Editor's note: Jenny Lawson is a journalist, mom, best-selling author and creator of the popular blog, "The Bloggess." On Saturday, Lawson won an Iris Award for "Most Entertaining Content." She is on Twitter.
In the last few years there’s been a lot of criticism about “Pinterest moms.” I think the term refers to those parents who do everything so over-the-top that they create mind-boggling Pinterest pages that seem like they should be titled “Dressing For The First Day of Preschool For Under $800” or “101 Things I Had the Governess Do” or “How I was able to retain my white, minimalistic decor by burning all of my children’s things and then finally giving them away.” And I’m not judging. (Unless you really did give your child away because they didn’t match the decor. I would judge that.)
I sometimes wish I was the kind of mom who considers bento boxes filled with organic food carved in the shape of edible vegan pandas to be a “simple meal for toddlers” or that I had the room, talent or inclination to build giant homemade teepees or solar-powered, eco-friendly tree houses. I may not understand why some parents buy their young children fake, hipster glasses and gluten-free suspenders or decorate their children’s rooms entirely in splintered re-purposed barn wood and pointy antlers, but I’m sure there’s a method to their madness. I once visited a pregnant friend who’d decorated her unborn son’s room entirely in gray-scale. Everything from the unsettling, stoic gray stuffed animals to the white shag carpet made it feel like I’d fallen into a very bleak, black-and-white film set in war-torn Poland.
“What happens when someone spills Kool-Aid on the carpet?” I asked.
My friend gasped and paled visibly, and I felt a little bad for saying anything but her pallid complexion now better matched the room, and I suspect she’d probably enjoy that in a weird way. Or maybe not. I honestly can’t tell with these people.
What I do know though is that these people love their children, and also that they are the first people to offer to have parties at their unnaturally clean houses, and that they always seem to have vegetable trays and enormous balloons on hand, and that they will never fail to offer you a drink of something boozy that their husband has brewed in his homemade still. And as you sip your third artisan beer from the frosty Mason jar, you smile and realize that deep down we’re all alike.
You just have to look really, really deep.
And have lots of beers.
And then you drunkenly crawl into their teepee with a balloon and you realize that it is very cozy and you refuse to leave because it’s so much cleaner than your house and then they have to call your husband to come remove you and you yell “SQUATTER’S RIGHTS!” while pulling their vintage record player into the teepee and then you accidentally rip down their chevron curtains that you’re desperately clinging to while your husband forcibly drags you from their house.
I still don’t entirely understand them, but I suppose it takes all kinds.