when i started this blog, i had vague goals, especially timewise.  i thought maybe i could actually keep it going for a couple of months.  maybe.  if i didn’t run out of things to say.  maybe even longer, if i actually found a voice.  i thought it might be cool to try to blog through Oscar’s first year…a record, a witness to that experience.  i thought that was about as far into the future as i could commit, and as far as my ego could imagine anybody actually possibly conceivably reading.  it seemed a lifetime.

and yet it’s been two years today.  and i can’t imagine stopping, not really.  even in stretches like this where i struggle, where my internal narrative runs amok and i do not know, anymore, what is worth saying and what is just better left to die on the vine, unspoken neuroses being so much more charming than spoken.   but i think after two years, dear readers, we’re past charming.  or certainly i feel well past charming, and more in the, erm, “settled” phase of things, where toothbrushing gets a little more optional.  i think we’re in the lounge-about-and-scratch-ourselves stage around the crib.  and my neurotic self thanks you for being here anyway, even with the bloom all off the rose and whatnot.

and since two is the cotton anniversary, and we’re letting it all hang out, please feel free to don a celebratory pair of tighty-whities or something else equally uncharming, scratch, and tell me what i secretly wonder whenever i watch those weird cable makeover shows…are there really women out there who wear lacy underwear, day in, day out, year in, year out?

enlighten me.