Noah is still sick. I am still sick. Jason claims to be feeling better, but I think he just got sick of changing Noah's never-ending stream (ew) of sick diapers and decided going back to work was a good idea.
I'm sick of writing about Noah being sick. I'm sick of reading about other people's sick kids. The ClubMom gig has led to some serious mommyblog burnout, which makes me feel like an asshole, what with all the eye-rolling and God, can't anybody write anything that's not about their preshus boring baby, and also YOU! YOU THERE! GET OFF YOUR GODDAMNED PARENTING HIGH HORSE, CHILL OUT AND MAYBE THINK ABOUT GETTING A HOBBY THAT IS NOT CHILD-RELATED OMG.
(It just got verrrrry meta in here, didn't it?)
I guess I've veered into a blogjam, and I'm kind of stuck. I'm burned-out. I'm in a rut. I'm bored with myself, my writing, my whole "schtick" or whatever. Run-on sentence, lots of commas and modifiers, caps lock at the end for emphasis, rinse, repeat. Day after day. Over and over. Without the freedom (see: sellout, dirty whore money) to take a break or even (gasp!) walk away entirely.
Which is something I never would have even THOUGHT about doing until...I realized that I just plain couldn't.
Ugh. I feel ridiculous even writing this. "Hi readers! Thanks to your readership, I'm living the dream! The paid blogging dream! And now feel sorry for me while I whine about it, because oh, the pressure! 'Tis unbearable! Ack, alas, woe, bah."
Dear God, I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. Hell, I don't even feel sorry for me. I actually wish it were possible to deliver a backhanded bitchslap to my own damn self, because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN.
(See? See that? Caps lock at the end. What makes me do that? Why can't I stop doing that? Why is it taking all my strength from letting my pinkie finger hit caps lock RIGHT NOW?)
(My pinkie finger! Is posessed!)
Yesterday I decided to write about something different. Something besides Gymboree or Blue's Clues or moving or yet another entry about the endless all-consuming joy that is motherhood or blah blah tire blah baby snot poop blah.
I thought, "Hey! I want to write about what a not-so-secret nerd I am. I want to write about how I spend my days refreshing Lonelygirl15.com in hopes for a new episode (damn you Sweetney!). I want to write about hunting for cassieiswatching ARG clues because seriously: am uber-nerd. I wonder if anybody else out there wants to go geocaching (damn you Sundry!)? I wonder if anybody else is obsessed as I am with all these YouTube vloggers all of a sudden? I wonder if anybody else knows how to pronounce the word vlog?"
And every time I tried to write something, I froze. I mean, Alternate Reality Games on a mommyblog? What if people had no idea what I was talking about? What if people just whined because I didn't include any baby pictures? What if I really can't write anything that's not about my preshus baby?
Somewhere along the way this stopped being fun. Somewhere along the way I became too aware of my audience, my critics and their expectations. Somewhere along the way I stopped doing this because I wanted to.
The other night I dreamt I emailed my old boss and asked to go back to work part-time -- just a couple days a week. He said yes, and the feeling of pure relief -- the feeling of an enormous weight being lifted off my shoulders -- was one I still vividly remembered when I woke up.