Packing a house. Not eating chocolate. Writing right now. Thirteen-year-old girls. Patience. Ending arguments. Balancing a checkbook. Keeping a kitchen stocked with milk and cereal. Laundry. Preschool forms that don’t allow you to respond that your child’s dislikes are peanut butter, idiots and losers. Understanding mortgage paperwork. Keeping new boots new. Not swearing in front of my children. Kegels. Liking Keats. Liking classical music. Solicitors. Excel spreadsheets. Holding conversations with a 3-year-old’s imaginary friend: Mom, you have to buckle Dash, too. Okay. Okay. Click. There he’s buckled. No, he’s not. You forgot to tell him to get in the car. Okaaay. Dash, get into the car right now or we’re leaving without you. Making oatmeal. Boy body odor. A tenth week of soccer chauffeuring. With Dash.
Ha! I have a bigger list than you.
No, I can’t believe that!
And one thing you do exceptionally well:
…make me laugh.
Have a brownie. The rest of your day will automatically improve.
Did you have an imaginary friend? Mine was Jimmy. I wonder what he’s doing these days…
Hey, new house?
Oh you are delicious! I’m so reassured that poised and luscious you is troubled by ending arguments, and thirteen year olds, and keeping your cool. How can it all be so, so hard? And why is there so much laundry? And why is eating chocolate all there is to do sometimes? And how tricky are these 3 year olds who create characters who can outsmart us at every turn? Loving you much xxxx