Until I started the DiscomBUBulated blog back in 2012, a year after the birth of my second child, having babies had struck me a bit dumb. Not a very promising preamble to a blog, is it? As a professional writer by trade, the most I had been able to muster were Facebook status updates indicating whether I’ve managed to cook something tasty. Or cut myself badly on a household object. Life as a single woman was full of narrative. I could often been seen nodding knowingly to the lyrics of songs, and ruminating on the hows, whats and whys of every single sodding thing that happened to me. Having a child spins the narrative way off centre and I thought a blog might help me hoist it back onto to a more sensical path, to help me work out what the hell was happening.
[pullquote]If one is endlessly trying to find the right words to describe the smell of the back of their neck or the aching loss of one’s time, can one truly be sure baby won’t topple headlong into the fireplace or grow up to become a sociopath?[/pullquote]
On giving birth, I expected to sit back and be able to contemplate the enormity of it all, the wonder, and perhaps put it to words…but no. Perhaps it’s some sort of evolutionary survival mechanism to ensure baby thrives. If one is endlessly trying to find the right words to describe the smell of the back of their neck or the aching loss of one’s time, can one truly be sure baby won’t topple headlong into the fireplace or grow up to become a sociopath?
So discomBUBulated. A play on words. A place to write. I might write about cutting myself on household objects (not intentionally. Things are never that bad). Or I might just write about the range of things that discombobulate me, which is far and wide, family life or the things that just make sense. Like cheese.