Greetings KuKd Strong Mommas and Inquisitive Guests!
Yesterday, as K and I were doing a bitchin' nine-hour bike ride from the mountains of Slovakia to the Danube River, I got really tired and hungry and sunburned feeling toward the end. Everything was closed and we couldn't find food, which makes me more crabby than most predicaments. So, to make the time go faster, I did the following inside my brain: 1) had an epiphany; and 2) wrote a poem that had absolutely nothing to do with KuKd.
First, the epiphany: I really want to allow myself to talk about things besides KuKd on this blog, because, as I've mentioned, part of my KuKd Survival Strategy has been to let go and move on. That is, reach a point where I can - and do- have an identity, a personality, a life, beyond KuKd. And I'm pretty dang sure I've achieved that (let's make that our little secret, though, for the BOGS would certainly argue disapprovingly that one NEVER "moves on").
The problem is, I personally don't like it when you think a blog is going to be about one thing and ends up being about something else entirely, or worse, seems to be about nothing in particular. I mean, if I don't see the point of a given blog in like two seconds, I say screw it and go play with Tebow instead. This world is ADD-inducing enough.
But therein lies the dilemma: isn't talking about other things actually related to Kukd, because it's part of the KuKd healing process? Isn't dwelling SOLELY on KuKd rather counterproductive, if not downright irritating? I'm sort of irritating myself with all this KuKd talk. And yet, will talking about other things give my reader ADD?
I'm going to gamble that it's OK for me to touch on other topics, to not connect every single little life experience and observation with stillbirth and miscarriage in some way. And if a few people get ADD from my blog, I wish them well. So there's my epiphany.
Next, the poem, which K wrote on his blog but I'll add here, to kick off my whole not-dwelling-on-KuKd identity transformation in the blogosphere:
Riding through Slovakia, I’m in a famished mood.
The villages are cute and all, but don’t have any food.
I really want a burger with a side of tater tots.
Or a chicken-fried schnitzel, wrapped in bacon, lots and lots.
There’s one little shop that might have food. It’s hard to tell.
But the doors are shut and locked. On a Tuesday? What the hell?
There’s a place across the street with tables and some chairs.
I ask if they have food, but all I get are mean stares.
I rummage through my bag again to see if food is there,
But all I find are breadcrumbs and some dirty underwear.
When we cross the Danube, I’m going to find some meat.
Because only one thing’s certain: southern Slovaks do not eat!