Something unsettling came to my attention recently. Something that shouldn’t have surprised me. Something that was like, duh, inevitable.
I’m a mommy blogger.
I had this no-shit epiphany after receiving an email from the communications coordinator at a cookie-cutter corporate preschool chain.
“Would you be interested in publishing my guest posts on early childhood education?” He asked.
I thought about this for a second or two. I’ve always wanted to feature guest posts – namely posts by my husband who seems to have avoided this chore at all costs.
“The articles won’t be promotional pieces for blah-blah schools…”
The offer sounded suspicious.
So I Googled the guy’s name and as expected, I discovered posts all over the mommy blogosphere that were the worst kind of promotional: SEO-friendly online marketing materials disguised as articles, covertly designed to draw traffic to his company’s website.
It was so blatant. Every post I found contained a quote that was according to the president, VP or an administrator at his school.
They were useful posts I suppose, no different than the humdrum stories you read in most parenting magazines. (ie: Creative Ways to Beat the Dog Days of Summer. Get Your Toddler To Eat His Greens. Etc. Etc.)
I wrote the guy back. I told him that while I appreciated his interest, I didn’t think my blog was the right fit for his articles.
“Thanks,” I wrote. “But my blog isn’t exactly politically-correct, kid-friendly or mom-approved, if ya know what I mean.”
What I really wanted to write was: “No, I will not publish your boring advertorials. I’m not that desperate for content and HELLO, I’m not a mommy blogger.”
And that’s when it hit me.
I’m a mommy who blogs. Or, rather, a mommy who used to blog before mommying (combined with working, combined with mental fatigue) kept me from signing onto WordPress.
Although I turned down the guy’s offer to use my dusty corner of the web to further his employer’s agenda, I did come to the conclusion that I need to embrace the new direction my life has taken.
And yes, despite the fact that I have 5 million interests outside of Henry (ie: the late musings of John Steinbeck, triathlons, yoga, pugs, chocolate, the forests of Idaho, magazine journalism, my lifelong dream of competing on Survivor, angsty bisexual singer/songwriters from the nineties, chocolate, guidance from bums, chocolate, running, country music, farmer’s markets, season two of Ally McBeal, season four of Ally McBeal, the adorableness of Craig Ferguson, the adorableness of Stephen Colbert, chocolate, tent camping, four-wheeling, motorcycles, picnics and primitive flip phones.)
Despite these interests and the fact that they compete on a daily basis for my weak attention span, I am and forever will be Henry’s mother. And as long as he continues to occupy most of my time, I’ll have to give in to writing about him most of the time.
This means I’m recanting a statement I once made about motherhood.
“Women have babies and then that’s all they can talk about. When I have a baby, you won’t catch me doing that.”
Yeah, about that: I was childless and oblivious. It’s all we can talk about because we’re knee-deep in BABY. You’re lucky we remember to eat when we come up to breathe.
I promise motherhood hasn’t swallowed my identity entirely. It’s just that it’s turned me into a different version of myself: Heidi 2.0.
If that makes me a mommy blogger, so be it. I intend to wear the title with as much grace and good humor as I can muster.
Nevertheless, I still plan to audition for season 25 of Survivor. Henry could use a little money in his college fund.