The Goddess Rambles

By way of introduction, I’m Summer (this is ironic, as that happens to be my least favorite season of the entire freaking year). I’m- well, I’m many things, honestly. I’m an Austinite (transplanted), I’m a great cook, I’m a swing dancer, I’m a hypocritical grammar nazi, I’m a highly opinionated modern woman… um.. and I’m a wife and mom. Yes ma’am (or sir), you’ve stumbled upon the most maligned creature that liveth upon the Internetz (well, maybe besides terrorist recruiting sites and Twilight fanfic): The Mommy Blog.

Is maligned the right word? Maybe marginalized is a better one. Ridiculed and stigmatized will also do nicely. Stereotyped, too. You know what I’m talkin’ bout, admit it. The second you read the words “Mommy Blog”, you conjured up an image of a nauseating splatter of kid pics, cutesy stories, handmade denim jumpers and sewing tutorials put forth by some poor soul who hadn’t darkened the door of a martini bar… ever. The same poor soul who has a closet chock full of high-waisted jeans, ratty trainers and giveaway t shirts. Or maybe Sketchers, velour track suits and designer diaper bags.

Yeah, I drank that [insert name brand of colorful drink mix here] for a while, too. But now it makes me sad. It makes me sad not because those blogs don’t exist, but that Stay-At-Home-Mommyhood still has such a stigma attached to it. From the Beginning of Recorded History through 50’s, they told us that’s what we had to do. In the 60’s, they told us, “You’re strong and capable and independent! Get an education, find a career, date like men do! Marriage and kids can wait, and that’s if you even want them! Be liberated! Be FREE!” And that was necessary. If it hadn’t happened that way, we’d ALL still be June and Donna. I’m totally not flaming the feminist movement, here (bra burning aside- turns out, I need one). I’m also not suggesting that any woman should be anywhere than exactly where she chooses.

But doesn’t it seem like the plan backfired a little? I had thought, when I was working full time and juggling that with single mommyhood that it was all about choice. Choice is, after all, a word that’s bandied about more than a ping pong ball in a frat house. I realized the second I made the decision to stay home with my kids after marrying my husband that that isn’t really the case. Seems the tables have turned and now the stigma is not with the career woman, it’s with the “50’s throwback”.

I have to admit, shamefully and with not a little self-scolding, that I’ve been living in a state of defensiveness and apology about my chosen career. I’m livid with myself for ever having answered “Oh, you don’t work?” with “No, I stay home with my kids”. GAH! Did I really say that? REALLY?

Next time, I PROMISE you, Dear Reader, that the answer will be, “SCREW you. I work more hours per week than you do in a month and I don’t get paid for it, biznitch!” Not that I’m up on a cross, here. I love what I do. But the concept of Stay-At-Home-Moms (from now on referred to as SAHMs) as Oprah-watching, bon bon nomming, jumper-wearing blank slates has GOT to end.

But even if it doesn’t, the important thing is that I’ve made peace with it (Because, as everyone knows, important = me. Right? Anyone?). And because the words we attach to things really are extremely important, I’ve changed a few of my self-titles.

I am no longer “oh, I’m just a wife and SAHM”. Nay. I am the Goddess of my hearth. I am the Queen of my Domain. I am the provider of good lovinz and boo-boo kisses and tasty things and belly laughs. Of sparkly floors and hot, strong coffee and fresh laundry and board game nights. I am the Gluer of Crafts, the Shopper of School Supplies and the Maker of Beds! I am counselor, crying shoulder, teacher and.. and ME. I have an identity. I had one when I came into this business and I somehow managed to keep it around. And, if you want, I’d like to share it with you, oh Arbitrary and Fickle Gods of the Internetz.

I feel the urge to impose upon you my random thoughts, memories, kid/ hubby anecdotes, potty humor, rants, holiday obsessiveness and maybe even a recipe or two.

And if you don’t like it, I’m hangin’ out, anyway. So, there. Oh, snap.