A freelancer's roundup

It's been almost exactly a year since I started attempting to freelance on a regular basis for actual money. This is not statistical data or anything, but I thought some people might be interested in the numbers of a first-year freelancer (who, admittedly, has had plenty of past writing experience, but never in the world of paid-for print). So, here are the numbers I can give you, based on my fledgling and not-quite successful career at this point:

In the past year, I sent out 542 pitches. Out of those pitches, I was ignored 211 times. I received 187 rejections, and had a piece accepted 144 times. That means I was ignored 39 percent of the time. I was told LOL NOPE 35 percent of the time, and I was allowed to write a piece for a publication 26 percent of the time.

I've published in 32 different outlets, writing from one piece to dozens of pieces for each.

I've written pieces for anywhere from $50 a piece (if you don't count free), up to $1,200 a piece, so far, with my average per piece probably hovering around $200, but I'm not doing that math. Maybe it's way lower, I don't know. I hope to markedly increase that this year.

I have made a grand total of: $15,069.55 so far. I am still waiting on a few thousand dollars worth of checks because haha, why pay freelancers in a timely manner, amirite?

Not great for a real person job, for sure. But not really that bad, either, considering if you'd told me last year that I'd be trying to make a go at freelancing for a living, I'd have laughed in your face.

So, recap:

Pitches: 542
Ignored: 211
Rejections: 187
Acceptances: 144
Money: $15,069.55
Publications: 32

And that's really it. I mean, what other info would be helpful, I don't know. This has been your "Darlena's first year as a freelancer" summation. Kbye.

My problem with the mommy wars

So, I have a problem with the mommy wars.

Ready?

...

...

They're BORING.

That's it.

I'm just, I mean, can we just not?

Now, I know I'm speaking from a place of privilege here because my girls are now six, and I remember, (oh, boy, do I remember) how super-duper important shit like whether I was classified as a stay at home mom or a work at home mom, or who loved their kids more or the most, or whether or not me calling my kids little jerks when they were meant I didn't love them, or breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding, or cloth diapering vs. disposables, or eating your placenta vs. painting with it or whatever the case, was.

I promise that I remember that this was important. At one time. For some weird reason.

I mean, look back in the archives of this blog to 2010/2011 and, like, half of it at least is made up of posts where I tell everyone that no matter what they do, they're probably still rad parents, and they don't need to worry about how long that dude's (aka the mom who just wrote whatever other blog) dick was. We were all dicks together, kwim?

So, yes, I get it. I get when some ahole publishes this piece on xojane that people are going to be hurt and upset and shout about it. Because she wrote it to be hurtful and upsetting so people would shout about something.

(Cue the whole, not uh! I was just stating my point of view to add to the discussion! I can't control people's reactions to my rightness! I'm just a writer doing what I do!)

Anyway, I'm not annoyed at that piece (well, I mean, I am, because it's hugely exclusionary to those mothers for whom staying at home is not a privilege, and trust me, lady, there are many!).

I'm annoyed that it got picked up by Time and various other outlets. I'm annoyed that then Salon and The Daily Beast and a bunch of others wrote a response.

Back in 2011, it would have annoyed me because people were getting their points of view across in major media outlets and I could not. That's no longer an issue for me (OH, MAN, CATCH THAT HUMBLEBRAG).

These days, I'm annoyed because it's taking up space in my news feeds, and forcing my attention to it when it's literally nothing. It's so incredibly boring, for real.

This is stuff my first-time mothers and I hashed over for hours on our own personal journals and forums and groups. We could spend days on this stuff. There is no drama like mama drama after all. And, there, at least it was in real time, and people could say to me, "oh, you work so hard and are such a good mom, so why are you still on here fighting with me?" and I could go, "NO U" and etc. It was glorious. It was relevant. It was where I knew where to find it.

It was not in Time or Salon or other national outlets. At most, a regular columnist would be empty that week and write a thing. But a freelancer? Hardly ever.

So, yeah. I'm annoyed. If you're going to complain about how being a stay at home mom isn't a job but a privilege in your opinion, for Christ's sake, have the decency to do it in your groups and forums where it belongs.

There's nothing new in that piece. There is no research, no new trend, no numbers. Hell, there aren't even any anecdotes. Just a personal essay. Which is fine. It's great. I love personal essays. But it says absolutely nothing that hasn't been said 1,000 times before and argued over a million times before that.

This isn't a post bemoaning the existence of the mommy wars (there are plenty of those, too. But for all their flappery, really, they're also just contributing to the mommy wars. It's all just an excuse to talk about how other people shouldn't parent. Meta or not.).

This is a post asking that the mommy wars please return to their designated areas. Some of us have more important shit to do in our lives right now. NOT because those mommy wars are not important (believe it or not, they probably saved my sanity when I had two year olds). But because they do more for their audience when in the right space, and, also, they annoy the general population less.

Just saying.

The Shift from SAHM to WAHM

I've always considered myself a stay at home mom. Yes, I've "worked" on writing and editing, and pumped out a lot of material over the years, but as it wasn't really a paying gig, I prioritized spending time with my children over most of my projects. And my kids got very used to that.

The downside is that they are pretty entitled when it comes to my attention or what I'm doing for them. We spent their first two years here in Florida (2-4) with me taking them out on adventures two to three times a day. Because I could. Because I needed to so we all didn't kill each other. Before they grasped the English language fully "what kind go outside, mama" was a phrase I heard round the clock.

In short, my babies are used to my eyes on them.

And to be honest, right about now, they are totally sick of my bullshit.

Since the explosion of the Washington Post essay (and even a little before that, as I'd been branching out into paid work starting at the beginning of the summer), I haven't been staring dotingly upon them every minute of the day. They're almost six, I figured. They should be able to keep themselves entertained, play with each other, whatever. I mean, I remember growing up. My brother and sister and I freaking had to play together. My parents didn't often engage in our games.

But somehow that feels like a different time?

I am totally feeling some mama guilt right now.

We had a rough day yesterday because I'm trying desperately to catch up in the whole "act like a human being and use words instead of freaking out at every little thing" department. And it's a rough lesson for them. But it's compounded by the fact that I haven't been playing with them hardly at all these past few weeks, which is an abrupt change. My kids don't do well with change. Add to that the constant headaches and neck pain I'm living with due to a herniated disc, and the mid-end of summer vacation where it's 100 degrees every day in Florida so everyone is bored, and we've got a recipe for cranky.

Would it kill me to play with them for a few hours a day? No.

It's just that I'm also not used to the change, not used to constant deadlines for publications in addition to being a supermom (albeit a FAILING supermom).

I vow today to cut them some slack. Not in the crying/whining department, but in the "mama, look at me being an elephant" department. In the "Be the cheerleader while we play pretend volleyball with a balloon" department. In the "I really need to be a better mom" department.

I've always been really good at spinning plates, but this freelance work took me by storm, and my kids aren't plates to spin.

I'll find a balance, I know it. But the transition has not been an easy one.

Here's to today being a better day.


 

The Daily Rundown of a "Stay at Home Mom"

"Men are changing minds, and women are changing diapers."

Really?

You, MacKay, are a turd. Time for a change.

The people over at Huffington Post wanted us to detail our mornings, and then contrast that to our husband's. That, I can do. I no longer change diapers (thank God), but I do some pretty important things.

7:30 - Wake up
7:45 - Coffee
8:00 - Clean all the dishes from last night and tidy the kitchen
8:20 - Make the kids breakfast
8:30 - Answer emails, write a blog post and post it
9:30 - Make my husband and myself breakfast, make my husband's lunch
10:00 - Kiss my husband goodbye, eat my breakfast
10:01 - Breakfast interrupted to oversee children making their beds and getting dressed.
10:08 - Breakfast interrupted to break up a fight between them
10:10 - Tell one of the kids to stop looking at the other one.
10:12 - Tell the other kid to ignore the first kid. (this goes on forever, but you get the point. Back to me.)
10:30 - Edit a few chapters of a book for a client
11:30 - Send out article submissions, pitches and other follow ups
12:00 - Make girls lunch
12:15 - Clean something (bathroom, fish tank, toy room, you pick. But something.)

And this is only because my kids are five now. And I do, seriously, get interrupted every three minutes when I'm not playing with them. Every. Three. Minutes. So, it's hard to get much done at all. But we prevail. Though, I'm sure I'll never change the world.

Oh wait. Yes, I will. Just wait. You'll see.

My husband's schedule:

8:00 - Wake up
8:10 - Make tea for himself
8:15 - Write, alone, in his office with the door shut (sometimes in the bathroom with the fan on, because we make a lot of noise around here, and he needs quiet to write).
9:30 - Get ready for work and eat breakfast
10:00 - Leave for work
10:15 - Work (copy editing newspaper articles for the New York Times International Weeklies).

Given this, I think it is safe to say that we both play important roles, not one role more important than the other. We're both making an impact on the world. While his may be more immediate, my contribution will someday see its light.

What we don't need is some blowhard coming along and trying to puff up one kind of work while putting down another. I mean, somebody had to have raised Peter MacKay. I'm just glad it wasn't me.





 

Mom Fashion

When you see me out and about town, I probably look, to you, severely lacking in style. My fashion choices are questionable, and I seem to be blissfully unaware of trends or even hygiene. I assure you, that is not the case. Here's a simple infographic explaining mom fashion.

So, in conclusion, it's not ONLY that we don't really give a damn what you think. We also don't have time to give a damn what you think. Just roll with it, guys. We have to.







 

Day In The Life - 2014 Edition

Since I've had this blog, I've done a DITL every Valentine's Day. Looking back at one photoed day, in its entirety, for each year, is a trip and a half, to be sure. My days have changed so much since the girls were babies / toddlers. And I, for one, am so grateful. Phew!

This year, a bunch of my guest and contributing posters came together and captured a full day of their own this past week. And looking at each one, our days are so varied, and yet all of them so spectacular!

This is my day. And at the end of it, links to everyone else's day, and also links to my February 14ths from each year. It's a really interesting project. And I love it.

6:30 a.m. Wake up, buttercup. Time to get the kids ready.

6:45 a.m. They're obviously not feeling it.

Oh, well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Time to make the beds.

I'm supposed to be getting their breakfasts ready, but, oh look, a full dishwasher, and more dirties in the sink. Grand. I do that first, then the breakfasts.

7:40 a.m. I don't know why we always leave ourselves 30 seconds to get to school, but it is what it is.

Welp, they'll be safe here for a few hours. Off I go.

8 a.m. - I post my blog (an easy one this day, just the 365 feminist selfies update). Then I edit this manuscript. (I'm a romance novel content editor in my free time, true story.) Thankfully, I've already read through this one once, and now I'm just looking for typos and such.

Welcome to my break room.

9:30 a.m. I've made our breakfasts and his lunch. My husband will leave for work in about 20 minutes.

As soon as he leaves, I do, too. I'd promised the girls I'd "eat lunch" with them that day. They're so cute when they see me show up at school.

10:30 a.m. and I run back home to print out some paperwork for the Internal Review Board for a research paper I have to do this semester. Of course, then I'm late to yoga.

11 a.m. And who is snapping photos when class is already in session? I'm so very zen. I'm sure none of these people minded the distraction at all.

On my way back from yoga I stop at the Publix to pick up some SweetHearts (for my sweethearts. HAH).

12:30 p.m and I am STARVING. Thank God for leftover lasagna.

1 p.m. - I've only got a few minutes before I have to pick up the girls, so I try to update Don't Need an Excuse, and good news! I got paid (peanuts) for my blog that day! Perhaps I won't overdraw my account this month after all! Huzzah!

1:45 p.m. - These are the happy faces I can't wait to pick up each and every day.

Feed them! QUICK.

Phew. Now they're feeling better. Maybe they'll even take off their coats (I swear they don't live in their coats!!)

Now that they're settled and playing, I suppose I should take care of this bad boy.

But not yet. First I'll lay down because I CAN.

15 minutes of lay-down time, and the girls wanted to ride their bikes. It's just as well. I have shit to do, and it's a beautiful FL day out there. Peace out, kids!

Lookie! All clean. Now I can...oh wait.

I forgot today was bathroom day. Ugh.

Okay! Now we're done time for...oh wait.

How does this happen, dishes?

Living room? What do you have to say for yourself?

FINE.

YOU'RE CLEAN NOW, TOO. Are you happy? Damn, I hate housework.

5 p.m. Kids are back and I'm starving again. So I get pretzel chips and brie cheese.

And the girls get pizza bites, blueberries and banana for dinner, because did you see all the cleaning I just did? The mom shop is closed, for real. (Also, I was their BFF for this dinner. Dulce actually said, as she hugged me, "I will never forget this, mom." LOL

Okay, Cinderella, this will never do. That ball ain't going to attend itself.

I clean up pretty nicely. I'm excited because my husband and I are going out for Valentine's Day for the first time in seven years. Yup. Also, it's our first date night since August. We are so glamorous.

Didn't get a shot of the tapas place where we ate, but here's the outside area of one of the bars we went to after our meal. V classy. I had a "mint juliep". Haha.

Here's a selfie at the next and final bar we stopped at, to prove I actually did get out of the house. (Carlos isn't much one for taking pictures while you're supposed to be out on a romantic date. So you all just get me. You'll just have to take my word for it that he was there.)

And home again, home again. Time to get into bed and do it all again the next day.

Not enough of me? We've got 2013, 2012, and 2011 all cued up. LOL

Had way too much of me already? Check out some AWESOME days from other people: (These are seriously worth your time.)

Joella at Fine and Fair

Tracey at Inside the Mommy Van

Jackie at Accidentally Mommy

Kate at Life, Love, Liturgy

C.A. from Smibbo

    

What I Am and What I Wanted to Be

I often say my life changed forever the day I found out I was having twins (the same day I then had to turn down a job offer in New York City), but in all honesty, my life changed a month before that.

It was Thanksgiving, 2007. I was living the life I'd thought for years I'd wanted to live. I'd made the huge jump from associate producer at a cable station in Connecticut to the morning show producer in San Diego. And not the baby morning show producer. The big guy. 7 a.m. to 9 a.m.

By this point, I'd covered wildfires nonstop with no breaks (commercials) for nearly a 16-hour period. I'd manually timed shows with nothing more than a stop watch and a printout rundown (unheard of in the business). I'd produced a show live from the Del Mar races. I'd interviewed Jennifer Lopez, Dog the Bounty Hunter, and freaking John Levitz (shut up, he's awesome.) I'd made Mario Lopez sing "Merry Christmas" San Diego, for a canned promo.

One of the Dukes of Hazard dented my car for a teaser.

Now, I'm not relaying all this because it's super-duper glamorous or anything, but I was only 25 at the time. It seemed as if I was on my way, know what I mean?

Anyway, in order to get this dream job (which was actually the stuff nightmares were made of, no offense, KUSI, but I cried at your station on the daily, and you can't tell me it's me because in my seven months there, thirty two  people quit. And more than half of them didn't have anywhere to go. I was number 33.) I'd moved across the country from my boyfriend (now husband).

I thought it was a good thing. We hadn't planned on being serious and forever, and an opportunity came up, and I didn't want him to hang out in a relationship he didn't want to be in just because I wanted him to be in it. (I know, I don't know, shut up.) Anyway, I packed up, thinking we'd try long distance for a bit, then probably break up, and live our own lives.

That...didn't happen.

I missed him with a ferocity I'd never previously known. He'd come to visit me every couple of months, and each departure would leave me wrecked for days.

I once called a friend of mine who asked me how things were in San Diego. I answered that the weather was beautiful. She told me that was the saddest "the weather is beautiful" she'd ever heard. In short, I was a wreck.

Sure, I had friends (Meghan!) and made more (Laura!), but I couldn't get my bearings. There was a San Diego me and a Connecticut me, and the SD me was just a shadow, a shell. No matter what I did. I went to coffee shops. I read dozens of literary masterpieces, I talked to the neighbors and made friends with my coworkers (the ones who weren't Satan himself, tbh). I listened to French music and took long walks on the beach. I was miserable.

That Thanksgiving, I went to a few different places. People knew I was alone and kindly invited me to join in their celebrations. And around all that festivity, all that happiness, I couldn't appreciate. I couldn't do anything but excuse myself to the bathroom to go cry.

I hated everything.

And that's when my life changed. That Thanksgiving. I somehow had an inkling that what was waiting for me (well, I mean, mostly waiting) in Connecticut was something bigger than my dreams of becoming a big-time producer. I didn't know what it would be at the time. But I knew right then, that day, that I had to give up the fast-track I was on. I had to admit defeat and go home. With no job, no insurance, no apartment of my own. It was a decision incredibly unlike me, perhaps the only one I've ever made like it (I usually stick things out until the bitter end). I didn't know what was in store, but I put faith in me landing on my feet.

I got off the plane on December 13th 2007. The doctors say that's the date I conceived.

Today, in 2013, I'm struggling with three research papers, two sick kids and a hefty order for a five-course Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I haven't "worked" in three years. The broadcast ship has probably long sailed.

The last time I saw a celebrity was this morning, but it was Charlie Brown on my TV.

I'm not anything close to what I thought I would be. I've not done anything I thought I would.

And I couldn't be more thankful for that.

Thanksgiving, two years ago.

Reasons Moms Might Not Talk to Each Other

Here's how it sometimes feels to be a mom, and why we can't seem to call on our support group of other moms when we most need to.

...

- Everyone else's kids seem perfect. They're so good, quiet, smart, well-behaved. Often your tales of having to drag your spawn out of the grocery store while they screamed bloody murder are met with blank stares.

- Since your kids are only kids, you are betting you are the problem. That's embarrassing.

- There's a possibility your kids might be the problem. And that's a problem.

- Sometimes, other moms will commiserate, but their stories never end up with them locked in the bathroom crying and begging for mercy.

- In this way, those moms are even harder to talk to because they actually deal with the same bullshit you do, and they can hold it together and lovingly nurture their babes, instead of dialing the circus over and over again as they rock back in forth in their bathroom full of tears.

- In the back of your mind, you're sure this is actually a normal, everyday problem and you're just being dramatic. You don't want people to think you think you're special or a mommy martyr or anything.

- In the other back of your mind, you fear this is actually not even close to normal, that no one has to deal with this issue like you do. And you don't want people to know you accidentally gave birth to a sociopath.

- You're the mom, you should know what to do. When you don't know what to do, it should be for cute things, like, which cloth diaper covers are the best for baby skin. If you don't know what to do with your own damn child, you fail. Goodbye.

- You don't want people to know you did the wrong thing. Again.


...

I don't really have anything to say about this list I've made. I'm just throwing out ideas as to why moms might not feel like they can use their supportive friends and family sometimes.

Oh, I would like to say that all of those things are wrong and hogwash, obviously. But that doesn't negate the fact that they can exist as thought-patterns in the brain of a frustrated, overworked mother.