We’re trying to teach K-Man to answer, “Two-and-a-half” to the all-too-frequent question (mostly from strangers) of, “How old is she?” (Yes, because he has longish hair, people assume he’s a little girl. I’m thinking of getting him a T-shirt that says, “Before you say anything, please know that I have a penis.”) Holy crap, the kid is two-and-a-half. Based on the sometimes crazy way he acts these days, I’m surprised he doesn’t answer the “How old are you?” question with “Why?
Remember T.'s fish Spike? The one that died last week, only 48 hours after we'd first bought him? A mere 24 hours after that, while we were still in Maryland with my parents, Scott called.Molly had her baby! He declared, triumphantly, on the phone.Who? I asked. Did we HAVE a friend named Molly? A friend expecting a child?But Molly, of course, was T.'s other fish, a rotund orange one that Scott swore was pregnant when the kids and I brought it home from the pet store.
I write for a living. Not only blogs like this one, but also parenting books, creative plans, advertising, Web copy, corporate messaging and even the occasional real estate brochure. As a result, I’m almost always facing an avalanche of deadlines. Even this very site requires me to post content four or five times a week. Sometimes, however, I simply can’t find the stuff to write about. It’s not that I’m “blocked,” but instead, I’m flat out cooked. Just done. Life gets the better of me.
I have a song I sing to T. sometimes; I sing it to her when things just aren't going her way and she collapses, in a fit of anger and frustration--you know the kind that just makes a child cry and cry, because, as a little kid, there's often not much else they can do. I used to sing it to L. when he was small, but now that he's seven, he wants nothing to do with it.
It's so hard to be little,
It's so hard to be small
When you're tired and sad,
One of the conversations I overheard on the train trip recently (if you’re a writer, take a train trip! Better yet, take a train trip from somewhere deep in the South, going to points North--you’ll have endless material to pull from for who knows how long) was between two women who discovered, by chance, that they were both from the same street in Brooklyn.
One of my best friends in high school was from Spain. So, whenever I’d get all [filtered word]y about something, he’d let me know that “Patience is a beer chew.” It’s a mantra that I’ve taken with me (over the many, many, sadly many more years since high school), but still struggle to live by.
We had a tragedy befall our pet family this week. When the kids and I headed out of town on Wednesday we left my poor husband at home in charge of not only the dog, the cat, and the rabbit, but also our four new fish: two guppies L.
School is already an integral part of K-Man’s (and therefore my) life. Two days a week, K-Man goes to one school for a few hours. The other three days are full-time at another. I drop him off five days a week and pick him up four.
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