The oddest thing. Apparantly I’m a Mummy*-Blogger.
Well, that’s what I thought, too.
You see, back in April, some kind dear soul nominated me for the MAD (Mum & Dad) Blog Awards, which was all rather interesting and cool (if mildly discombobulating) (by the way, did you vote for HFF and Shannon? Because they BOTH got short-listed and I had to resort to Twisting My Husband’s Arm, also, Using The Work Computer, so we could vote for both of them. *cough* Probably shouldn’t’ve confessed to that). Where was I? Oh yes. I was nominated, and therefore, I think, I assume even, I ended up on the radar of the organizers, one of whom also organizes the Tots100 Index of UK Parent Blogs and Bloggers. And, every month, the amazing Sally (how the hell does she find the time?) combs through all the statistics and puts up a new ranking of the ‘top’ (see above link for explanations of how this is worked out) 100 blogs.
And this month, I was in there. At 90. I felt quite faint.
And I’d always felt that, you know, one day, if all the stars align in their courses to spell the words ‘May, you’re 5 months pregnant!’ across the night sky and H wins £1’000’000 on the Premium Bonds and Silvio Berlusconi announces he’s sending himself to jail and they discover a cure for Being A Dillweed At Work and I’m really amazingly fucking lucky and I do get a take-home baby, I’d look into this Mummy-Blogging lark. Mostly because I wouldn’t take my own family’s advice on child-rearing if it came with a bag of gold dubloons and two tickets to The Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain, and *cough* even more mostly, because if I ever get this Baby, this Miracle, this Pearl Beyond Price, I am SO going to yak about it/him/her/them non-stop. Possibly. In a super-special-snowflake way, because I am one.
But it would seem I don’t have to wait at all. Even though the youngest living things in this abode are, actually, the moribund house-plants. Even though none of my pregnancies has made it out of the first trimester. Even though I get to lie on the bed drinking gin** and farting about online all weekend instead of actually, you know, nurturing anyone. Nevertheless People Out There think I am still, if not a parent, at least parent-flavoured. And worth keeping in the mix.
This is surprisingly nice.
But still discombobulating.
I think that anyone who ever had trouble getting or staying pregnant (even if they’re now avec miracle(s)) would ‘get’ some of the misery and bitterness I ‘occasionally’*** spew out all over the blog. But I have no idea at all how all this comes across to anyone who has never had any trouble getting or staying pregnant.
Seriously, if you’re reading this, and never had any trouble getting or staying pregnant, how does all this come across? Do you feel you can sympathise or even empathise, or does all this pain and effort seem alien and lunatic to you?