It always making me feel all warm and fuzzy when people tell me they enjoy reading what I write. Sometimes I’m even caught off guard because I forget that I put my words out there. That there’s someone else at the other end of things, reading those words. A couple of times these compliments have been followed by questions. How can I write so freely about the personal stuff? Why do I write so freely about the personal stuff?
For me, writing is a way of communicating and connecting with people when my mouth lets me down. I’m socially rubbish with people I don’t know well. So it’s pretty common for me to find myself stuck in one of two equally cringe-worthy situations. I’ll either draw a complete mental block, lost for a single word and stand gawping like a rabbit caught in headlights, or I launch into what I call The Nervous Babble. Words just pour out my mouth, in no particular order, making very little sense.
I’m like the energizer bunny, I kid you not, just going on and on with utter drivel, in a desperate bid to fill any potential awkward silence.
In my head I’m frantically willing myself to just shut up – the awkward silence would be a relief now but I just can’t stop. I think that’s why, when most normal humans approach social situations with a confident smile, I greet people with with an apologetic grimace. I feel bad for them, for what they’re about to endure.
After these socially embarrassing interactions, when I’m by myself, I can always come up with something smart or witty I should have said. If retrospective conversations were a thing, I reckon I’d be the life and soul of the party. Writing slows things down for me. It filters out The Nervous Babble and gives me time to find the words that don’t make me look like some deranged nutter.
But this is just a happy bonus for me. This isn’t why I write in this blog.
When I first became a mama, over ten years ago now, if there was a level to precede ‘novice’ I would have claimed it. Every other mother seemed to be holding it together, making parenthood look so easy. Having children is the best, most wonderful thing I’ve ever done. Genuine. I love it. But it’s hard. It’s so bloomin’ hard.
And to feel like you’re the only one finding it hard is enough to bring you to your knees.
I guess what I
wanted needed to hear back then was someone else tell me that they find it hard too. To tell me that they feel like they’re blaggin’ it sometimes. To tell me that they sometimes they’re not sure they’re grown up enough to be a grown up.
We all walk around life trying to keep up with everyone else, when everyone else is trying to do the same. No one wants to be the first to admit that they’re feeling their way in the dark. If someone had admitted it to me ten years ago, I reckon I would have been a much more confident young mum for it.
This is why is write about the personal stuff – so that people might not feel like they’re the only one. I share the stuff that often doesn’t get put out there to maybe break the taboo of not having it together all the time.
It’s ok to not have it all together. Man alive, I even dare to believe that we can have a life whilst we don’t have it all together.
This is me. I consistently burn food. I lose my keys on a daily basis. I look at pretty pictures on Instagram when I should be connecting with my man once the littlies are in bed. I get really weird about the duvet wrinkling up inside the cover and I have a serious issue with cooked fruit.
And even a decade on, I am, for totes, feeling my way in the dark with this parenting lark.
But I can make pretty brilliant Yorkshire Puddings. So it’s all good.
Mrs C x