Blogging, or rather commenting on blogs, has taught me limitations. It’s not a lesson I welcome. But there it is. The result being that when I’d like to spit – in answer to some totally inane opinions – I will not (any longer) do so. Or rather I will, but only in the privacy of my own earshot. Herculean efforts on my part are being made every day to keep the lid on the pan and not let the pressure cooker and its contents be splattered round comment boxes. The only person who has to clear up the mess is myself. Which I don’t mind. I am not exactly lazy and perfectly happy to live with any fallout. Even the toilet has once more given up the will to flush.
But then it’s not about ME, is it? It’s about others. And who am I to tell people that parenthood sure does bring out the little Hitlers in so many, too many? Moi? Not on your nelly. I’d like to. In fact, I am dying to do so. Not least to rescue those poor little blighters subjected to giants in their lives at knee cap height. Do still my beating heart. And I will take a deep breath and hold it. After all, one needs to carefully judge how many friends and foes one can handle. Many a Pyrrhic victory has been won only to find oneself in exile nevertheless. Better men than me have been left to rot because they didn’t know when to quit.
Anyway, a woman’s distractions are many and mine, thank God, this minute being the kitchen. No, not to scrape leftovers off the walls but start a fresh delight.
Hugs and kisses,