades of media conditioning? I don’t know. Maybe both. All I know is it sucked. Bad.

These days, I know that I am a good mother and I know that I am a good wife. I also know that these are not the only measures of a woman but they are the ones I most immediately identify with. While the pressure still occasionally rears it’s horned little head, I’m not perfect and I don’t try to be. Good enough doused with a buckets and buckets of love works for my family and me.

And to be honest, I enjoy the world of blogging as much as I do because I feel like I’m seeing women and mothers as they really are (well, mostly anyway) but here, in this netherworld of bits, bytes and digitized estrogen, I feel like I am finding people like myself that I’ve not been able to locate in the physical world; people with whom I “click” and who seem to like and accept me without any prerequisites other than for me to post something for them to read fairly regularly, which I do with pleasure.

As for how I “celebrate” being a woman, well…I’m not sure that I do. Or at least that’s not the word I would use. But I do honor myself, as a woman and a person, in a few ways:

I try to go easy on myself and accept who I am as much as can. That means TRYING not to listen to that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough, talented enough, funny enough or likeable enough.

It means sometimes being “that bitch” and standing up for myself when I feel trod upon or mistreated or belittled.

It means maintaining a level of self-respect that comes from always striving to be true to yourself.

It means not being overly critical of myself or comparing myself to other people all the time, which, by the way, is insanely hard for me to stop doing.

It means asking for what I need from the people around me and allowing myself the luxury of an expectation that I will get it rather than seething or suffering or resenting silently because I’m afraid I won’t.

I feel if I can live by these ideals, and they are ideals, not rules, then I’m doing good. Good enough, in fact.

(I just read this over from the top and I’m thinking, ”Do I sound neurotic? I do. I sound like someone who thinks too much.” And then I stop myself because while I DO think entirely too much, I know, intellectually, that everyone is neurotic to some degree. Some people choose to show it, some can’t help but to show it and some are just really good at hiding it.

And now I’m going to go stand in front of the mirror and channel Saturday Night Live’s Stuart Smalley of “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me” fame.)

About the Author:

My name is Izzy. I’m a mother of two children, ages 8 months and 5 years. I’ve been married for 12 years to a great guy and a wonderful father. We live in the southeast, AKA Hurricane Alley. I work from home, part-time, as a webmaster. I’ve been “online” since 1994. I have a blog and I sell super cool t-shirts & other goodies to benefit a non-profit support organization for postpartum depression called “Depression After Delivery”

Take a look. Buy a shirt!

—–

Here are some of the other March Blog Exchange Participants: Julie, Kristen, Nancy, Wendy, Mel, and CM. If you would like to participate in our April Blog Exchange, please send an email with your blog url to: kmei26 at yahoo.com