As a mother and a writer I often resent the implications that I somehow must limit my writings and thoughts to motherhood – as if I have no more valid experiences that are worthy to mention. Despite the explosion of mom lit that has occurred over these past few years (or maybe I just notice it more now that I am a mother) I am not sure that I really need to read about a mother’s sleepless nights or the struggles she may have at the dinner table. I don’t want to limit my writing to these subjects.
Yet it seems there are many pulls towards keeping some sort of mommy journal that excessively details the lives of my children. And while I don’t want to forget many moments of their lives (although there are already so many that are long gone) I also don’t believe in obsessively documenting every poopy diaper or runny nose in order to share these momentous occurences with others.
While many mommy essayists have a beautiful way of tying their personal experience into a larger, more prosaic picture of child rearing or human behavior – many writers instead seem to focus on whining about how difficulty and horribly un-stimulating motherhood is – to these I say “what exactly did you expect?”
So, while I do write about my children I want to move beyond, to deeper thoughts and connections, and experiences. I would like to write about the whole me and not only one small fraction of my already fragmented self…