And may I add that although, in yesterday's late-night-posted-photo, I look like a dishevelled ex-hippie-turned-pseudo-indie twentysomething,
I am actually a dishevelled, actual, PhD student turned mother.
And still a PhD student.
And a happy one. I went to the YM/YWCA last night to swim. I swam for half an hour. I sat in the steam room. I sat in the hot tub.
This was perfect.
Today I went back to the Y with Hugo for Baby Splash Time. Hugo loves the water and he isn't afraid at all. He wants to jump in - he wants to dive into the fountains - he wants to do a backstroke across the kid pool.
I know this is boring. Here's the thing : I think of a lot ineresting things to write, and I have odd interesting moments all day. And they are sometimes disturbing, or provocative, or curious. But I'm scared to write them down. Because then they are real - but they are real only in the way that I write about them. My written record of these important events becomes the thing : the thing is no longer itself. My writing is.
And my writing is not up to the task.
