So – ironically? fittingly? – that last post just turned into a scuffle that had little to do with the topic at hand. Is HBM just a domineering beeyatch who veils her tendency to aggression behind a superficially sweet demeanour so that she will fit into the nauseatingly conformist blogosphere? At least one person thinks so, and in the spirit of preserving space for disagreement – even when the disagreement, such as it is, is somewhat off-topic – HBM decided to engage and debate the issue and now she has a headache. And is just a little bit sick of herself. Of the blah blah blah wherefore art I blah that persists in her head and sometimes makes it out onto the screen as psycho-babble narrated in the third-person. Of the big fat whatever that looms up sometimes and obscures whatever it was that she thought interesting a minute ago.
I’m hot, and tired. I’m worried about six thousand different things – will Husband and WonderBaby really be okay when I go to BlogHer at the end of the month? Will I ever sleep through the night again? Can we really afford for me to stay at home in perpetuity? What will I do if we can’t? Will I ever feel physically strong again? Why am I stuck in a strange blogging feedback loop wherein I can only write about three things (sleep, penises and blogging – four things if you count blogging twice, as you should)? – and I’m sick of all the racing thoughts that can’t or shouldn’t be put to screen.
But then this:
This is like a cool, damp cloth pressed against a feverish forehead.
Sweet relief, for a moment. Thanks, baby.
Grab a bag of cookies and visit the Basement again when you have a chance. There’s a new visitor with a new story – head down there and pull up a chair…