(*Originally posted on July 29, 2011 on My Name is Sarah’s old site…By the way, welcome to my new site!)
“Wow, Mommy, your butt is huge!”
The words cheerfully escape my four-year-old daughter’s mouth as I dry off after a delightfully hot, “de-stressing” shower.
Huge. I feel my stress level begin to rise again as the word dances around in my head. Maybe I should take another hot shower. “It’s not nice to say things about someone’s body, Audrey.”
“But your butt wobbles when you walk, Mommy!” Her eyes are wide and her expression quite assured as she stares at me unblinking.
I point towards the bedroom door. “Go watch cartoons while I finish dressing… please.”
‘Said’ butt might be larger than it was, say, before child number two, and if we’re really going to make comparisons, substantially larger than a four-year-olds’ behind. Still, in the ongoing battle with insecurities that I wage, the statement could have been a little easier to handle, perhaps, without the explanation points and excessive enthusiasm.
Maybe I should join a gym so my commitment to exercise can be guaranteed by a financial obligation. Of course, then I would have to leave my three-year-old in a room with strangers, which would totally freak her out, since she’s attached to my side…which, oh my gosh, I wonder what she’s been doing while I took a three minute shower?!?
I run into the toy room, comb in hand, as if it may somehow help with whatever disaster awaits me, and both of my girls are quietly playing together with their collection of dinosaurs. Relieved, I begin combing my hair. The dinosaurs are an obsession and mystery I’m not really interested in figuring out at this point. If they prefer dinosaurs over Barbie dolls, the better off they’ll be, as far as I’m concerned. Why should I teach them that less than size zero women, with hardly enough weight to make the scale move an inch, is the body type they should identify with and long to have? Not that they notice these things at such a young age…I mean, what preschooler notices weight and…Oh yes, mine…Sigh.
Oh well, no gym membership for me, not yet anyway. Being married to a chef-slash-new-business-owner requires penny pinching while my husband works like a madman to build and save for our future…It also requires exercising within the walls of your own living room. It’s Denise Austin, Zumba, and Billy Blanks Taebo, for this stay-at-home-mom. Well, thirty to forty-five minutes of it at least. After all, I have an agenda to keep up with daily.
First, there’s the part where I try and raise happy, educated, balanced, ‘un-screwed-up’ children, and then there are the Mom chores…laundry, unplanned messes, cooking, etc. And then we arrive at my favorite part. Writing. It’s a daily chore, a daily thrill, and occasionally, a heartbreaking process. During my three-year-quest to find a literary agent, for the manuscripts I have written, I have mastered one thing for sure…the art of handling rejection.
Mom pointed this out to me the other day. I had just received the hundredth (real life figure which I will refrain from mentioning) rejection letter from a literary agency regarding one of my manuscripts and was feeling the usual gut-punching, sting of rejection. I mean, they don’t even read any of my actual books. These rejections are based off of query letters about my book, which despite reading numerous articles and blogs on writing the, “perfect query letter,” I obviously, have not mastered.
“Well, at least you are learning to handle rejection well,” Mom said, oh-so optimistically.
Suddenly, it occurred to me, that this, alone, could be the engraving on my tombstone. “Sarah was the master of dealing with rejection!”
Panicking, I immediately returned to my favorite internet site to launch a search for literary representation again, either fueled by my determination to master rejection or perhaps find that one agent, who is somewhere in this big, ugly world of publishing who just maybe for sixty seconds will consider reading one of my books.
And then, it’s as if everyone got the same idea at once. Dark clouds gathered above…No, wrong story…The sun came peering through the cloudy abyss above, and… my husband suggests I start a blog. My mother suggests I start a blog. And then, my sister suggests I start a blog.
My mother and husband were kind of easy to ignore. I came up with a million excuses. Not entirely bad excuses, but still excuses… (“I am editing a manuscript and trying to pay attention to my children,” I argued.) My sister, well, she’s another story, but let’s just say she’s impossible to ignore and extremely difficult to turn down. She missed her calling as a motivational speaker and would be a highly respected CEO… (Just saying.)
So here I am, dear sister, officially starting a blog…I am a story teller and aspiring novelist…sharing what’s on my mind with the blogging world. I may seem quirky, and at times, unbalanced, sharing endless, perhaps meaningless, real-life catastrophes and thoughts, but this is who I am. My name is Sarah, and I’m a blogger…