OleopteneA blog for Mara Collins

Another thing going on is that
I’ve been reading a few mommy memoirs, which I’m grateful to read — it’s always
reassuring to know that you’re not the only person feeling the things you’re
feeling and experiencing what you’re experiencing, and these things are often
written with just a bit of humor, which is, for me, an essential tool in dealing
with the overwhelming. And it’s great thinking of these women making careers of
writing while caring for their young children. A friend who writes had
expressed reservations about even attempting another parenting memoir because it
has been done so many times, but I think every perspective has something unique
to it, and the more voices singing of the joy, the frustration, and the
exhaustion, the humor and the anguish, and the tenderness and the tedium, well
the better the chance that there will be greater understanding of what this
motherhood business is about, and perhaps that understanding will turn into some
sort of respect which is more than just lip
service.

Except… a small part of me
is put off in some way by something about some of these books, and I feel
desperately guilty saying so, because this whole industry of bluestocking,
funny, original, talented mommies writing for others the same — I could tap
into it, I’m sure, and it does keep me sane some days. It’s partly that I am
not sure that the non-mommies would pick any of this to read, and that’s ok, we
all have our own taste. But I know that when we were looking to buy our first
home, I wanted to read about houses and think about houses and talk about
houses. The home and garden channel on cable was like porn, and I still have a
few dog-eared home design magazines. And then we bought a house and I promptly
lost interest. Each time I was pregnant, birth stories were the ultimate
bonding experience, and the television shows tracking pregnant women… again,
like porn or something.

I just have
this sense that this very important aspect of who I am is a little temporary.
Now I have elementary school mother friends and we share certain interests,
talking about strategies for helping our elementary school aged kids, and what’s
going on at the school, and I have preschool mom friends and we bond in a
different way, commiserating or laughing over the very weird things preschoolers
are capable of, and I have my baby mom friends and another set of bonds, based
much on the intensity of life with an infant, the demands, the uncertainty as we
forge relationships with these shiny new small people. I am so grateful for all
of these friends and the support we get and give each other. But you might look
at my life and think I was only capable of being friends with someone who was
just like me.

I registered early on
that good writing taps into a universal experience — that any reader can
connect with, and a particular perspective — that the writer’s unique capturing
renders it fresh and interesting. And I don’t write with a lot of thought to
who will be reading what I write or even try to worry more than I can help it
about whether it is good writing or not. I do wrestle still with why I write –
morning pages, as the ultimate indulgence in self-absorption and paying
attention to the inside of my own head, seem to make all of the listening and
paying attention to my children the rest of the day a little easier. I don’t
think that level of endless fascination with hearing my own voice makes for good
reading. But there are writers who could describe making a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich in a way that would keep me turning pages, and certainly the
drama of the struggle in turning into a person who can lead the small people in
her care into some of the better things about being human could be worth
exploring, so I’ll keep trying.