Mommy Blogs, Mom Bloggers, Moms that blog.
I have a love-hate relationship with them. The ones I love to hate are the homemaking perfectionist mommy bloggers. They usually have multiple children and a dog or two. They post the most fabulous pictures of their most fabulous houses and their most fabulous projects that YOU can do too if you have a spare 50,000 hours. Their homes are perfection; everything is always crisp, clean and white with a burst of color. The children’s rooms are just so – with quaint vintage-like drawings and paintings of birds and amazing arty world maps. They’re always cooking fabulous meals with quinoa and kale — and their children actually EAT it — or so they say.
The reason I love these bloggers is because they inspire me. I look at all the beautiful things they’re doing and all the beautiful things they have and I think, “If they can do it, I can surely do it too!”
And the reason I hate these bloggers is because once I think that I can do it, I realize that I actually can’t. My life is too busy — too full. And that’s fine. And perhaps I’m a bit jealous. But that’s not the point.
The point is, I think it’s disingenuous to paint yourself in such a flawless way. In the end it makes me think there’s some deep dark secret that you’re desperately trying to cover up. You’re insecure, your husbands unfaithful, YOU’RE unfaithful, you suffer from a severe anxiety disorder — there’s nothing wrong with these things (except for the infidelity) it’s just nice to maybe — I don’t know — be more honest. I understand that a lot of people don’t want to be that open, but for god’s sake. Not everything has to be perfect. You don’t have to prove that you can make the perfect christmas candles or paint birch branches the perfect shade of white (which I love by the way.) Have a moment of failure and embrace it. Turn that smile into a frown and muss up that hair. Write a post about how you let your kids go three days without a bath. THEN I’ll enjoy your lovely little tutorials and projects — because I’ll know that you’re human. And being human is embracing the mess.
But in the end, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’ll read the blogs anyway as I cross my arms and pout — because everything is so damn pretty.