Introducing 'The Securely Insecure Mama'

I'm not sure how many "mom" bloggers there are nowadays, but I have a feeling it's some number in the range of "anyone-can-start-a-blog-so-anyone-does-and-what's-the-point-of-me-starting-one-too." (That's a number, right?)

I guess what I'm trying to convey, is that I feel pretty "meh" about my own writing these days. It seems there is always a better writer, a better mom, a more Pinteresty woman, a more physically fit woman, a more do-it-herself woman, a more powerful woman, a more secure woman, a more freakin' woman-woman. I mean, where can I possibly fall into this? And, other than me feeling a warped need to vent my own overwhelmingly intense feelings and indiscretions, who on Earth needs to hear them?

But, here's the thing; there are a few things I rock at, and the top one is, I'm a good motivator. I learned that years ago, back when I realized just how bad I was at being a performing musician (guitarist/vocalist). I'd get on a stage and forget chords, melodies, words to songs, (etc.). I'm not scared of being on a stage, it's just that I get distracted by a bartender's shiny bangle bracelets, or I end up making awkward eye contact with a drunk older gentleman who I just realized looks like a combination of Spongebob Squarepants and my old next door neighbor, who I loved, and who passed away a few years ago. I mean no offense to either, it's just that I find myself in the middle of an Indigo Girls song I've sung and strummed a thousand times, when all of a sudden I'm trying to reconcile how a cartoon character and a good, yet deceased friend can possibly have anything in common with an intoxicated bald man. These are the reasons I forget lyrics, because I'm afraid that while I'm supposed to be singing, "Closer to Fine," I'm going to end up singing something like, Closer to Pine ... apple under the sea!" It has happened. I have sung some weird-o shit on accident.

So, I gave up on performing a while ago, and instead decided to learn from other performing musicians by listening intently to vocal inflections, watching the hands of a long-time guitarist and how he muted or rang out every chord he played, listening to rhythms, watching body language, observing how every hand of every stringed instrument strummed, slapped, and picked. I've witnessed more than I could possibly ever even yearn to play, and with this, I decided to teach guitar. There's a reason "those who can't do, teach." It's because teaching is an art, and the "can't" is actually a "won't." Could I have been a great performer and trained myself not to get distracted? Sure. Did I desire to? No. I desired to do something that came more naturally, as I am a person of convenience.

Anyway, it wasn't more than a year into teaching guitar that I had a waiting list. My load of students grew quickly, as I was one of the only female guitar teachers in the Detroit, Michigan suburb in which I lived. I related to the angst of my teenage girl clientele. I, too, had struggled with many issues pertaining to my own insecurities in high school. I was only 22 when I started teaching; I was not so far removed from teen-dom that I couldn't remember the pain of breakups, shallow friendships, negotiating with strict parents, and peer pressure. That gave me the gift of passion and sensitivity, and in turn, made mothers of teenage girls flock to me as their "girl guru." Not only did I provide girls with a confidant and a sounding board, but I provided many parents with security, as I had crossed the gap into adulthood, into a time of life at which I'd come to realize, that, hey, my mother had been right about most of what she said. I was a mediator between mothers and daughters, a guitar teacher, and a mentor, and I did these things successfully, even during the times my own life would periodically fall apart. 

Like I said, I am a good motivator when I want to be. And, it's for this reason, I am going to try my hardest to keep up with a blog. My writing is rusty, but it will get better. It's a muscle I need to exercise, and I'm barely into a one-mile saunter at this point. It will improve. (Read that last word? "Improve." I'm so, totally washed up at this point that I literally had to pause for a full minute to think of a synonym for "get better." Wow. We have a way to go, here.)

I will write it how it is. (Could you see me literally snap my fingers in a z-formation, there?) Yeah, I know that's a trend right now. But, in all seriousness, I think I'm better than the average "truth writer," as I am open about myself across the board -- not just with one subject. Carrie Fischer, for example, has been open about being bipolar. Brook Shields allowed the public to read about her post-partum depression struggles. Michael J. Fox lives his Parkinson's life in the public eye. While I commend anyone for sharing any part of themselves in hopes to help others, I don't compartmentalize my transparency into one or two particular facets of my life.

I will talk openly about my need to be on Zoloft, and how I'm a fearful, reactive, sometimes angry, and obsessive person when I'm not on it. I'll talk about my strong opinions on researching vaccinations. I will discuss evvvvvery single body issue I have after having two children, along with my continual fear of wearing shorts and exposing my thighs and cankles. I will talk about nursing my baby and my disgust of hairyolas, (They're hairy areolas, and no, it's not something from which I suffer, but it was something discussed with a waiter at dinner tonight.) I will talk about my insecurities, even if they seem shallow and vain. I will talk about my faith in God, and how I continually run away from Jesus just to find myself being dragged back by the ear like a stubborn child. I will talk about my own battles with post-partum depression. Nothing is off topic.

Here's what I need my audience to know:

• My husband's life is his own private life, and I respect that. I will write about my perspective in my relationship from time to time, but here's what you ultimately need to know: I love the man, and I'm happy.
• My sons, particularly my eldest, are growing and I will protect their childhood and private lives.
• I was raised by good, honest, hard-working people. They raised four children to become not only contributing members of society, but also good adults who make this world better.

Well, with that being said, I think it's time to sign off. My bed is beckoning, and the morning always shows up like a Jehovah's Witness knocking at the door. 

Until next time,
The Two-Baby Body