He said to write an end to the story.
I wonder seriously if that is possible. He said that if I write an end, it won’t have control over me. That I could see a finish to it. That the rest would just be choices and decisions lived out.
Rarely in parenting do you ever get something tangible to prove that you are not completely effing up your kids. At least in my parenting.
So, I decide to teach a couple of classes at my kid’s homeschool co-op. Mostly because I am a great starter, but I suck at finishing things. I get these ideas that sound awesome, but in the end, I get bored, or I realize that I am stuck because I committed, but it wasn’t the greatest idea.
Eleven years ago, I literally fell down on my office floor, a scream coming from somewhere deep inside that sounded foreign to my ears, even in the moment.
Listening to Sarah McLachlan’s, Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, takes me back to the beginning. It really was the soundtrack to that trip, and maybe our lives.
I hear him.
I don’t want to. I wonder briefly if he might find his paci and if it might be enough.
I have been a mom for as long as I have been an adult. Which isn’t to say that I was actually a grown-up even though I was considered an adult. You get me?
I have these visions of how the first day of school is going to look. Why? I don’t know. I have homeschooled long enough to know it never, not ever, looks the way I envision it.