I am still alive...
...just very, very lazy.
I have (at last count) about a billion things to update here, but, well...LAZY. It speaks so succinctly for itself.
Okay. If I may just waive the white flag of innocence for a moment. "Lazy" is the word I have chosen to describe the 24 hour a day, 7 day a week, unassisted mothering of a very engaged 2.5 year old who has apparently taken my daring to sit before this other-worldly portal as some sort of personal insult of the highest and most severe degree - thus limiting my available blogging hours to those between her falling asleep and my carrying her to bed (ie, ZERO).
Okay. So not exactly zero, either. Because, if I'm to be truthful, there is that hour or so after she falls asleep and BEFORE I ferry her to bed...that self-same, blissful, peaceful, duck-free hour during which the white, ungainly blancmange I am so displeased to call my body and I, prostrate and mentally weak with the constant pressure to come up with the answers to all things beginning with "Why...?", am lying on the couch and mindlessly watching television (documentaries, I swear!!). I could choose to give up this sweet, precious, restful hour to blogging. I could choose to allocate this hour to vouchsafing the particulars of my day to you, the wonderful few who dare to follow my pointless ramblings. I could choose to conjur up the effort required to wax erudite...intelligent...even daringly political on subjects vital to my heart such as unschooling and treating children with respectful consent. I could also choose to spear out my own eyes with shards of glass. Because, at the end of the day, I WANT to be lazy. I enjoy being lazy. I have EARNED being lazy.
You mothers will understand what I mean. It's the kind of laziness that you will defend - suddenly and even terrifyingly against any non-combatant ideals to which you loftily aspire - to the talon-bearing, teeth-gnashing, telephone-ripping-off-the-wall, husband-daring-to-ask-you-if-you-want-a-coffee-heavy-pot-stoving-in-the-head-of, death. It's lazy with a capital "get the hell out of my way, I'm a mother and I've had enough of every other human on this planet who might possibly want something from me at this moment and I'm bloody well doing NOTHING or I'll kill you." It's where lazy wishes it could go for its holidays. If it was brave enough. Or lazy enough. It's the kind of lazy where normal lazy takes a few, rather drunken steps backwards, holds up its lazy hands in supplication and say, "Whooaaa, mate. I don't want any trouble here. I'll maybe catch you later."
I could go on. But the above-mentioned lazy (the one currently holding a weapon to my head and smiling at me in a bright, "let's chat" kind of way) has informed me that I have a date with the couch. Maybe even a freddo frog.
Laziness is in the eye of the beholder. As long as those eyes are mine, and the mouth below them is filled with chocolate, anyone who has a problem with laziness can go...do something incredibly amazing and sporty and tell me about it later. There's napping to be done.