I woke up in a crappy mood at 4 a.m., the magical time of day I’ve coined as the Evil Martha hour. Since I was a pregnant blob over 13 years ago, this time of day harks the moment of premature waking from gorgeous sleep and entering the unfriendly arms of Martha Stewart because she’s the only thing on TV.
Yes, my dear daughter reveled the Evil Martha hour before and after she was born. When she was a physical being, I would trudge to retrieve the wailing girl from her crib and take her to the living room, where she wiggled and giggled and bumbled while I lie corpse-like on the couch. Turning on the TV with the volume barely audible, I flipped through the channels and landed on Martha. I figured a mom could learn a few things about being a good woman/mother/wife. Oh-except Martha’s perfect. That’s why she’s evil.
So baby girl and I would learn that our inadequacies were completely unacceptable for an hour or two. When 6 a.m peeked through the windows, we’d go back to bed with a head full of remorse because our version of an Easter cake resembled a pile of mashed potatoes. The effect of Martha Stewart on a new mother is a crime. The lady should be kidnapped, stuffed into a diaper pail, and thrown in the river.
There’s a limit to the amount of Martha belittlement one can take. I quit watching her show and switched to the Home Shopping Network. Over time, I quit turning on the TV altogether and opened a book. Baby was bigger and sleeping through the Evil Martha hour, giving me some quiet time to enter another world.
Since I began to blog, the Evil Martha hour continues to be the time of day when inspiration is the Liberty Bell in my sleeping ear. Unwilling to lose the very important message I’ve been sent, I rise from slumber and open my laptop to the Blogging Channel, the same way I would watch Evil Martha. Except now I’m in charge and nobody can tell me what to write, how to write, or when to write. I might still be inadequate, but the words spill out and I feel a little more perfect even with my imperfections.
After writing, I read other blogs and I laugh. I celebrate. I wince and I sympathize. Today, even though I woke up as Oscar the Grouch, I entered a world that constantly enlightens and inspires me and accepts me for who I am. I’m grateful for that. So thank you bloggers for spinning me right ’round. Even at 4 a.m.
And a huge thank you to my husband for knowing me well enough to know when to challenge me and when to pamper me and for loving me despite all my imperfections.