Can I Get a "Kumbaya?"
It's as if these warm fuzzies we're giving one another across the ether is as good as calling up all those tv reporters, all those journalists perpetrating this absurd mommywar non-story and saying Ha! I spit on your divisive propaganda! Although I'd say it with some sort of indistinct European accent, so it would come out more like I speet on your deeviseef propagahnda! Just for effect.
When I started Mom-101 three months ago to the day, I approached it like a columnist. I figured it was like scoring an editorial job (okay, unpaid internship) without having to endure a scary interview where I'd have to suck in my stomach for 45 minutes and discuss my "vision." I knew blogging would give me a forum in which to write; I had no idea it would give me a community. If you had told me a few months back that I'd be headed to a conference this summer? To discuss blogging? With BLOGGERS? I'd have laughed. Laughed out loud and rolled my eyes and made that gutteral Yiddish chhhhhhh sound that Nate makes when I tell him he's handsome.
And yet, here you are. The Community.
What you have to know is that you do more for me than you can imagine, really. Beyond the advice, beyond the stimulating debate, beyond the grace with which you permit me to continue believing that I have the cutest, smartest, most delightful child who ever graced this planet or any other--you give me the impetus to continue writing. And this last little bit is what keeps my soul alive.
Or, as they said back in the old country, Mommywars my tuchus.
Your participation here is invaluable because, as I've mentioned before, I'm not the kind of writer who can create just for myself. I have stacks of dusty journals filled with idea starters, creative sparks, writing germs that never went beyond that initial flush of excitement that conjoined pen and paper for a few brief moments.
It kills me to admit this, by the way. To acknowledge that I'm not more inner-directed is like admitting I'm not a Real Writer. A Real Writer is angry and independent, free from social expectations. A Real Writer hates parties. (And she has bad hair anyway, so who would want her at their parties?) A Real Writer is reclusive and asocial; she will shut herself away in a friend's lakeside cabin, happy to see noone but the ashen-faced postman for weeks on end until she finishes her manuscript or runs out of Camel unfiltereds, whichever comes first. A Real Writer, or so I was led to believe by misguided writing instructors, doesn't care what you think about anything she has to say.
But we live by our own rules, we writers of the blog world. Especially we mommy (or insert word of choice meaning female parental figure) bloggers. Women bond. We share. We discuss. That's who we are. It's in our DNA. I would venture to guess that most of us need approval in some way or another. Who amongst us doesn't get a little thrill from a sitemeter bump or a new blogroll mention?
And this is why I love the monthly Perfect Post award. It gives me a chance to pay the kindness forward by calling your attention to writers with audiences disproportionate to the size of their talent.
This month I was torn between two Perfect Posts. And so Lucinda and MamaK, the originators of this wonderful honor, have allowed me to nominate both of them.
First I'd like to introduce you to the lovely and prolific Siobhan Connally (aka ToyFoto) if you are not yet acquainted. Her essay, The Other Mommy has stayed with me since I read it several weeks ago. Inspired by the feminism discussions of the past month, Siobhan offers a refreshing perspective with this wonderful, almost supernatural story of how her children's caretaker came into their lives. Besides, is that like the coolest name ever? Siobhan? Don't you totally want to meet someone named Siobhan? It's not even pronounced Sy-oh-ban, which makes it all the more intriguing.
Secondly, if you haven't blogmarked 8 Hours, you're missing out. Binky is one of the first bloggers I discovered on my first day at it, and she has yet to disappoint. Lifestyles of the Penniless and Overlooked is as good as any Augusten Burroughs memoir, with lines like It's a sad state of affairs when my husband and I are the rock that keeps an entire neighborhood from blowing away in a gust of crazy. Every comment I seem to write to her these days is some variation of "More! More!" so I invite you to say something better. Frankly, I think she's getting a little sick of the repetition.
Go. Enjoy. Be nice. You know you want to.
Edited to add: Okay, so my dad constantly reminds me that what goes around comes around. But I always assumed that the coming around part took some time. You know, for the universe to process the reward system or whatnot. I stand corrected. WordGirl, another wonderful writer in her own right, has nominated one of my posts for A Perfect Post. Who knew? Prizes for everyone!
If you've already read it (or even if you haven't), go visit WordGirl instead. She's smart, she's funny, and she looks like Candice Bergen. Jealous much? Yes, I am.