Why DiscomBUBulated?

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 baby has struck me dumb. Not a very promising preamble to a blog, is it?  As a writer, the most I have been able to muster are Facebook status updates indicating whether I’ve managed to cook something tasty. Or cut myself badly on a household object.

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 or fitness instructor?

I wonder if I still am a little mute, hence the decision to start a blog to see if words cometh. And if they do, hopefully not too many of them will be words like “cometh”.

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, or the things that just make sense. Like cheese.

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