Featured blogger Beth McNichol appears every Tuesday.

Let's just start here: The word "I" and I have never been too cozy with each other when it comes to writing -- unless it appears between quotation marks and is an "I" that belongs to someone else. Our relationship has always been standoffish, at best. "I" makes me very nervous, like I'm completely naked and standing in the middle of the street, with everyone pointing and laughing at the silly person who keeps talking about herself. (Though it's the lack of clothes, not the talking, that is probably causing the laughter; I have had two kids, after all.)

This is largely because I spent years writing about other people, other people who were legitimately fascinating, other people who were three-star generals, charitable Marines, future NBA stars, hall-of-fame coaches, Broadway costume designers, future third-wheel presidential candidates and gifted comedians. People who, let's face it, own the word "I" and could wallpaper their homes with "me" and "my" if they wanted to. People who, at the end of the day, made me question the course of my life as I programmed my DVR to record all repeats of "Dawson's Creek." (Joey & Pacey 4-Ever!)

But these were also the sort of people who came from a mother. Before we do anything else in life, before we research medical cures, start soccer camps for underprivileged kids or win the World Air Guitar Championship, we all come from a mother. And by my calculations, this can only mean one thing:

I am finally fascinating, by the transitive property of motherhood.

(Granted, my kids haven’t done anything life-changing yet, but I can tell by the way they watch TV and endlessly babble that they will one day.)

So, here I am. Writing a mom blog. My "I" and me are going to be around for the next few months, telling you all (OK, some) of what I know about the daily lives of my daughters, MJ, 3, and Little L, 7 months, with a sprinkling or two about my husband, Randy, and just a touch of Molson. (My oddly sober stepdog, not the beer.)

And I should warn you: I love minutiae. I think it's where the true stuff of life lives, the blood and bones of our histories -- if any of us are patient enough to listen to it. I will try not to bore you, though I cannot make any promises. At the very least, I will strive not to mention poop, though as you can see, I have already failed.

If someone had told me a decade ago -- after I paid a ton of money for a graduate degree that did not include analytical courses on the relative merits of Steve and Joe on "Blue's Clues" -- that I would be staying up until 2 a.m. to chronicle the misadventures of my toddler, I would have politely giggled. But that was when I still had time to subscribe to, and pretend to read, The New Yorker. Let's just say that I've been, oh, what's the word? Ah yes, humbled ... by the task of motherhood.

One of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure of meeting was William Ivey Long, who would rather be known for resurrecting the dying farming town in which his father grew up than for the 5 Tony awards he has won. He told me this about Seaboard, N.C.:

“The main thing is to expose it as an extraordinary place,” he said, whispering conspiratorially. “The truth is that it’s an ordinary place. It’s like thousands of other little towns. But ordinary is fabulous in this situation, because it’s where you’re from.”

Mother-land is a lot like that: extraordinary in an ordinary way. We could never give it the respect that it deserves, because it is impossible to measure the worth of something so huge. But here we are, fumbling through the darkness at 2 a.m., giving it a shot.

And by the way, in case you're wondering: Steve is best.

To read more about Beth, go to MotherBunker.