In lieu of something light and happy about puppies and kittens let me just come out and say I have been having the sort of week where I lie awake at night composing chapters of a new book called People I Love and the Cancers They Might Die From.
August was sick with the stomach flu for five days and it freaked me out, and I missed her funny antics and great questions. Now she is better, and perhaps now I will feel less paranoid.
I don’t think it’s entirely bad to spend a little time worrying about my loved ones’ demise. It reminds me how much I love them. But I do miss sleeping.
I sort of blame daylight saving time.
Also, I miss writing here and think my poem writing is suffering on account of not enough prose writing. And yet every word that I put down here (or anywhere, really) seems to be the most boring word in the entire world. Or the most melodramatic. Or the most self-pitying. Or trivial.
Also, I’m knitting a sweater and am not completely sure I’m going to like it.
And I turned 36. I keep thinking of those jumbo dozen-and-a-half egg cartons. Two of them. 36! And I’m just now getting to the good part.
Oh! And! We found out today that May has a place at the school we most wanted for her. So yay for that. Now to hope for full-day kindergarten (decided through another lottery, I guess) and a decent solution to the wacked out new world that is afterschool and summer care.