I believe that I am bored.
Bored with food allergies, with posting about food allergies, with talking about breastfeeding, bleeding....bored, bored, bored. And yet, the urge to talk about the Democrats' power play escapes me, I do not with to discuss whether Egypt can dictate what happens to Saddam, nor do I even feel an urge to review my opinion on the MBTA's planned rate hike.
Yes, another one. Phooey on the lot of them - and that's all I've got.
Oh yes, and I'm bored with self-flagellation for being a mother with a gasp temper, and for getting annoyed with my kids. As the Man said tonight, from time to time the Eldest pulls a stunt that was tolerable when he was two (we were prepared for it then), and would be acceptable were he, say, the Toddles' age. But he's not, so we look at him as if to say, What the hell happened to you? And then we grump at him, offer him consequences, let natural consequences take their course, whatever.
This is all reasonable. I can deal, I can accept it. Thus, the ennui.
Let's talk about something else. How about taharat hamishpacha, a.k.a. the laws of Jewish family purity? Why is it that, when I go to the mikva (ritual baths), I'm supposed to pretend that I don't know anyone there? We're all women, we're all about to have a dunk in reasonably clean water, and then take our shriveled selves home to make whoopie. I know it, you know it, so if we're going to do this in a formalized fashion, why do we all look so embarrassed?
At dinner tonight, a very reasonable woman suggested that a bunch of us should get together and talk about this. Not in an academic, investigate the phenomenon kind of way, but rather as an honest acknowledgement that this is something we do which is odd, occasionally inconvenient, and even sometimes difficult. Building a language for it, she said, might make it easier to talk about.
And I bet nobody will mention cornstarch the entire evening...