mother of all flip-flops

Sometimes when I blog, I write something that later embarrasses me. Sometimes I delete such posts, other times I just wait for them to become consigned to the scrapheap of archives. But thinking about the idea of truthful blogging lately makes me want to reframe certain things I've said.
One such occasion was when I recently wrote all that junk about preferring motherhood to work etc. Even as I was writing it it embarrassed me but I couldn't help myself posting it, as though some mischievous part of me just needs to be outrageous sometimes. Anyway, it didn't ring true to me because there's one small detail that I overlooked while awash with hormones: oops, I do have a career. I write; it's supposed to feed me and Harley one day. And I haven't given it up at all. The truth is, I'm doing more of it now. But in my eagerness to put some distance between now and the succession of dreary office jobs of recent times, I lost sight of the bigger picture.
I think what I was probably trying to say the other week was just something vague about being happy to be no longer stuck in an office cubicle in a high-rise in the city, combined with the thought that having a kid is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. (Mind you, it's only lately that the enormity of the job of child-rearing has sunk in. I have to show him the world. It's a big deal.)
Of course, all this vagueness and flipflopping on my part will make it quite hard for the Righties to generalise to all liberal feminist women everywhere.