Alas, Mommybloggers

Gather around, kids. I'm going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, Love Bites was dating a guy she met at church. In a very unchurchy way, however, Love Bites and her beau were fornicating the shit out of each other. One day, Love Bites started feeling nauseated and sick. She went to the grocery story, and on a whim, purchased a pregnancy test. Love Bites took the little stick into her bathroom, where she peed right onto it. As she watched, a miraculous blue line appeared on the stick. "Honey," she said. "I think I'm knocked up."

And that, kids, is how Love Bites got married. Top that one for romance.

So, today's blogger is trying to get knocked up. I don't know if that's the point of her blog, (or what the point actually is, in spite of reading about 30 posts), but at least three of the most recent ten posts talk about the pregnancy endeavor. Having spent most of 30 years trying to avoid pregnancy, and failing miserably on 3 occasions, it's hard for me to relate. The idea that people intentionally get pregnant baffles me. Accidental, I can understand. Accidental is interesting. For that matter, fornication is interesting to me. Planned pregnancies? Zzzzzzz.

So, count that as strike one in the difficulties with relating to today's blogger.

Strike two is this: PLEASE DO NOT REFER TO YOURSELF ONLY AS SOMEONE'S MOMMY WHEN YOU BLOG, aka: "Funny Bunny Mama." Didn't you have an identity before you enlisted your uterus for this heavy duty mommy work? Did that person just disappear when your vagina activated? Did your brain, your soul, your intellect, your personhood DIE when your child was born? This is not healthy behavior. Please stop thinking about yourself only in these terms. And, if you don't think of yourself only in these terms, then purge this behavior from your blog. It's NOT GOOD. It leads to NOT GOOD THINGS. I've been down that NOT GOOD road, my chilluns, and it won't end well. Find your own damn name. Find your own damn voice.

Strike three: "Our Little Funny Bunny." I think I threw up a little bit.

Strike four: THIS SHIT. God I hate blogtests, memes, blogxchanges, blog promotions, blog cross pollination, and other contrived crap like that. Please, for the love of all that is semi-sacred, knock it the fuck off.

This blog is cute. It has a cute design. The colors are cute, and it's neat and tidy. The kid in the header image is cute. I can't hate on cute.

Oh, wait. I can. The writing is safe & cute. It turns over no new stones. It needs to be edited, heavily. It meanders with no point. It takes no risks. It shows us some stuff on the surface, but never the soul beneath. It's pedestrian. It's BORING.

You can sense from the surface that there might be problems, but this blog is all that is nice, and everything that term implies: white picket fences, June Cleaver smiling at Ward and sleeping in separate beds, children with clean lunch boxes, perfectly starched little dresses. Ain't nothing wrong with nice.

Although, your blog tells me that under the nicey nice, there's some huge problems that you are totally not dealing with.

Mommybloggers, of the world, I have a message for you. And, because I'm lazy, I'm going to borrow, liberally, from something I sent in an e-mail to someone yesterday:

The really insidious thing about mommyblogging is that most people can really only stand so much cute coupled with snark. It's like spending 24 hours on cute overload. Awww, look at the itty bitty chicks, you think. Oh, wait. There are more chicks. And more. They're ADORABLE. And then, 20 minutes later, after looking at ten million fluffy adorable chicks, you want to take a hatchet to them and eat them.

Or at least, I do. I need some heart. Some guts. Some blood, sweat and tears. And most blogs, mommyblogs included, never go there. And, that's a shame.

There is nothing on your blog that sucks me in, or makes me care. This blog could be a mainstay for you, a place to say what you have to say, a place to share your deepest soul. But, mostly, you don't.

It's sweet, it's nice, it's boring as hell.

I want to know WHO YOU ARE. I want to know what moves YOU. I want some fucking backstory that helps me make sense of your current struggles and happiness (and this ain't it). I want an explanation of the quote in your header image. I WANT A FUCKING STORY.

I mean, sure, kids are great. They're the greatest, highest, most wonderful part of my world. But they aren't everything. And, when they're grown and gone (and it will be soon, darlings), I'll just have me. And, who will that person be, if my entire life has been subsumed into adoration of my children? I think it's a question to ask yourself.

I give you a fluffy chick. You're nice.



p.s. PLEASE don't have another baby until you fix your marriage.