I refuse to believe that, or even understand it, because it’s what’s written on the little tab attached to my Yogi Tea tea bag this morning. I don’t like to get my platitudes from products.
I feel sort of bad that readers – whether also bereaved parents, curious lurkers, or random stumble upon-ers – can never have any idea whether the next post they read of mine will obviously relate to the purpose of this blog, or whether they’re about to be subjected to the aimless musings of a leftist (but activism apathetic) historian. But maybe that’s overly vain, to think anyone will care more than to just give it a pass if not interested.
My blog title, as Niobe brought out in the open, refers to a 19th-century book written by an actress, Fanny Kemble, during the year she spent in Italy after leaving her husband, and thus losing her rights to custodial care of her daughters. I can’t think outside of my subjective experience, and in my case, that means I am always already also an historian and cultural critic (however successful) in addition to being a bereaved mother (I am openly thriving as that). Other people leave their “career” behind, but I don’t. Every day when I was in the hospital, and even as they wheeled me into the OR, I was half-thinking about what my experience meant in relation to the discourse of pregnancy and motherhood.I guess that’s why this blog is sprawling, constantly changing from personal experience to personal perspective, and sometimes both at once or more.