I want to control the narrative that my kid receives about sex. And I CERTAINLY don't want her friends explaining it to her...
Know what grace looks like for me? It looks like reckoning with a 1000 piece puzzle. It looks like family. It looks like gratitude.
This is Sam I Am. I love him. But we had a falling out earlier this week. I'm trying to forgive. Really. But he's an elf. He has ONE JOB. I just need him to do that job. Is that too much to ask?
This beautiful, little human is trying to kill me. I mean, not with anything as overt as knives and such. But with eye rolls and sighs, ingratitude and accusations. And if you tell me it will only get worse as she gets older, I will jump through this screen and kick your ass.
This is my life, RIGHT NOW. Because, good or bad... it's fleeting. I'll just stay where my feet are & take it as it comes.
When I was a kid, Field Day was my day of triumph. I got to shock people every year with the fact that I could RUN. I was fast. I guess I didn't look particularly athletic. And, to be honest, my parents didn't really push sports. And coming home dirty from school was frowned upon. So, yeah, rough & tumble wasn't really my game. Which made it even more fun to kick ass every year in the field day race.
I don’t think about her often, this baby that would’ve been my second child. But sometimes the missing of her will sneak up, unexpectedly. Sometimes.
We’ve entered the season of snark with Jane. And, dear God, it is wearing me down.