Here’s what we’re talking about at The Mommy Revolution:

 Carla: It seems like every article I read about motherhood focuses on this elusive idea of “balance.” I’m all for it, if only someone could step into my life and show me what exactly it might look like.

I don’t think my life is any more complicated than anyone else’s. In some ways, it’s less complicated than the lives of many women I know. I work from home, so that eliminates a whole batch of stressors like daily childcare and commuting and what to do when someone gets sick and having to look presentable by 8 in the morning. I have a husband, so that obviously helps A LOT. I have all kinds of good and wonderful things in my life that make my days far easier than those of 98% of the world’s population. 

And yet.

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This is hard for me to write, in a way, because I SO love the movie Mr. Mom. I saw it when I was probably 10 or something with my grandmother, who laughed and laughed the whole time. Since my dear hard-working, hard-knock-life-sort-of-life Swedish grandmother NEVER laughed, you can see why I might love this movie. Plus, I love their house. Plus, it kicked off me wanting to work in advertising (which I did for a stint) and wear big-bowed blouses (never did. I think I wrote about this in an earlier post). Plus, it was funny.

That said, I hate “Mr. Moms” or to be more precise, I really hate the TERM “Mr. Mom.” It totally p—-es me off. Excuse my hyphens. I hate it because it implies all sorts of idiotic things:

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So, again, it seems I’ve been a bit neglectful of my own blog. This doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. My friend Carla Barnhill and I finally started up a blog—something we’ve been talking about doing for years! So you can check out some stuff we’ve been writing about over at The Mommy Revolution.

But I’ll be back to write about moms and their identities soon and very soon.

So tomorrow my oldest son starts first grade. I’m a real mom now. I just packed his lunch, and now I’m about to set my alarm so we can all get up in time to get him to his bus stop, just down the block. I just wrote another check, signed another form, folded them together, and stuck them neatly into his backpack next to his indoor-only gym shoes—which is now in the front hallway right next to one of two pair of Crocs (you never know which one he’ll prefer).  

That little foyer is now organization central. He is ready, I am ready, yet I can guarantee you, I’ll will not be this on top of things and organized for the poor guy again until this time next year. By Tuesday, I’ll be scrambling his lunch at the last minute, yelling at him to look AGAIN next to his bed for his shoes, and wondering where I put that thing I was supposed to sign.

But for now, tonight, I’m feeling like a great mom, who’s got an unbelievably great boy (yes, I know: and a girl and another boy, but we’re not talking about them right now. They don’t get the sap treatment until they go away for nearly eight hours a day!).

Happy First Day of School!

So I’ve been thinking about “voice” in the literary sense for a talk I’m giving in October to a bunch of leaders on writing (wow. THAT was clunky!).

And it just dawned on me that one of the things that frustrates me as a mom is not only that we tend to lose ourselves amidst the chaos of our lives, but often our voices too. I mean, I’ve GAINED the kind of voice I never wanted to have (that “oh my gosh are the windows open? Can the neighbors hear me yelling?” voice), but in many ways, the ability to be heard—in the way I want to be—gets lost. Not totally. But a bit.

But then I realized that motherhood revved up my voice in my writing. I mean, I write a ton more now than I ever did before. So I’ve got that going for me.

I’m wondering what your thoughts are. Has motherhood helped you find your voice or lose it?

So after nearly a month of not posting anything here—because I’ve been squeezing every moment out of my days trying to make revisions to my book,  keep on top of my regular editing gig, line up some speaking things, help plan a Moms Night Out at my church, put at least some dishes in the dishwasher and some clothes in the washer, and of course pay some mind to my lovey, lovey kids—I figured I ought to post something new.

But it’s so hot out; I’m so tired; and I gotta tell you, I got nothing. So this is just an update for updates’ sake.

I’ll try to post something more creative or insightful or amusing later. But right now—if it doesn’t start raining that is—I really just want to ride bikes with my fam. 

Okay, so I got memed for the first time (more on this in a minute). Since I’m busy and in a blaming mood, we get to blame Al Hsu of InterVarsity Press editorial and book-writing-fool fame for tagging me and taking me away from actual work I need to do and instead addressing this. Actually it’s good (all things work for the good, you know….), because I haven’t updated my poor, neglected blog in a couple weeks anyway. So, in reality, thank you, Al.

So here are the rules (they had numbers, but I’m replacing them with my bug bullets for reasons that should be obvious) for the meme, according to Mr. Hsu and the woman who memed him:

• Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
• Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
• Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
• Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Everything in my life seems random and weird, but here are 7 for you: 

1. This is my first meme, and I spent all day yesterday (when I was tagged) panicking about what I would write. I had to go to Wikipedia because I didn’t even know what a meme was. I thought it was just because I’m a work-at-home, freelancing writer mom sort of out of the loop alone here in my “corner” office that I didn’t know this hip e-term. Turns out it’s been around long enough that I should’ve known what it was. I mean, I guessed pretty correctly because of the nature of the beast of what was happening and that it looks a lot like mimeograph and mime and I’m smart enough to know about words that are related, but still. I feel dumb for not knowing. Which leads to number two.

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So today I went to Target and the grocery store and still forgot to buy badly needed paper towels. Now all I can think about is that stupid New Yorker article from a couple of years back on the mommy brain—and how it’s a real thing, about how moms brains do become smaller or something and actually more forgetful.

But the brain and the memory all comes back–and regardless, we can still handle more than the man brain on its best day—and this forgetfulness apparently serves some important purpose. Of course, I can’t remember what that is.

After taking way too many days crafting a “speaker-introduction letter” to pimp myself out for speaking gigs, I’ve spent the afternoon sending out these letters to various churches and MOPS groups and the like.

This does NOT come naturally to me. There is, after all, a reason why I’m a writer and not, say, a concert promoter or even a sales person. Selling is not my strong suit, and selling myself fits me even worse (does this analogy line up?).

But since this self-promotion is part of the writing life (at least if you want to succeed at all), I forced myself out of my shy box and into this “here I am!” realm. Everything’s been going fine—I’d gotten into a decent groove—and then I got an email that made me want to crawl back in my little safe box.

The PASTOR of one of the churches I had contacted emailed me back saying never to “solicit” her church again. This sort of thing seriously makes me want to cry. I’m not good at being scolded, and her email sent me into moments of trying to figure out how I might have offended, what I did wrong (I’m only doing what my own MOPS director told me to do….), and how I could make it right.

So now, as I fear checking my in-box for more angry emails from church secretaries, women’s ministry leaders, and pastors alike, and as I second-guess my decision to pimp myself in the first place, I wonder, what moments in your life have you put yourself out there, uneasily, and faced resistance. What did you do?

Oh, and if you’re looking for an obviously unsure and self-depricating speaker (who’s still somehow quite at-ease in front of large groups of strangers), I’m your girl!

Happy Memorial Day!

I grew up in a musical-theater-loving family. Not that any of us were in musicals, mind you, but we went to these shows regularly, watched the movie-versions religiously, and sang along to show tunes in the car and at home. For the most part, a great way to grow up. Except for one part, well, one scene, really.  

My mom’s had a particular love for the 1968 movie version of Oliver! (yes, Mom, sometimes I DO write about you!). Overall, I shared her love—with the exception of one small thing: Oliver himself. In an otherwise well-cast movie, the kid playing the title role drove me nuts. Never more than in the scene where he sits in the undertaker’s basement, propped up on a pile of hay (if I remember correctly), when he looks out the window longingly and sings, “Where Is Love?” in what I always considered to be the most annoying voice ever.

From the time I was little until not too long ago, I’d do mock renditions of this scene and my mom would click her tongue, roll her eyes, and say, “I don’t know what your problem with that sweet song and that sweet boy is.” And I’d continue on with my mocking.

So imagine my surprise when last night, when I took my kids to see a local production of Oliver!, I choked up during that very scene, with that very song. Maybe it was because this Oliver was more yelling than singing and therefore seemed more desperate. But more likely it was because as I sat watching the scene this time—with one kid on my lap and the other next to me (with yet another at home)—my “momness” kicked it.

This momness is the thing that makes me realize how much being a mom and raising my awesome kids has changed me—in this case, how much softer I’ve become, how much more open my eyes are. Because now, I understand why my mom loves that scene so much. Who cares how annoying that boy is! The boy is singing about looking for love, specifically, the love of his mother, something he’s never known.

So while before kids I could somehow mock the (actor) orphan’s voice, now that I’m a mom, I can’t. Because no matter how gauling the voice, it’s a song that still too many kids are singing and it’s not funny.

While many days as a mom my kids drive me nuts and I feel totally frustrated by my role as mom, Oliver’s pained song is a good reminder of the importance of what we do, what we offer our kids.