The Mommy-Brain Blog,* or, How Not to Write

July 10, 2012

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9:37am: For the first time in weeks, I am sitting (okay, standing) in front of my computer with the intent of writing a new blog post. CJ is at a summer art camp for the day, and Hugh is asleep upstairs and I am determined, right now, to write. I am making a choice to ignore the unfolded laundry, and I’m passing up the opportunity to shower and get myself ready while Hugh sleeps.

I am going to make this happen!


I just need to reply to this one email that just came in, and brew a quick coffee and then it is me and this computer, together at last. I hope CJ is having fun at camp. She was a little nervous.

Ooh, I just had a really good idea for a burger I want to make.

9:42am: And…I’m back. I’m just trying to remember what it is I was going to write. It was something about being a beginner runner — I had this nice bit about running down High Street and passing “real” runners and getting the runner’s wave from them and feeling like I was masquerading as a runner but then realizing that, actually, if I am running down the street and wearing sneakers and sweating and listening to my tunes and doing the runner’s wave, that I may, in fact, actually be a runner! Despite my three-mile max. (Or 5K. I like to say 5K because five is more than three so it sounds better).


Hey, cool — I just tried that thing where you type without looking at the keyboard at all and I’m pretty good! Although, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why that matters at all. I need to get back to writing because the clock is ticking, but I just want to take the almond butter out of the fridge — I like it to get soft and gooey before I mix it with berries and bananas.

9:51am: Back to writing. But I don’t think that running essay has enough meat to it. I had this other idea about how Nora Ephron’s untimely death has me thinking about my old life as a personal assistant in New York — I was working for Martin Scorsese, and he was working on a script (it was, ultimately, the movie “Casino”) with the writer Nick Pileggi, who was married to Nora Ephron and —

Okay, I seriously need to sit down. Who the hell types this much while standing? No wonder I’m all out of whack; everything I do is 100% ergonomically incorrect. And then there’s that giant baby I carry around all the time. The baby who will be waking up soon. Very soon. Must get back to writing. I think I’m just distracted because I’m so hungry. I’m going to throw this fruit thing together really quickly.

9:58am: Man, I nailed this fruit and almond butter jammie-jam. I should seriously take a photo of this and get it up on Instagram asap because people are going to want to see this. Grabbing my iPhone… Oh, look — my sister’s on the gmail chat. Just need to ask her something, real quick-like.

10:04am: Must focus! So, I was saying that I used to be a personal assistant to Martin Scorsese, back in the mid-nineties. This would probably make an entertaining blog post, because I could write about how I purchased and decorated his Christmas tree by myself, and went shopping with his daughter in Soho while a car with a driver waited for us, and how he yelled at me when his electric toothbrush wouldn’t turn off, and how I had to go find a collar made of rhinestones for his dog when he was heading to Vegas to shoot Casino, and how he hated flying so much that I used to have to call Al Roker to get personal weather updates, which were exactly the same as what was on the news, but the fact that I had called Al Roker made them somehow more legit.

I guess that’s the one to write; there’s so much good material. On the other hand, what is my point? You have to kind of bring it home at the end of a blog post, ya know? And really, what does it have to do with Nora Ephron? I mean, seriously, she answered the door a few times when I was delivering stuff to her husband and she was lovely, but what am I saying, that I wish I’d stayed in New York and pursued a career in film and been like Nora Ephron? That would make for a nice, wistful twist at the end. The only problem is, I don’t really wish that.

IKEA plates must all be BPA-free, right? Must google that… Man, my dog stinks.

10:30am: Why do I have so many tabs open in my browser!? What is all this crap? Let’s see: Rolling Stone article on Rachel Maddow, which I actually do want to read; oh, right: Girls Scouts, which I told CJ I’d look into; Paleo banana muffins, going to make those today; writing contest I’m going to enter (not with this essay!); the Twitter, Facebook, and email trifecta; and a New York Times article that David sent me. I’m closing this one tab with the New York magazine article about all the germs and bacteria they found in the back of taxi cabs — it’s just way too revolting. I need all the other ones, though. Maybe “need” is not the right word.

By the way, Hugh is awake.





I’m just going to let him babble for a few minutes. Man, that guy is cute. Maybe I should write about how, sometimes, my kids drive me nuts but then, when they are asleep, I miss them. Sometimes I look at photos of them when they’re upstairs, sleeping. True story.


10:35am: You will never believe this but I just now remembered that I woke up in the middle of the night last night and couldn’t get back to sleep and I was thinking about a blog post and I had this really solid and captivating idea for writing about my love/hate relationship with summer. I had the whole thing mapped out and it was actually sounding pretty good. I have this gray hair thing at the end that you’re going to like. So I’ll probably go with that. I’m going to start it right now.

10:36am: The cute baby babble has turned to demands to be removed from the crib. I guess I need to go up there. I’m just trying to quickly ascertain whether anything was accomplished here. I’m not sure.

Oh! I did have that really tasty brekkie! Unfortunately, I forgot to take a photo of it so it’s almost like it never happened.

6:53pm Wait, I never posted this?!







* I’m being tongue-in-cheek with the title. Remind me to tell you how much I can’t stand the word “mommy,” and how I cringe at anything marketed toward “mommies.” That could be a blog post, actually. I’ll write that one next.

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