Back, back, back

I've been working on some other writing projects lately, namely essays for Salon and Open Salon and RootSpeak—pieces with actual beginnings, middles, and ends as opposed to this free-form bloggy stuff. But yesterday I was randomly inspired to check in with the various lovely free-form-bloggy-stuff-writers (as well as writers of things with beginnings, middles, and ends) who I used to read when I was up in the dead of night cursing—er, nursing—my (then) infant, and I discovered that they're all pregnant and working new jobs and living in new houses (and this new house and this one... I'm jealous!) and growing amazing gardens. In other words, they've moved on without me, and truthfully it made me a little sad. Like, Hey, why didn't anyone tell me?! Then I remembered they don't actually know me and it was my job to click on their blog, not their job to send me a handwritten update in the mail like my mom and grandmother still do, despite their arthritis and, in the case of my grandmother, despite the fact she doesn't quite remember who I am or where I live or where she lives or whether her siblings are still alive or whether it's really true that she's going to be "moving back home" "any day now." Don't let me get old, okay?

Anyway. Mostly-staying-at-home motherhood is lonely, and it's nice to be back here among "friends"—or other women (I feel like I'm supposed to say "people" here instead of "women," but I'm not going to—I'm going to say "women," if only to make up for all the times people (men) say "men" when they really mean "people") who would really, really like to be able to ignore their children (or their work) for just three or four minutes so they could get a tiny bit of writing done, dammit.

You care about postpartum sex and Steve Almond's essays and Ani Difranco and mixed metaphors and avoiding those granny-skirts on your swimsuits at all costs—and for that I love you all.