Blogging, and proud!

I wasn’t going to write a post here today – it wasn’t on “the schedule”. Instead, whilst folding the laundry, I resolved to jack in my other blog, where I am serialising a novel I haven’t written yet, but instead found myself adding just one more chapter to “The Curious Metamorphosis of Edna Fossell”. And so, she lives on – for now. I’ve started her, so I guess I’ll have to finish her off.
In truth, my time would have been better spent on other things.

But this evening, I couldn’t fail to be alerted to the furore concerning an article in The Daily Mail, where a journalist has written a lengthy piece, condemning mummy bloggers, and likening them to the slatternly hags of Gin Alley, circa 1751.
OK, the word “blog” sends many people running for the hills. Blogs give people like myself a chance to diarise an important phase in their life, or to spread a message, or simply to share stories, and so, by their nature, blogs can be somewhat self-important. I’m aware of that. But, given the massive following that many of these clever writers have (because all the successful ones are very skilled with words), there’s clearly a need for such forums.
I am a big fan of Peter and Jane. The eloquence that the writer has is astounding, and that, combined with brilliant topical anecdotes and valid references to current affairs makes her blog not only clever but also informative. The fact that she swears simply adds a further element – humour, to the mix. And as a result, this lady is one of the many bloggers that are now receiving book deals for their obvious literary talents.

My blog is small. I have a few valiant subscribers. Let’s face it, building sites aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Mine is a kind of mummy blog, but without the common ground that many others can relate to: not all mums live in sheds.
And I don’t tend to swear in my posts. I use asterisks, exclamation marks and hyphens. Not because I don’t like swearing. In fact, I love it. My neighbours can testify to that. But I just am too scared to actually write the word “fuck” when I know Uncle Len might be reading this. Plus, I’m a bit of a prude, to my shame.

The most successful mummy bloggers out there are swearing – so what? Good on them. And they like to drink alcohol. Hoorah! Because it makes the rest of us feel more normal if we occasionally or otherwise imbibe in a gallon of plonk to de-stress after one or all of our sprogs had just crapped in the garden, or broken the head off the greek goddess ornament you’ve cherished from a distance for years.

And if we don’t, then that’s fine, too.

The point is that everyone has coping strategies. Blogging is just one. Reading a blog is another. Having a gin or two, or going out on the raz – they’re all a means with which to recalibrate. And I’m sorry – everyone needs to recalibrate sometimes. When you don’t, that’s when the problems start.

I feel a little like an imposter to even liken myself to the “successful bloggers” out there. I have just fifteen faithful subscribers (and I love every one). But this evening, I do feel a part of something – a “village”, a community, a support network. Swearing and all. I have finally allowed myself to accept that I am a blogger, whether I like the word or not.
Blogging is my recalibration. And it’s also a jolly funny diary for when my beloved children, who are my world, (and I think you’ll find that all mummy bloggers ADORE their offspring) are older. What a memento they shall have!

The other day, I felt that I needed to experiment with swearing, in a nod to the success that the Superbloggers have achieved. It’s such a useful tool in expressing one’s emotions. So, I set up a facebook pseudonym and posted my effort vicariously – a poem, entitled “An Ode to Yoghurt”. Suffice to say, it sank like a brick. Poetry isn’t my forte anyway, and swearing may be fine in my spoken voice, but when I write it down, I feel like a bit of a copycat. But for your entertainment, I shall pop it below. Because, from here on in, I’m embracing the mantra of the bloggers’village: I’m sharing and I AM PROUD!

An Ode to Yoghurt by Mummy Seymour
How the fuck does yoghurt find its way onto my kids?
I swear that stuff’s magetic and it bursts right out the lid
Onto my child’s sweatshirt – then he wipes it with his sleeve
And hence the whole damn frickin’ lot’s engrained within the weave.
On Monday morn’, come nine a.m., we turn up at the school
And glancing down at Darling Son, I notice that he’s drooled.
Great big stains of dairy slop are crusted on his face
And to my shame I realise it’s not limited to that place.
It’s even on his trousers – yep! Right by the crotch.
How’s it there? And then I see – it’s also on his watch.
WTF? I ask myself as I spit onto my hand
And scrub the little wotsit’s chops until his cheeks look tanned.
But that’s not it – oh dear me, no! His sister’s covered, too.
Her cardigan is dotted with a smattering of goo.
Toothpaste? Bird poo? Dairylea? A globule of fresh snot?
I bet it’s just that bastard stuff that comes out of a pot.

And if you don’t like it, Anna May Mangan, don’t fucking read it.
(I know! I know! There’s no chance. But it felt good to type it. Even if I am squirming at my own crazy, bold rudeness.) 😉