The other side of the decade. How you got here, I still don’t know.
Today you decorated a butterfly mask. Tomorrow is bigger to you than Christmas. You already know what you’re going to wear. I’m pretty sure your ensemble includes that butterfly mask.
You don’t yet know the flavor of your cake, though you’ve tried to get it out of me a couple times. You made sure to remind me to pick it up after 3 PM tomorrow, as if I’d forget.
Tonight we read about Marie Curie and Melba Liston. You were very specific that you needed to read about a scientist tonight. Science, you said. You wanted science. You were surprised to hear that there were computer scientists in your book, but you wanted the old fashioned stuff, so I went with Mme. Curie.
Tonight your brother shared his apple slices with you, a first act of kindness from him that I haven’t seen him do before. But he’s seen you do it so many times, and he loves to emulate you, so it shouldn’t surprise me. You’re always so good at sharing.
And you put your clothes away. It only took five days of nags, reminders, and vague warnings. (To be fair, I still haven’t put mine away, either.)
Anyway, kiddo, tomorrow you are six. You set the table, put yourself down for naps, open the gate for your parents (and know the gate code), love slides and swings, think Kirby is the best, and make me super proud.
We’re almost halfway to a teenager.
You’re just so wonderful.
In which I write poetry, which I don’t do much or well, but I did this because it’s been knocking around in my head and we are moving.
Aaaaand we’re 400 words into LW&C #6.
Aaaaaaaaaand my new sleep med is now kicking in so I need to stop before I go completely whackadoodle.
…seems like a great time to write a blog post and publish it on the Internet!
The good news is my proposal for the next anthology has been accepted.
The bad news is, we’re selling our house and moving closer to my workplace and everything is chaos on the homefront with multiple disruptions and no flow time.
This isn’t abnormal. I’ve worked under this kind of pressure before, but it also isn’t optimal. I’ve started hand-writing the outline to rattle out ideas as that is one of the ways I work on short-form fiction when I don’t necessarily have a lot of spare time at home.
Also, this story may come with a recipe? Look, I don’t know, it’s too early to say, but it indicated it wanted me to include a recipe. If not in the story, than as a bonus piece on this website. You’re welcome.
No title yet. Probably won’t have one until we get closer to the final edit.
About six months ago, my therapist looked at me and said, “You give away your power a lot, don’t you?”
“Um,” I said, and then babbled out something that got me a skeptical look.
Honestly, I didn’t have a good answer for her then, but six months on, I do now.
Yeah, I do. All the time.
Zo’s seatbelt got stuck, and that’s when the trouble started.
We pull up every morning to the line in front of her school. One way in, one way out. I throw the car into [P]ark, and I wait for her to unbuckle, grab her things, open the door, and get out. I am not allowed (according to copious signage in multiple languages) to get out of the car and help her.
But her seatbelt buckle got stuck, and from the back of our four-door sedan I hear, “Mama, help?”
So I unbuckled and with my shortie short lady arms I managed to wrangle her out of her booster seat. After that she truly is on her own, getting her unicorn backpack, her unicorn lunchbox, Elsa-from-Frozen jacket, and an adult-sized Nissan Altima door open. Thwew. I don’t know how she does it. I admire her for it every day.
I admire her for it. The mom sitting behind us in the hulking black truck — does not.
Zo started as I said, “Ignore her, just go. Go. Go.” And off she went, sprinting for class, even though she wasn’t late. I cast a glance at the truck, and then I saw her. I saw the Other Mom.
Speaking of stuff I find while decluttering — it’s been about twelve years since my attempt to collab on a graphic novel.
Speaking as a book lover, I have no problem getting rid of books.
This appears to be a bit of a scandal in the wider world at the moment ever since Marie Kondo told you all to burn your tomes and paint your naked bodies with the ashes*.
Sunday we planted, Zo and I. There were a number of tulip and daffodil bulbs leftover from last year I just never got around to planting, so on Sunday we endeavored to fix that.