The Write Mommy For The Job

by Jennifer Brown

It's what I do

I’m a writer. I write. I know this because my desk is covered with paper and pens, a computer printer, envelopes, stamps. All writer things. Because I’m a writer. It’s what I do.

I’m a mom. I parent. I know this because the paper has a stick figure super hero drawn on every sheet of the ream. The pens have all been gutted and are now bazookas for the green army guys that are (in a foxhole) stuffed in the computer printer. The envelopes are missing. And my stamps are the Disney romance line. Because I’m a mom. It’s what I do.

It’s good for me to have these reminders of who I am and what I do because there are some days that I just can’t tell for sure. You know, the days when I can’t get the newspaper classifieds to publish my CAR FOR SALE ads, much less a magazine to publish my essay. The days when everyone I know has “great writing news,” while I get a paper cut on my eyeball while opening rejection letters. The days when the dog is holding a signing at Barnes and Noble and I’m begging the church to please let me write a word search for the Sunday newsletter – for free. Those are the days I take inventory of my stuff – my writerly stuff – and remember that I am a writer. It’s what I do.

And then there are the days when the kids are hanging boxer briefs to the ceiling fan – with someone still in them – to see if it will “get rid of the smell” (a smell I refuse to even ask about) while I’m trying to conduct a telephone interview with the head of the foster parent program. The days when one kid gives me strep throat, another pink eye and the third a live squirrel on a day when I’m scheduled to speak to a class of English students. The days when there are track meets, karate tournaments, soccer snacks and a last-minute architectural project involving roughly 80,000 toothpicks and a dozen toilet paper rolls and I have a column due. Those are the days I pat my kids’ heads and put on another pot of coffee while I sew a patch onto a Scout uniform and dictate my column into the answering machine – and remember that I’m a mom. It’s what I do.

But there are days when I’m too frazzled to take inventory. Days when the lines of one job blurs into the boundaries of the other and I’m not sure which I am. Am I a mom? Am I a writer? I’ve just faxed a compelling article about tummy tuck surgery to my son’s teacher and alerted the editor of Cosmopolitan that my son is to ride bus #99 home with his friend, Jacob. I’ve accidentally mailed my pap smear results, which were stuck to the bottom of a manuscript by a dried apple juice ring, to my editor, and didn’t realize it until he e-mailed that I was due for my annual in December (at least he offered to give me the time off). And I’m pretty sure I stuck a SASE in my daughter’s lunchbox, because there’s a peanut butter and banana sandwich lying on top of the essay I just printed out this morning. I could be either one at this point. Mom. Writer. Writer. Mom. How do I know which one I am?

If only there were some handy tool to help me. Like one of those quizzes you see in the glossies. “Are You a Great Lover?” “Test Your Marriage Potential.” “Is He the Right Guy for You?”

What I need is something like this:

“Clear the Confusion: Are You a Writer or a Mom?”

1. The “K” key on your computer keyboard is permanently pasted in the down position. What is the adhesive?
A) Maple syrup from last minute early morning attempts to make a deadline while madly flinging waffles at a gaggle of sleepy schoolchildren, a few of which might not actually be your own. The maple syrup, incidentally, somehow ended up in Child A’s backpack, emitting a smell that triggered Miss Primm’s morning sickness. You’ll be getting a dry-cleaning bill. Oh, and the principal unexpectedly quit and moved to Tahiti, mumbling something about DNA tests, but that’s probably just coincidence.
B) Breastmilk from penning delirious midnight poems about pain, exhaustion and breasts that resemble those red things on the tops of roosters’ heads.
C) Actual paste. Stupid architectural project. You’ll never get the toothpicks out of your hair.
D) Tough to tell – could be any of the above. Maybe a combination of them all. Which is odd, considering you come unglued at least twenty times a day.

2. Your child’s teacher immediately knows when a note is from you. What is your identifying style?
A) It sticks to her hands, leaving behind a smell that triggers her morning sickness (see question #1). You will be getting a carpet-cleaning bill, too. And for some strange reason the art teacher, basketball coach and three custodians have now quit. Jobs must be good in Tahiti.
 B) It’s neatly-typed in manuscript format with one inch margins all around with word count and contact information prominently displayed in the upper right hand corner. It comes with a cover letter, a table of contents, a marketing plan and a bio.
C) It’s hastily-scrawled on a coffee-stained, torn scrap of paper that, on the back side, reads, “Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortu–” At least that’s what you think it says under the tear stains.
D) Depends on the time of day. Have you come unglued yet?

3. When your children argue, you:
A) Send them to their rooms until they calm down so you can quickly pound out a filler piece you’ve been toying with.
B) Join in – Hey, you’ve got a bone to pick, too! Who e-mailed the photos of Justin Timberlake to your entire address book, including the very uptight agent you’ve been wooing, with the subject line, “hot chihuahua alert”?
C) Calmly step in to correct their grammar and syntax.
D) What? Are you saying my kids have poor grammar?! I don’t think so! Your face has poor grammar! So there! Poor grammar, my hind end. I oughta show you poor grammar. What do you mean I’m coming unglued again? Your face is coming unglued…!

4. Your husband refuses to take you out to dinner for your next date night because of what happened last time. What did you do?
A) You sent the menu back because the hook didn’t grab you and you thought the crab cakes were flat, stagnant and unbelievable.
B) Who goes out to eat? My life is all about fast food at the keyboard. Hey, wait! Special sauce! Can we go back to question #1? I might be able to solve the “K” key mystery.
C) You asked for extra napkins and then proceeded to litter the floor with roughly 368 wadded up versions of the first line of your next novel, most of which said, “I”.
D) When asked what you’d like to order, you responded, “To write the Great American novel, land a 20-book, $30 million deal, a Pulitzer Prize, a spot in Oprah’s Book Club and a day named after me. Is that so much to ask? I mean, really! What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know good writing when you see it? What do you mean I’m coming unglued…?!”

5. You’ve been banned from family gatherings. Why?:
A) You make everyone listen to your latest 20-page poem about how stay-at-home mothers are oppressed and will someday rise and take over the world by instituting mass surprise vasectomies.
B) You’re best known for cornering people and compulsively asking, “Would you like to see the first three chapters of my novel?”
C) Every third sentence you shout out, “Ooh, that’s a good one! I have to write it down!” and then rummage in your purse for half an hour for something to write on.
D) No matter how vehemently you deny it, at least one family member very closely resembles the big idiot in your humor column the next day.

Answer:
If you answered “D” to any of these questions, face it – you’re neither Writer nor Mom, but are some weird combination of the two, called a Momwriter. Sometimes you might be a Writermom. But it boils down to the same thing – you’re doomed to a life of the stress of balancing burp cloths and bylines. You will never be glamorous. You will never be relaxed. You will never find your Mont Blanc pen because someone flushed it during a reenactment of how Goldie the fish got to heaven. You might as well go buy a few cases of hair dye now because baby you’re going to need it.

So there you have it. I’m a Momwriter. Well, not today. Today I’m a Writermom. But tomorrow there’s a school dance so I’ll be a Momwriter again. And Friday’s a pretty busy day, so I’ll probably end up being a Wrimoterm. I’ll take inventory of my stuff – well, everything but the Mont Blanc, that is – to remind myself. I’m a Mowrimter. It’s what I do.

(P.S. Don’t forget to write a quick goodbye note to Miss Primm. She leaves for Tahiti tomorrow…)

Previous page

Back to Table of Contents

Next page