I have been hormonally balanced for, like, months. I weaned my baby nearly a year ago and there is not a new one cooking. I happened to be browsing through some of my blog posts from my first year blogging--the year when I was most crazy. My husband was Lost In Action to the college campus, I was trying to build an office for him in the back of the garage, I had this brand new baby who was rather high maintenance, and I still had the other four children. Yes, I really was crazy. I wonder sometimes how I made it through that year and other, similar hard patches.
But, here's the thing. My posts were funny. I sat in my living room giggling all by myself at the two-years-ago me. Then I re-examined my last several offerings. Blah. Opinionated. Annoying. Smarty-pants. None were funny. None made me giggle.
I used to think I could never be truly funny because I had a perfectly normal childhood, love being a mother, and am straight. I have no angst, no one to prove wrong.
Last night it was made clear to me that I can only be funny when I am sleep-deprived, have sore muscles, am worked beyond my strength, have hormones imbalanced, smell like sour milk and am grumpy about not fitting my jeans . . . still. Now that my jeans fit, no one in my house needs twenty-four hour holding and my crazy has subsided, I have nothing to contribute to the good humor of the universe.
Reason number seventeen that I need another baby: Apparently I do better when I'm on the verge of going over. (Is that redundant?)