I tried blogging in the past and got tripped up one way or another. A forgotten password, a forgotten user name, a forgotten password for the e-mail account associated with the blog, the apparent inability to change even the background look of the page. Somewhere out there I have a pathetic little attempt at a blog for which I had lofty ambitions. It was to be a rockin’ site where people who live in condos in my big city could dish about living in condos in my big city. It’s a good idea. I’m gritting my teeth thinking about it.
Is it okay to blog without taking an adult continuing ed class on blogging, or spending hours in the “help” search engine? I have enough on my big-picture to-do list — more on that in a moment — that acquiring blogging technical wizardry isn’t a high priority. So I’ll blog using the free default photo of some groovy-looking neighborhood, at least for a while, and with the word “uncategorized” under my first post, which should have tags, whatever purpose those serve, that say “family” or “motherhood” or “poo.”
Which brings us to Mamawhelming. I once was a messy, married career woman. Now I am a messy, married mama of a toddler who makes me want to change careers, stay home more and have the guy from “Clean Sweep” come over for the weekend and solve the clutter chaos in the big-city condo. Clutter of the mind, of career, of the potentially wonderful back room doing duty as a self-storage dump.
We visited Grandpa and my daughter was thrilled to see a toaster in his kitchen, as it if were a magical item seen only in story books and pretend versions at her child-care center. “Toaster!” she exclaimed. And I realized that she’s never seen an actual toaster in our home. Where is there room for a toaster on our counter? She has never seen an iron or ironing board in our place, either, although we do have a spray wrinkle releaser. That’s the second time I’ve mentioned a spray product in this blog, and no, it’s not some sneaky product placement. Sprays that dewrinkle clothing or eliminate e coli can be quite useful, however.
We do manage to feed, clothe, clean, cuddle and entertain the child, encourage her to read and sing and count and behave nicely, and we bother the pediatrcian’s office with all manner of questions, such as, should we worry that she put her hand in a filthy puddle outside and then put her hand in her mouth before we could stop her? (Short version of answer: No.) We have safety plates on our electrical outlets. I get misty when I think that she and the other little wet-nosed sweet peas who comprise the landscape of her weekdays at child care will one day go their separate ways, that she is growing up, and of course I pray that she does grow up and old!
So yes. I’m a mama. And I’m overwhelmed. Some people blog. This is me, mamawhelming.