I'm reading one of those books of funny essays written by popular bloggers. This one focuses mostly on modern suburban motherhood; the author is a renegade who just doesn't fit in with the Botoxed, superfit, Pinterest-pinning, organic/gluten-free, hypercompetitive, pumpkin-spice-latte supermoms who are apparently EVERYWHERE in the town where she lives, sharing homemade muffins and passive-aggression with the lesser mothers (like the author) who can barely manage to (Fill in the blank: put a meal on the table, comb their hair, shower, wear non-stretchy clothes, etc.)
It's funny, I suppose. As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author. She's one of my people. But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do. I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.
There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods. It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them. But of course, we have the words on our side. Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities. Who's the mean girl in this scenario?
*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week. Rick Perry was a guest. I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another. Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him. Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate. Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18. At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written. He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."
It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to. He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug. It was just something that had happened. Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.
*****
There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician. I'm not going to bother looking for it, though. Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists. I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything. Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics. Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring. A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies. A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner. It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.
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