There are so many threads I’ve been wanting to pull at, any one of which would, in the hands of a more diligent and talented writer, make a lovely essay. It never seems to happen. I feel the passage of time so acutely. Several whole seeds of thought have gone by, and it’s hard even to remember them.
A few weeks ago, I had ambition to write a long post about rehabilitating the word homemaker.
Before that, I wanted to describe another skirmish in my ongoing (and futile) battle to give my kids a saner notion of gender-neutrality. This would be the bike story. You’ll probably never read it, because I’ll probably never write it.
I’ve also wanted to update about our attempts at gardening, and what they teach me.
There’s also the kernel of an essay about the work and the real work — and how being a mother is about two things simultaneously.
I’ve got pictures of the kids from the past several months. In some of them, they’re wearing sweaters. Now it’s the middle of June, and Gideon will celebrate his first birthday tomorrow, G-d willing.
I finally recycled the big pile of Wall Street Journal crossword puzzles. I’ve already got a new pile.
I cancelled my subscription to the Boston Globe, partly because it’s a crappy newspaper, and partly because I was never reading it anyway. Skimming was a victory.
Who am I, under all this busy work?
Does it ever slow down? If it does, will I know what to do?