You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.
If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better. -Anne Lamott
I'm thinking that the person getting ready to push a 9+ pound baby out of her nethers should, hands down, be the craziest-acting one in the house. Having said that, I'm about to give birth to my fourth 9+ pound baby, and, in my experience and opinion, the other people in the house always act far crazier. This hardly seems fair to the one in so much physical discomfort that she's counting down the hours for an epidural.
The 12.75 year-old, in particular, seems to have lost his ever-loving mind. Picture me as I am, just now, wearing Cat in the Hat pajama pants and sitting in Jim's scungy, blue chair, pondering. I had a high-school band instructor, once, whose habit it was to--with his forefinger--cover the very centers of his chin and lips whilst touching the underside of his nose and saying: "Hmmm," and--if I had facial hair--I could be him, Robert Cobb, in this moment.
What to write, say, do...and not...about my "talented and gifted" student whose grades don't reflect as much, suddenly? His voice is changing; he breaks and loses things with alarming frequency; he thinks he can rock Ringo Starr hair and, deep into fall, plaid shorts.
I'm at a complete loss, and with the others in the house, too, and who am I to try and raise up another someone? But I guess it's too late to worry about that, now, and I really need to go vacuum some log walls; they're very dusty except in those spots where the little ones have been climbing them.
Friday's the big day; wish us luck!