Also known as, Momzilla, Part deux
A while back I wrote an entry about women who mom too much, a.k.a. Momzillas.
I was, however, SO scared of the Momzilla that I didn’t even dare write said entry on my main blog. Instead I outsourced. A lot.
A Momzilla is one of those people –female usually, but male momzillas have been known to exist as well (no, they aren’t Dadzillas… those are the ones you see picking fights at sporting events)– whose job in life is to mother anyone who’ll listen. Alternatively, they are also SO enamored with their own mom status that it is their life’s mission to make sure that everyone understands that THEY ARE MOMS, YOU GUYS! MOMS KNOW BETTER! HA! I’D HAVE A LIFE, EXCEPT I AM A MOM. AND I LOVE BEING A MOM, EVERYBODY! DID I MENTION I’M A MOM?
Voilá, an excerpt from one of my Momzilla early writings:
Because Momzillas are an aggressive and creepy breed, and they are deceptive about their motives. I would even dare say they are reptilian in their cold-heartedness to anything other than their offspring; however, the violent shade of hot red they turn and the sulphurouos vents they jet out their nostrils whenever one tries to steer the topic away from children on a Momzilla are evidence that, in fact, they do possess warm blood.
I suppose it’s a bit overdramatic, but I think you see my point: a Momzilla (thinks she) knows all.
This dangerous self-appointed omniscience can be really hard to overcome or deal with if you’re trying to… oh, have a conversation?
We broke bread with the Momzilla.
Now mind you, I know she means well. I know she’s really deep inside not a seething harpy with sharp talons that itch to be dug into the hearts of those who breathe the wrong way on her offspirng.
But it takes a whole bunch of meditation and at least one cocktail drink to get into that frame of mind.
(Note: YES I breastfeed and drink alcohol. I drink one alcohol serving, and it’s not every day, and it’s not a lot– except for the one scary time where I ordered this banana daiquiri which was so yummy that I drank it too fast and I had to sit and drink like four glasses of water before I allowed myself to stick my boob anywhere near my starving infant. So there.)
I wish I could say that I could get into the frame of mind and listen to her well-meaning advice and appreciate her generosity.
I wish that I could also say that I don’t secretly point at people and make fun of them either, but I’m not proud of that. It’s a nasty habit.
So that’s that. It’s hard to talk to a person who prefers to talk to you as if you were a well-meaning but stupid child who needed to be told how to make friends:
“Oh you need to go to ______! It’s great, and the way it works is that you meet other people who are in your situation and then you can approach them and ask them if they want to go to coffee. And sometimes they say yes! And then if you want, you can make plans for seeing each other on different days! It’s really great.”
So that’s how making friends works?
Wow…. maybe I’ve been doing the wrong thing all these years.