Crazy Mama!

The ladies at Crazy Hip Blogging Mamas (if you don't know who they are go there, but not now. Go later, after you've read this.) have started a weekly collaboration thingamawhoozit and this week's topic is "What does being a Crazy Hip Blog Mama mean to you?".

What does it mean to me? Hmmmm. Gotta scratch my head over that one for a moment.

In all honesty, the moniker in total doesn't really mean anything to me. I am not a CrazyHipBlogMama. I blog, sure, and I am crazy on most days (okay, okay - every day!), and according to my OB/Gyn that little bundle of need who crawls about my home ripping my good books off the shelf to throw them at the dogs belongs to me, so I guess I'm a Mama. But I'm certainly not hip. Haven't been since the year 2001. I turned in my Hip membership card because it was just so damn exhausting to keep up with all the other hipsters, so I dropped out of the race, got engaged, started looking for a house in the 'burbs and just chilled for a while. And I've never been sorry about it. Now that the pressure is off I can enjoy my life from a different point of view. And life is good. Very good.

However, if you take the time to break down the term, word by word, I totally embody each and every one. So, as those cuckoo kids say in the clubs these days, let's "break it down."

Crazy
Helloooo. I'm a woman. I've been crazy since the day I got my period. You show me a woman who isn't crazy and I'll show you a pre-op transexual. There's nothing wrong with being crazy, it makes you more of a mystery to the opposite sex. Even if they won't fess up to it, men love crazy.

Hip
Ever since I got pregnant with my daughter they're much bigger. I guess that makes me "hip-y" instead of "hip".

Blog
My salvation from the hum-drum, monotonous life that is mine now that I've decided to stay home to raise my daughter. I am a bit of a blog stalker since I read a lot of Mommy Blogs (a title I hate, by the way) and I thank each and every one of you whose blog I've stalked. I've learned a lot from all of you. Your thank you cards are in the mail.

Mama
This one deserves more time than what I'm going to give it here. Perhaps another time. For now, though, I'll say that I love being a Mama more than I ever thought possible. Take away all the sleepless nights and poopy diapers (please, for the love of God, take them away!) and what's left is this soft, pink, perfect little person who - until she's a teenager anyway - loves and needs me more than anyone on the face of this earth. I am her whole world and, after I got over the crushing pressure of that fact, I found that she made me the most complete person I have ever hoped to be. I made her, carried her, delivered her, and sustained her life from my breast for the better part of her life. How cool is that? Everything I had been searching for is now right in front of me, pulling on my pant leg, demanding more of my attention. And I'm happy to give it. Sure, there are some days when I want to pull the covers over my head when I hear her cries through the monitor next to my side of the bed. Yes, I have considered stapling her to the wall by her onesie until my husband gets home from work on some really desperate days. But I haven't, because one look from her slays me and my heart turns to mush. This is the power of being a "Mama".

Now that its written I'm happy with the results. Thanks for stopping by and ignoring the mess. The next time you come over I'll try to pick the place up a bit.

Damn! I am a Mama!