Where to begin.

Indeed it's been many weeks since I've posted, but don't think I ever forget for even a minute. I begin to long for it when too much time passes—the clicking at the keys, the discovery of the perfect word—and I turn itchy and I'm grumpy until I finally sit my ass down to write. Then I think to myself, now what was more important than this again?

It's been quite a month. Since the last blog, there was a lovely family visit which overlapped with Opal catching an ear-eyes-throat virus while at the same time cutting her molars. I then managed to pick up a subsequent illness that I haven't yet beaten after more than two weeks. (I still get queasy after a few hours of exertion and feel like the right side of my skull is perpetually submerged in bathwater, a thing that is as disorienting as talking into a cell phone with an echo). This is the second LONG illness I've had this summer and to say it's been an emotional and physical drag would be a grotesque understatement. But I'll spare you the details and simply defer you to the post "Sickness." from only a few months ago if you'd like some indications on the specifics of being ill while caring for a toddler.

Fundamentally, though, everything is fine and this is but a blip on the radar.

I've recently written a few article-type essays (one for the Shambhala Times and one for Elephant) which are a hell of a lot of fun to write, but also a little like offering my spiels while wearing Sunday formals, with a full face of make-up and a slightly artificial British inflection. Proper and buffed.

My intention for this blog has always been to be a place where I can show up in my tank-top with lopsided breasts and a pigeon's nest for a head of hair while I deliver the straight news and gory details on parenting and the like to those who choose to listen. First draft, no polishing necessary. This hasn't always been achieved as I tend to obsess upon polishing. But let the record show that it's been my intention to work towards working less.

So, here I am, merely one step up from being in my pajamas—casual loungewear—and wearing my new woven cap that keeps me from mindlessly twisting at my hair, gearing up to look at my own reflection in a cup of murky-pink Kombucha.

It's the same feeling as when I finally called my grandpa last night after way too long: a bit heartbroken at the amount of time I'd let pass by, water-logged by the preceding gap, a little guilty and brimming with love for him. I didn't quite know where to begin.