Well

here I was all ready to write a post about how I wasn’t going to post anymore. At least not for a while. For you see, I just have nothing to say. No really. Stop laughing.

Then Blackbird mentioned me and I know there will be a bit of traffic coming this way to see who I am.
And all my recent posts have been so crappy. And mundane. And melancholy. And give the perception I am some glass-is-half-empty wailing wench when that is just not who I am at all. But then if that is the perception, perhaps it’s the reality. And then there’s been some comments of late – well, two actually* – that confirmed my worst fears that is how I’ll be seen/what people will think that I just sort of lost my will to blog.

Oh sure, there are things in my head like where is that smell of wee coming from that is permeating the entire house.
Or why someone just hasn’t shot Mugabe and been done with it years ago. I mean, surely Israel, Afghanistan or Iraq could spare a suicide bomber or ten?
Or just what it is that makes me adore chai tea as I do. And that the one Cheryl makes me every Thursday afternoon at the boys swimming lesson is the best, with just the right amount of honey.
Where’s Grover?
Or how puberty sucks at the best of times but in a child with an intellectual impairment and dodgy chromosome the suckage scale just gets blown out of the water.
That I really need to find a decent acting class/program for Felix. Not one of those stage mother/show pony hideous hot-houses where the girls have ringlets and wear make-up from four while the boys all wear high-pants, lisp and do the eager-eyes-jazz-hand routine with way too much enthusiasm and just scream homosexual at an age such things should just not even be on the radar. Although I did spot Felix skipping on the football field last weekend.
Where’s Grover?
Jasper would love Kindergym. L.o.v.e. it. So shame the budget doesn’t go that far.
Oscar really needs some physio.
I need to make an appointment for Oscar to see that new paediatrician and maybe a new homeopath to help through the current minefield of tears and recalcitrant behaviour.
I need new bras. Ones without trapdoors. An underwire would be nice. And any colour than ‘nude’ thanks.
Badly.
Where’s Grover.
Must call J, one of my dearest friends from school who has just relocated to Sydney after many years forging a fairly awesome reputable career, including a stint in Geneva with an apartment overlooking the lake and getting to sit at a desk with ‘Australia’ in front of her.
Must call L and D and catch up.
What will I cook for dinner?
Must call and see E and A and their new little men – born one day apart and both with similar sounding names that start with C which guarantee I’ll mix them up from now until I’m dead.
Must go and help J pack up her life from the last eight years. It’s made slightly more bearable that BB will take her under her wing. Yes, two friends in Tuvalu – who would have thunk it!
I really need to vacuum the bedrooms.
Where’s Grover?
And so on and so forth.

But there’s been no drive to do a style post, or cooking post, or shoe post, or anything really. Nothing. Not a nadda.

Joke would tell me to get baking. Baking makes everything better and indeed it does.
So today, there is Bec’s Rotary Cake in the oven.
The house is full of baking smells laden with cinnamony goodness.
And indeed, maybe I won’t stop blogging after all.

* Yes I am that thin skinned.