Obsessed with the dead? aka Obsessed Mommies

The blogosphere is filled with them. And in addition to my previously mentioned jealousy, I am experiencing an incredible feeling of boredom and frustration with their sugary sweetness and inspirational insights. They're moms. And they have nothing to say that is of any use to me anymore. I find myself rolling my eyes at the call-Guiness-Johnny-is-a-genius moments they prattle on and on about. Life is hard; and they have to drive their minivan full of living children from soccer practice to dance recitals; and, oh no, they had to eat at McDonalds again, will their children grow up to be fat; and when will they get a moment to themselves; and Christmas is so stressful, do you have your shopping done; and we have such an amazing bond...blah, blah, blah.

I'm BORED! Do mothers really have nothing else to talk about? (Never mind the aforementioned jealousy.) You are seriously putting me to sleep with all this blather. Hallmark could do many a movie of the week with the material you provide (and I'm quite sure I've actually seen a few of these stories on some made-for-TV movie or another). Does anything really and truly BAD ever happen to you? And if so, why don't you blog about THAT?

Now, I'm as sappy as the next girl and I love a good mother story to remind me how wonderful the adventure is. But good grief, the blogosphere is overrun with the same story told over and over and over and over and over and over...zzzzzzzzzzzz. Being a mom is great...scary...but great. I GET IT. Move on. Or at least distinguish yourself from the rest of the population who has access to a keyboard and an internet connection and give me something MORE. Give me something real. Yes, we all know you can turn a witty phrase...aren't you clever...yawn.

This rant leads me to believe that I may have an unhealthy obsession with pain and suffering. I read blogs by people I know have suffered and I am not so dismissive. I cheer for them and wish nothing but good things for them. When they tell me a happy story, I tear up and feel a lump in my throat. But for the "mommy bloggers" out there, I feel nothing but irritability and shortness of temper. Maybe it's because the sheer number of them is so overwhelming. There seem to be fewer bloggers willing to delve into the truly dark and scary stuff...the reality of life...the bigger issues.

Death.

There, I said it. When someone talks about a birth, they will go on and on and on...writing epic poetry about the grand experience of birthing a child. And I do not discount the importance of such an event. In fact, I have done the same. BUT...when people blog about a death or some other tragedy that has befallen them, you usually get a one paragraph, "Grandpa died," and if your lucky a one paragraph pretty reflection on Grandpa and how much he meant. Then we're back to regularly scheduled programming and we're talking about how Johnny successfully mastered the art of hitting the toilet with his urine while standing up (truly, one of the more annoying conversations I've seen grown women engage in). And this usually goes on for a dozen posts or more...at least until Johnny can sign his name in pee with a flair like Zorro.

I talk about my son and his accomplishments. I am proud of my son. But I would like to think that there is something more there. Something that makes me...well...ME. And that means getting real and talking about the bad as much as I talk about the good. Why does our society have such an obsession with being happy all the time? Why do we have to "move on" from tragedy and not fully experience and share sadness, or hurt, or anger? Surely, there is something to be said for sharing these experiences and realizing we are not all Stepford Wives who are content to smile and reflect on the beauty of all things motherhood.

In surfing the blogosphere this morning (yes, while I should be working), I stumbled across several books about motherhood written by women who are either on crack or have been beaned in the head by the tooth fairy's happy stick. I really don't understand the affinity for happy mommy stories. It's almost a collective consciousness...where the same story is actually passed from one woman to another for retelling with [insert names here] as the stars of the show. Susie's not counting to ten? Oh, well, let me tell you how WE did it. Let me guide you in the ways of being a happy mommy.

What? You're not happy? You feel like throwing your child in a closet and running over random strangers on the street? What is WRONG with you? Why aren't you HAPPY? Be happy. We like you better that way. Please excuse the snoring...she's obsessed with reality...and she talks about death and sadness...she's just not HAPPY.

I have begun to follow craft blogs because they seem to have some purpose. I can tell where they are going. And there is often just as much of a chance the the craft could go awfully awry and the person will end up with elephant sized slippers as they will a beautiful handmade sweater for Dad. It's concrete. It's going somewhere. Mommy bloggers have filled up the blogosphere with words that all reach the same conclusion. It's great to be a mommy. And this earth-shattering revelation takes pages and pages...megabytes of storage...and must be told and retold until the end of time. I feel like I'm being bludgeoned with a dull instrument...no...that would be too quick to be an appropriate comparison. Chinese water torture perhaps.

Are women so desperate to be heard that they will turn to writing about bodily fluids until the cows come home? Is there really that much value in the shared experience of gushing over your children and your experiences in raising them? Entire blogs devoted to what Billy ate today...whether he peed and pooped...what inarticulate babble he made from his bouncy seat. Does this sort of bonding really create any sort of lasting relationship with any of your readers? Or is it just intended to make people envious of your perfect life?

Perhaps I have an unhealthy obsession with my dead child. But it can't compare to the obsession some of these women have with their living children.