Part of what makes me a “Misguided” mommy is the things I did before I was a mommy. The misguided directions I took in life. I have some really good stories in me. Funny stuff. Raunchy stuff. Naughty stuff. Illegal stuff. Basically everything everyone wants to read in a blog. Every time I sit down to write I find myself frustrated. Because I know in order to increase readers, to draw you in, to get comments I HAVE TO TELL THE GOODS! That is where I find the problem. My family reads this. They know a lot of my shenanigans but they don’t know all of them and there is always a point in someone’s life where they have to say…”this is probably one of those stories I shouldn’t tell publicly.”

I end up shutting the computer and just walking away because I don’t want to force out a post and I can’t put up what I want. Do other readers have this problem? There are days I wish I could start all over and never tell a soul who I was. Be this amazing anonymous blogger who wrote stories about the time my friend and I drunk and peed on the grass at the very spot I got married two years later. A super secret blogger who tells funny sex stories that her parents and husband can’t read. Like the time a dog ate my panties and I had to go back to school with no undies on after my lunch break. (I still have those panties…what’s left of them). A blogger with no face just stories about marijuana, chicken tenders, and a very important first kiss.

I’ve always written. I’ve always had a journal. Online, written anything I’ve always documented my life. I wanted to be a writer when I got older. That manifested in wanting to teach high school English even. I have good stories in here. I imagine there are others out there like me. We have now been labeled a “mommy blog.” There are limits to what we can write about. Laundry, Johnny pooped in the potty and may husband is such a pain tonight. But I want to write the real stuff. I want to write my archives. My history. The things that 60 years from now my kids will want to know. The stories that the only other person who can tell them is the person who was there committing the crime with me.

Writing shouldn’t be this frustrating. It shouldn’t feel like a road block. So if you’re wondering about my lack of posting, this sums it up for you. I’m full of stories. Just not stories I can tell. Especially not the story about the “Golden Sombrero.”