Ah, bugger.

There's nothing like being called out by a long time reader, first time caller on your blogging or lack thereof. My brain has not yet begun to synthesize all the reasons why I haven't been posting. I wish I could confess to one overriding reason. But I can't. The truth is it's just things, many things, that are clouding my writing, my vision and my mediocrity.

I think in great part it's that my working-mom self of now and my stay-at-home-mom self of last year are simply incompatible. Last year I spent a great deal of my time observing and absorbing. Right now I spend my time doing and taking in little. I have no fewer than 4 partially drafted posts that just never made it to the blog from the last few months. I started and then scratched them, deeming them to be un-blogworthy. It's not that they weren't subjects of interest, I just couldn't craft my way around the heart of them. No kidding, though, it was some funny shit.

It must all mean that things are going well for me professionally. Or perhaps it means that I'm screwing up this parenting thing less and less. Even, dare I say, perhaps some of my cynicism has softened since I was put in medical peril back in December.

All in all, my new found successes are making me far too competent at life and far less competent at creativity. My failed attempts at writing remind me of the old poem. I don't know who penned it originally, but it goes a little something like this:

Here I sit broken hearted, tried to shit but only farted.

Sigh. I'll try to do better.