I know that I am apt to lose some readers when I announce this but I feel in the name of pure disclosure on my end, I should probably ‘fess up. *deep breath* Here goes:
While I mocked the #nikonhatesbabies thing on twitter with my own variation #auntbeckyhatesbabies, I don’t actually hate babies. (if you are blissfully unaware of what I speak, I’ll give you the rundown in a comment. It’s too stupid to put in a real post).
But wait, there’s more!
My given name is NOT Aunt Becky: it’s Rebecca, and I’m not really an aunt. Well, technically I am, but only to The Internet, which is probably good for my charge card, because while I do adore The Internet, I do not have urges to buy It frilly hats.
And I should warn you that if you try to call me “Rebecca,” I will probably freeze and give you saucer eyes, because the only person who has ever called me that was my mother. And only when I maybe stuck the fetal pig I was dissecting in college (FOR CLASS, YOU PERVERTS) into the Meat Keeper of our refrigerator for safe keeping.
I’m not much of a drinker. Sure, I’m known to imbibe now and again, and I’m sure that I’ll lose my Hardcore Audience when I admit that I’m shamefully responsible about it. Take a breath, Internet, while I wrap my hammy arms around you. I know, I know, I’m sorry I lied to you for all these years.
Someone who calls themselves Aunt Becky and writes a blog called Mommy Wants Vodka has deceived you for years. I’m sorry.
*bursts into song*
“Forgiveneeeessss, forgiveness, EVEN if, EVEN if…”
Well, you know how that song goes. And if you don’t, be grateful. Be very, very grateful.
While my confessions are true, being tongue-in-cheek is more fun, so on I will go being Aunt Decepticon, only confessing to those bored enough to read the about me or things you never needed to know page on my sidebar.
I pigeonholed myself there and I’m not sorry, why should I be?
This brings me to the point of my post in a totally awkward segue that should go on record as being The Worse Segue Ever.
When I first started Mommy Wants Vodka, I was very anxious to separate myself from the Mommy Bloggers out there. I didn’t want to define myself entirely by my children, my husband, my marital status, my hair color, my shoe size, my IQ, ability to blow spit bubbles, my preference to drive manual transmission sports cars, my dislike of mini-vans and high top shoes, the type of crust I prefer for my pizza or my totally awkward segues.
They’re all pieces of who I am, but none of those can possibly describe precisely who I am in and of themselves. So, I was NOT going to be A Mommy Blogger, dammit! I was going to be MYSELF! I am a mother, yes, and I blog yes, but why limit myself?
According to some hippie I once knew, when you define something, you LIMIT it. I’m pretty certain he was trying to justify sticking his penis into someone other than his devoted girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure his logic sucked, but it’s always something I’ve sort of said in jest.
Because why should anyone care if they’ve been pigeonholed into Mommy Blogger Status? Why is that something so dirty now?
That’s the New Thing, I guess, is raging against this stereotype, and while I can see not caring to be associated with the Palmolive Ad Blogs or the Let Me Tell You How My Kids Rule Blogs, or the ever popular This Is Obviously A PR Statement Blog Sponsored By (insert big corporate sponsor here), I don’t see why it fucking matters anymore.
For as long as I write here, on Mommy Wants Vodka, I will get angrily written articles that refer people here to shrilly scold me for getting stinking drunk while watching my children and maybe feeding the baby a bottle of whiskey to shut her up. Even though I don’t and I haven’t (don’t tempt me), I’ll never escape that.
And I’ll never escape being called a Mommy Blogger.
So I’m going to go out on a limb here and say so.fucking.what?
Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everybody’s got one) and if someone wants to define me by the former occupants of my uterus? My blessed crotch parasites? Go ahead.
What I write and who I am stands on it’s own.
If it’s easier for some nameless PR firm or group of Anti-Mommy Bloggers to allow this to define those of us with children so.fucking.what? It’s no dirtier a term than “Breeder” or “Wife” and if it conjures up an image of someone who you think I should be, well, let me show you who I really am. Maybe our perceptions will align, maybe they won’t, maybe 50 million African Pygmy Hedgehogs don’t give a shit.
No stereotype is 100% accurate, no one fits any mold completely and anyone who is incensed by people trying to lump them into a category should really take a look at why it matters to them. People get me wrong ALL THE TIME and I don’t give a flying shit about it. Why does it matter here?
Are all frat boys beer guzzling moron assbags? Does everyone born between the years 1964-1974 feel apathetic and wear flannel while drinking coffee in a grungy coffee house? Do all teenagers suck to be around? For the love of GOD, are all red velvet cakes moist?
The answer, of course, to all the above questions is a resounding “no.”
Just like not all mommy-bloggers are alike. How could we be? We’re all different people, not to get all special-raindrop on your asses or anything, but it’s true.
And why did I, myself, once care if I was called one? I was trying to define myself OUTSIDE of my children: I am a suburban mother who stays at home with her kids who swears, has tattoos, occasionally drinks, and doesn’t poo rainbows or sunshine. I was trying to assert to the world that hey, y’all, I am more than the sum of my parts. And now? 2 years later? I know this without having to cram that down your throat.
What I write and who I am can stand on it’s own. And if you want to judge me for who you think I am? Go for it.
Just don’t try accuse me of being A Blonde. Because I tried it once and well, there’s a reason we dark-skinned girls shouldn’t try to go platinum. That reason? The color orange.
What do you think, Internet? Not about brunettes trying to be blonde, of course, but about being pigeonholed. Is it really something to be all that upset over or should we just try and remember that not everything is Very Serious, Indeed?