You don’t have to look hard to find us, because we have boldly staked claims in our corner of the internet. We are stay-at-home moms who write about the life-changing task of motherhood.
We all have something to say and a sympathetic audience, so why not say it? Mothering can consume us, and it’s such a relief to reach out and connect with others in similar shoes. Ah, what comfort—we are not alone. And if we are able to help someone weather a rough patch or solve a problem with our words, so much the better.
But writing about motherhood contains an internal and inescapable irony. I see it in my own words about campfire memories and wildflower bouquets, when I write about spending time with my family, about seeing my children before they are grown and gone.
How did I write those words? I sat down at the computer and said “just wait, sweetie” and pecked at the keyboard and served hot dogs for supper.
To write about motherhood I must abandon the duties of which I write. I ignore the sticky floor and the stickier kitchen counter so I can pen missives about having proper priorities. I put off cleaning the outgrown clothes out of drawers so I can write about that day the snake crawled under my refrigerator.
This abandonment is not exclusive to writing: Sewing, scrapbooking, and cake decorating can demand equal commitment and time. But writing trips me up the most.
I wrestle with this contradiction, my responsibilities on one hand, the words on the other, and me caught in the middle. Or is it my children caught in the middle?
I hope not. I pray not.
Because that would be the greatest irony: to neglect my children so that I can write about motherhood.