I’m over at Project Hermosa today, talking about how “show, don’t tell” applies to motherhood as much as it does writing. And I happened to have stumbled on this post I wrote three years ago and think it’s pretty relevant considering today’s guest post…
Being a mother? It’s hard. Being a mother and a writer? It’s swallowing a bottle of guilty pills and asking that creepy puppet from the Saw movies to dance. It’s a mind fuck, to put it pleasantly.
I’ve existed in all kinds of worlds and as of late, I’m existing in the world of motherhood. And each time I put my ear up to the door, I’m hearing the resounding message that if you’re a mom then, well, you’re a mom. That’s that, put a bow on it. Call it a day.
But I’m more than a mom. Shocker, I know. I love Ava more than the world will allow, but I didn’t go to college to discuss the intricacies of butt paste all the live long day. I went to college to waste my parents’ money and get black out drunk on the weekends like a normal person. Oh, and to obtain a Creative Writing degree (with honors. What what) so I could live my passion. But once I grabbed my diploma, got married and moved to a new city, I didn’t have the direction I needed to make my talents worthwhile. So instead of writing the next Great American Novel, I constantly watched The Office on Hulu and drank wine like it was my job because, in a way, it was. At least writing sure as hell wasn’t.
But then? Ava. Ava came and so did hope. There are mornings I go into her room and she’s ready, arms open, smile wide and I know this thing isn’t about me anymore. Writing is no longer writing. It’s responsibility. I’m responsible for showing her a woman can be a loving mother, a smart woman, a person with a passion. I’m responsible for curving my fingers to the cadence of words, knowing doing so just might give her a better future. I’m responsible for her image of me.
And even though I’m plagued with long days, an aching back and more Mickey Mouse Clubhouse than a person should be forced to tolerate, I know my passions wouldn’t be realized without her.
So here’s to writing. Here’s to motherhood. Here’s to taking life by the balls one word at a time.