Guess what. I don’t give a fuck.

8 03 2010

Four years and almost four months ago I stepped out of the hospital and was unknowingly claimed as member of a cult. A cult with an overwhelming number of members, who walk beside you through your every day. The cult of Mommyhood.

I use the term mommyhood versus motherhood because I don’t believe the two are one and the same. When you have a baby, you become a mother and add motherhood to your resume of life. But more and more women choose to take motherhood to an extreme (and extremely annoying) level,which I call mommyhood.

These are the women who cease to exist as people the moment that squealing, bloody mess of a human is yanked from their tattered loins and placed into their overly eager arms.

If you have ever joined a play group, you know the mommies I’m talking about. Every trace of the person they were before having kids is gone. Every word that comes out of their mouth has to do with their kid(s), and probably one of their “milestones.”

Guess what, mommies. I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t want to hear about how many times baby whatsherface spit up today every time I talk to you. I don’t care how many teeth she has, and it means nothing to me that she sat up way earlier than most babies. Get a life.

Mommies now have a platform with witch to annoy the shit out of address the masses: mommy blogging.

The title of my first blog contained the word ‘mommy’ and I occasionally wrote about the challenges of raising a toddler with learning disabilities and secular parenting. I realize that parents are going to mention their kids and their experiences with parenting.


If I’m reading your blog, I want to know about you. I want to get a feel for your personality and your views on life. I don’t want to look at eleventy billion pictures of the same kids, or read about how sore your nipples are, or how many diapers little Joe Joe went through yesterday.

At least when I stumble upon a 100% mommy blog, I can click the red ‘x’ and get the fuck out of there. Not so easy in person, which is why my stint in a playgroup lasted all of about two meetups before I wanted to shoot myself in the face and decided that complete social isolation would actually be a more enjoyable option.

Call me a bad mother, call me what you will, but my kid is not my life. I can’t think of a more unhealthy, unbalanced approach to life than the “my children are my life” one. I am an individual first. A person. Not a faceless robot programmed to spit out babies, wipes noses and asses and whip out a wallet full of kid pictures ever time another adult stumbles into my 6 foot radius of awareness.

I am a mom and my child is my main responsibility. But I still have my own interests. I still have an adult sense of humor. I still posses intellect that I like to exercise.

And I still say ‘fuck’.

Meh, deal with it.



3 responses

9 03 2010

As the child of a “mommy” (even still, and I’m 25) thank you. It’s one thing for a person to be a baby/child and have mom talk about what little Tommy did in school that day.. it’s another to be in a bar with a of friends and relatives and have mommy *still* living her life vicariously through yours. I love mothers, but I’m not a huge fan of mommies.

Side note; if the intent of mommy-ing your adult children is utter humiliation I think it’s allowed. It’s one of those “I carried you for nine months” pay-back things. Right?

9 03 2010

My mom was as far from a ‘mommy’ as you can possibly get and I am grateful. Sure, I have my own set of issues to turn into therapy bills some day, but….meh. I can’t even image what it will be like for these kids whose faces (and first poops) are plastered all over the internet for all to see when they become teenagers and then adults. Talk about therapy bills!

10 03 2010

I think you are my sister from another mister.

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