In essence I started to blog because I felt alone. In my head.
I believed – firmly – that I was the only person who thought like I did.
I believed I was the only person who was scared shitless of parenthood.
I believed I was the only parent fucking up on a regular (interpret as almost daily) basis.
All the moms I saw looked so happy, clean, shiny and sane.
They seemed to be able to make endless inane conversation, where I spluttered and usually said something that referred to a penis, vagina or squirrel …. and sometimes all three in one sentence.
People started to move away from me like they have just noticed someone on the other side of the room who is waving to them, and they need to go.
The group re-forms somewhere else in the room, whilst I am standing there wondering how the fuck I can fuck up so much. Socially.
I recall at one of our couple therapy sessions I voiced my inability and hate (intense dislike — I might have said something like I fucking hate) of how I felt about the mommy clicks (is it clicks or cliques???) at school – and the worse mommy clicks at birthday parties.
How difficult it was for me to try to conform to these groups. How absolutely humiliated I felt as I grovelled to try to get some attention from all the “in moms.” It was like primary school again, but with more money and my hair in a slightly better state.
Dropping and collecting Connor at school was torture. I knew I had to make conversation with the “in mommies” but I was so hideously bad at it. I usually managed to alienate them in sets of three. These women never travel alone, they have a possé/gang/homies with them at all the time.
I detested going to children’s birthday parties.
It meant about three hours of sitting and talking about shit. Not shitting on people during sex. Or accidentally farting a wet one, when you thought it was going to be a sneaky silent one.
But actual shit. Their children’s shit.
I am creative, in fact sometimes I think I have super hero powers in being a creative thinker, but I cannot chat about “shit” —– and why would I want to.
To add to the overall problem, these parties were usually sober affairs. The moms sat around talking about the colour of shit and drank tea, whilst the three dads who came along stood around the braai (sans fire) drank beer and talked about “I have no idea.”
Kennith refused to go to kids parties.
He figured as I had a vagina and a uterus, I should just suck it up and go along – there was no way he was going. He was born with a penis and some testosterone, which gave him the right to say “fuck it, I don’t do kids parties — but you can go…”
Vaginas and uteruses are truly miraculous devices. How do they allow me to be more socially comfortable than him in a room full of vapid mothers talking about their off spring. How?
Maybe my uterus does not work right, because being trapped in a room with moms is not dissimilar from being trapped in a room with blood sucking leeches.
These mom conversations are usually made of moms waiting for the speaker to take a breath so they can jump in with their story about their Johnny and/or Hannah and how/she clever he/she was by putting a turd right inside his/her potty.
Fuck me. No really. Fuck me. Much better idea than having to listen to stories about shit.
The only time someone’s shit is a good story is if on your date, your date got diarrhea and pooped in their pants. Well that is my best story, but I will leave it for another day.
I sat in one of our countless couple counselling sessions explaining – whilst on the verge of tears – that I experienced this social trauma and made to feel so much less than I was, EVERY TIME I collected my child from school.
Kids parties were more painful than spilling hot wax on my nether regions, and having the hair pulled out via the root. I would happily endure a 5 hour wax session than 3o minutes of this Dante’s circle of hell Mommy shit.
Kennith was visibly shocked. He could not understand how I hated it all so much – clearly he had not been listening to me for the last 5 – 7 years.
I was shocked that he was shocked. I was shocked that he thought I enjoyed this “mommy obligatory” shit. I was genuinely jealous that I did not live in his head where it was all sunshine and fucking rainbows and he did not have to deal with these mommy-gangs.
Anyway the point of this post is that I have felt and allowed myself for the greater part of my existence to feel a bit “a part” and “a bit not quite fitting in.”
The joy of blogging was realising that I was not alone in my craziness.
The last post I wrote and the comments reminded me again how many people out there have a strange off center way of looking at life.
It made me so very very happy.
I am so grateful for everyone who could look past the thigh length penis and point out the picture of the holy, the suspicious tissue, the strange pillow case and then have a chat about those things.
Where – where – where the hell were you when I was going through the hell of mom-and-baby groups and moms-only-birthday parties??
You and I should be in the corner with wine. Where the fuck were you???Either way I am thrilled you are here now. High five to all who have decided fuck it and give mommy-gangs a justified “fuck you…”