Those Homemaking Girls and My Protest
“What is she going to post about next?” you wonder. “She has no central theme here, but I’m still reading.”
Well, I’m going to point you here; it could be this reason. Read and then come back.
I make it no secret that I’m Mormon, just like I make it no secret that I’m a mother or a housewife. But I hope you don’t think of this as a mommy blog. This is my space to be smart and eloquent, to exercise a mind usually preoccupied with the healthy rearing of a child, of chores and meals and crossing things off a task list. And if you do think this, I’d like, with great indignation, to point out that I have never posted step-by-step, photo instructions on how to DIY craft-y anything. And I’ve posted no more than three pictures of Toby here and none of Just’In.
Don’t get me wrong, I do love my home and my boys. And I have goals of baking handmade bread every week and making my own Halloween costumes. I have laughed along with Seriously So Blessed, and I dream about painting my own home bright colors. But I also like to think that I’m smarter than the mundane things I do every day.
If you’ve got an office job, and you like it, would you blog about your co-workers and your stapler and your desktop wallpaper and your dream of plastering your cubicle with posters? Dismiss the possibility of getting in trouble for doing so; would you plaster your everyday life on a blog? I don’t. I put bits and pieces here.
The only difference between me and these Mormon Mommy girls is what we choose to publish. The blog is an art form that glamourizes our lives and omits the stuff we think is boring. Those girls choose to show what they made, what they do. You can see what I choose, and it’s not cupcakes and flower arranging.
Instead, I’ll tell you about Monday: Toby relishing his time in the glorious Outside, plodding around the sidewalks of our apartment complex after I’ve gathered the mail, alert as a wiggling puppy. He sees the ramp that leads into asphalt and looks sideways at me.
My hands are full of mail (padded envelope, magazine, bills) and I foresee that I’ll need to use both of them soon. I also see that I’m wearing no pockets that day. I stuff the mail down the back of my elastic-waisted sweatpants and hope it doesn’t fall as I scoop an adventurous toddler from mid-dash. Then I carry Toby to a safer point on the sidewalk, aim small feet correctly, and let go, like a claw arm into a bin.
Or I’ll tell you about Wednesday. Later. Meet me back here, say, Sunday? I’ll tell you how I ended up having someone call 911 for me. Say what? You’re already hooked? Great; my Mormon Mommy disguise works after all.