The intention was there, as were plenty of harebrained Devilboy antics to dissect and divulge. Unfortunately, time was not.
The last month has snuch sneakily by without me so much as noticing, distracted as I was as I juggled work, the unadulterated joys of IVF, an icky-sticky virus, a newly obsessively clingy child, a broken down car, the Sydney public transport system, a chainsaw, three coloured balls and two firey batons. All whilst effectively operating as a solo parent (Dad of Devilboy has been working 80 hour weeks for the past six). This powerful combnation has proven to be a very effective method of killing the motivation to blog.
Ergo the precious few moments I’ve had to spare have been wisely used to collapse in an untidy heap.
On several occasions I’ve been set to begin another entertaining expose on the crazy goings on at the House of Devilboy but alas, have barely begun to mentally process one event before I’m up to my armpits in the next. That’s not to say that pen hasn’t been put to paper, or fingers to keyboard, as it were. There has been writing… so very, very much writing… just not the sort that translates into anything resembling a blog update.
I’ve composed parables about parenting, reviewed products until my head spun, shared travel advice for special needs families, produced narratives on travels I haven’t taken in years, chronicled life lessons on mother/daughter relationships and interviewed mad scientists, organic producers and world champion triathletes during the whooshing haze that has been the last four weeks… but all this proper job writing leaves little time for therapeutic blog writing.
Suffice to say my meagre attempts at blogging have resulted in fuck all. And sadly, now that tings are slowly returning to almost normal and I finally have a little time, my spinning brain has deleted the minutiae of the last month. Poo.
I guess there’s not much I can do except give myself a big fat F on this one and write myself a stern “must try harder” note for next.
Brain empty, entry over.