At nearly eight
My daughter is all angles and long lines. Flinging herself out there with knees like a colt’s— Normal Rockwell would have loved to paint her. Those edges cut what she hits up against. Seven years, eleven months, she’s done with growing up. She’s picking out her car, naming her cat— how many more months until college? She asks. She’s ready to feel her baby...
Working on my upper arm strength so I can punch life in the face that much harder.
I could use some parenting advice. Hey, guys, raise your hand if you’re 100% confident in your parenting technique. Anyone? Anyone? Shit, only the people who don’t have kids. NEVERMIND, FORGET IT.
Someone told me today that the first year of going back to school full time is the most difficult. After that you start to realize that you are going to survive. So that’s cheerful anyway. By this time next year instead of whining about having to do homework and housework, I’ll be whistling while I do it, like Snow White.
Well, it’s easier now. Like flattened on the floor exhausted, whereas before it was like quivering in a ball in the corner, so that’s improvement. I really thought I’d be used to the whole single-parent-pre-pharmacy lifestyle by now. I thought I’d have it all figured out. By the looks of my front room though, I haven’t quite yet.