But I am relatable. (Shut up, spell check. It’s a word, dammit.)
I’m overworked. Stretched in more ways than I ever dreamed imaginable.
I? Come last on my to-do list because Motherhood comes first. And that, my friends, includes the dishes and the laundry and the dusting and the mopping and the schlepping around of the Mother of All Diaper Bags because I must at all costs be prepared for The Unknown. Even if we are just going to Walgreens for vitamins and OJ.
It means cooking dinner while packing The Husband’s cooler for work while chasing the damned puppy out of the kitchen while saying “uhuh” and “okay, baby” in response to questions and stories you aren’t really paying attention to while promising to make it up to her later with some one on one time. Her turf. Her rules. This means I go by Mama Prince and have to wake my sleeping Princess with True Love’s First Kiss. Then we giggle and color and I love that she doesn’t give a flying shit about staying in the lines.
It means I showered today at 4 p.m. and put a brand new pair of pajamas on (read: yoga pants and an old T-shirt) and never bothered with a bra because who really gives a damn when I knew I wasn’t leaving the house?
Nick Jr. is king in my house. If she is awake and in the room, nothing with commercials, sex, violence, swearing (shut up, I save it for the blog) is allowed. Which means that The Husband and I can recite entire episodes of The Backyardigans and know when The Fresh Beat Band has come out with a new song before we know that that something exciting has happened in the Wonderful World of Adults.
What doesn’t it mean for me?
Motherood (and my reality) doesn’t include nannies or television interviews because of what I do or who I am married to. It doesn’t mean record deals or millions of fans across the globe who give a shit about who I am or what Target brand I wore while teaching Buttercup to ride her new new wheeler on training wheels. There are no tabloid covers, no paparazzi hiding out in my garbage cans. No plastic surgeons, no drivers, no live in help of any kind.
Which brings me back to the (slowly shrinking) muffin top I’m still sporting because My Un-Famous Reality doesn’t always allow me the time to attend to, well, me. Not all the time, anyway.
I know. I know…Other Moms do it. I get that. But I’m still trying to figure it all out. My daughter will be four in June and I’m still trying to figure myself out, for crying out loud.
That’s my story. That’s who I am.
Look in a mirror. If you see a variation of my reflection, you are my target audience. You are who I want to connect with.You are the reason I wrote my book.
I’ve been querying, trying to get an agent. Not long enough to start crying, but definitely long enough to have received feedback that’s making me wonder why I didn’t just lie about my reality and call it fiction, because apparently that’s where it’s at (and yes, I am over-simplifying here) if you aren’t already famous. It’s called a platform, and they are required for getting a non-fiction book on the book shelves.
That’s the part that brings me back to the Me Not Being Famous Thing but still having written a book that seems to require me to be famous for you to ever see it. Agents are telling me they like the project but momoirs are tough to sell. That Moms just won’t buy a book buy a Nobody from Nowhere when they can buy a book by Celebrity Mom from Hollywood.
I get it. Publishing is a business. It’s about the bottom line. But I don’t get how an experience as universal and unifying as motherhood is limited to the Rich and Famous. I want to relate when I read.
I want to see myself and my struggle in those pages.
What about you?