I think about King Midas’s barber a lot. After that whole “Wouldn’t it be sweet if everything I touched turned to gold — Oh, crap, I’m starving to death and I gilded my daughter” mishap, Midas got in trouble again, by saying that Pan made better music than Apollo (who was — HELLO — the god of music). Even if you like woodwinds, you’ve got to figure that betting against the guy in charge of the sun, archery, and plagues is a terrible idea. Apollo gave Midas donkey’s ears to commemorate his stupidity, and Midas spent the rest of his life hiding them under a series of turbans and silly hats.
But his barber knew the truth. Unable to hold the secret in and under threat of death if he told anyone, the barber dug a hole by the river and shouted into it, “Midas has ass’s ears!”. Reeds grew in that spot, and when the wind blows through them, they whisper Midas’s secret.
So here’s the deal:
Midas = the hoped-for maybe-baby.
Barber = Baby Mama (me) and Sugar Mama.
Hole = this blog.
Reeds = the public nature of private secret-telling, which is to say, y’all.
More on who we are and what gives us the right to even think about undertaking all this in future posts.