Making a Mom Writer Proud

“Wow, you’re a writer?” other moms exclaim when I mistakenly divulge at a play group or birthday party what I do for a living.

 “Your children must feel so lucky! Imagine having such a creative mom!”

“Uh, sure,” I say uneasily, avoiding the rolled eyes of my daughter and the mock finger-down-the-throat routine of my oldest son.

They know the truth.

Having a writer for a mom can sometimes be fun – like when you need someone to help come up with a book character costume for the school parade (I’ve had the only Anna Karenina walk in the kindergarten parade, ever) or when you’re looking for a particularly creative insult to lob at the next door neighbor’s creepy little brother, Chuck.  But most of the time having a writer for a mom can be really hard work.

For the child of a writer, life is about…

First Words:

My babies all said, “ma-ma” first. I know this because the moment they opened their toothless little mouths, I whipped out my reporter’s notebook and took meticulous notes.

“Ma-ma,” my youngest son said.

“Oh, good boy!” I exclaimed, flipping pages. “Now, can you repeat that? And how again do you spell your first name?”

“Ma-ma,” he said again.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, and can I quote you on that?”

“Da-da.”

Nursery Rhymes & Fairy Tales:

Like all good mommies, I tell my kids the classics. You know, the sweet little nursery rhymes and fairy tales that all children love. But goodness, how boring can those plots get!

I began to get a clue that I might not be doing my kids a favor when my oldest started kindergarten. After her first week of school, she came home carrying the following note:

Dear Mrs. Brown,

 

Your daughter had to spend some time in the quiet corner for interrupting story time today…

“Honey,” I said, giving her my stern mom look. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to be quiet and listen to the story at story time?”

She nodded. “But Mrs. Turner was telling it wrong. All I did was tell her that Cinderella needed to get a real job, go out and buy her own dress – Vera Wang, of course – rent a Porsche, and totally burn the step-sisters by going out with the hottie they’ve been scamming on.”

“Oh.”

I read on.

Furthermore, I’ve consulted the school counselor, and we’ve decided it’s not healthy for a child to believe that Goldilocks is a CIA undercover agent and the three bears are terrorists plotting to blow up the railroad system and take the President hostage…

“Oh.”

I can foresee more trouble in my future. My son is already telling me that the Mockingbird lullaby isn’t right.

“Why not, Sweetie?”

“It doesn’t rhyme.”

“Well, that’s a good point.”

“And it lacks credibility. No baby wants a goat.”

“Oh.”

Bedtime Stories:

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that, despite popular myth, having a writer for a mom doesn’t always make bedtime stories more fun, either.

I discovered this one night after my son woke up crying.

I rushed to his rescue.

“A monster,” he told me. “I think there’s a monster under the bed.”

“Oh,” I said, and tapped my chin. “You mean a big, furry green one with giant fangs…”

“No...”

“And the fangs are razor sharp and covered with the blood of his tiny victims…”

“I don’t think he has fangs…”

I was on a roll.

“And he has a terrible roar that is so frightening it will stop your heart cold in your chest…”

“Mom, you’re scaring me…”

I didn’t hear him. My hands were twisted into claws. I held them out in front of me, just inches from his terrified eyes.

“And he’ll creep up on you when you least expect it, reaching out with his clawed hands, and grasp you around the throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing…”

“Dad!!!”

After Hubby had him quieted, I crept sheepishly into the room.

“Hey, buddy. Sorry I scared you.”

“That’s okay, Mom.”

“But did you think he was a believable monster?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, do you think I’m onto something with him? Here, let me read you the first chapter of my new horror story, and you tell me if you think that monster will be a good fit.”

“Dad!!!”

Homework:

My daughter hates it when Hubby has to work late. Not that she misses him or anything. It’s just that when he’s not home, she has to come to me for homework help.

“Mom, can you proofread this research paper for me?”

“Hmmm, I usually charge for proofreading…”

“Mom, come on. It’s due tomorrow, and Dad’s working late tonight.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, picking up a book and roundly ignoring her. “Send me a query. Don’t forget to tell me why I’d want to proofread this paper – in twenty five words or less, of course – and don’t forget to include a short bio,” I say without looking at her. “And a SASE would be nice.”

She sighs. “When will you have time to look at it?”

I turn the page and quickly check my watch. “Six weeks to nine months.”

She creeps back in a few minutes later.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you tell me what the word ‘colloquial’ means?”

“Sure. I think the formal definition is, ‘if you want to be a good writer you can’t be afraid to look things up in the dictionary.’”

“But I don’t want to be a writer.”

I gasp and feign death on the couch.

I hear her dialing the phone in the kitchen.

“Dad? Mom died again. Can you help me with my homework?”

Sibling Rivalry:

The children of a writer can’t even fight correctly. I know because mine try on a daily basis. And I have to continually remind them how to properly insult one another.

Once I hear them going at it, I’ll gather them together around the kitchen table for a little “Creative Angry Dialogue 101.”

“Okay,” I’ll say, turning to my youngest. “Let’s have it.”

He’ll squint his eyes and pucker his lips, stare daggers into his sister and say, “You smell like butt.”

“Pretty good,” I say. “Nice and crisp. But a little contrived. Let’s go for something less cliché.”

I turn to my middle child. “Your turn.”

He chews his lip and scratches his cowlick. Then he reaches up, shakes his fist, and exclaims, “You smell like dog butt on a doughnut.”

I smile. “Very nice. You’ve been practicing, I see. I like the alliteration. And your creative use of contrast to bring about how disgusting your sister really smells. Not just any butt, but dog butt. And not just a plain dog butt, but dog butt on a doughnut.”

I sigh and pace the room.

“But it’s still missing something. Where is the rant? The emotion? The true decimation of your enemy. Give me something that will make me want to listen on.”

With that I turn to my daughter who is grinding her teeth as she levels both brothers with a single gaze. Without breaking eye contact, she says, “You smell like a dog’s greasy, hairy, lice-infested butt after passing a three-day rancid banana, being dragged through a rotten termite mound, and landing in a bucket of yak vomit.”

It’s enough to make a mom – a mom writer – proud.

Jennifer Brown is a freelance writer with award-winning fiction, nonfiction, and poetry appearing in over a dozen publications around the world. Jennifer's work has appeared in Writer's Journal, Australia's The Messenger, Long Story Short, and Simple Joy, just to name a few. Jennifer most enjoys writing humor essays, and her humor column, "Adrift in the Gene Pool," appears bi-weekly in The Liberty Sun News. In 2005, Jennifer's humor essay, "Fling Shui for Beginners," won first prize in the global humor category of the Erma Bombeck contest. Jennifer is also a book reviewer for Bookpleasures, Road to Romance, Foreword Reviews, and TCM Reviews, and teaches essay-writing and book reviewing classes for Writer's Success.com and humor writing classes at Long Story Short School of Writing. To find out more about Jennifer's work, visit http://www.freewebs.com/jennifer_brown.