I’ve been trying to write something, anything, but all that seems to formulate in my brain are just these little snippets. I hope these will do.
For the first time ever, Sammy volunteered to make his bed all by himself, and practically pushed me out the door so I wouldn’t help. Please God let this be the beginning of a trend.
Sabrina had an, um, altercation with a shopping cart last week, and has a Fight Club-style shiner as a souvenir. It looks like she got into my makeup and only got halfway through before I caught her. Or perhaps she was working on a future pageant look. Anyway, every time we go out, I’m sure every single person who sees her is wondering if CPS should be contacted.
Being prone to both perfectionism and anxiety, you can imagine how much fun it was for me as a kid on report card day. I now find that report card day as a parent is even worse. My apprehension is not aided by the fact that today’s report card resemble absolutely nothing of the report cards of (my) yore. I even tried reading it backward, to no avail. Sammy could be Albert Einstein or Fred Flintstone, and I’d never be able to tell from this charming little score sheet.
(Please know my angst does not stem from a need for my kid to transcend some kind of academic level of awesomeness as designated by me. No, this is all my own neurosis. My kid is awesome no matter what that Swahili says.)
To the surprise of no one, potty training is challenging at best. Especially when the child in question likes to sneak off to soil her underpants and then hide the evidence.
Oh dear. I’ve bored myself. I’ll just stop now.