It's Intrepid's birthday.
He's six-might-as-well-put-me-in-a-home-right-now-teen.
Sorry. Was my inner dialogue coming out again? I'm supposed to be working on that. Now that I'm a screenwriter, I have to try and be less wordy. I have to get to the point; to make my writing as tight as a--
No, Maven. Just no. That was going far, far too South, even for you. Besides which, I think I've used up my "vagina" quota for the week.
To get to the point, I'm suddenly stupidly old. It doesn't matter that I'm "only thirty-six" and "that's so young." I might as well be 96 and peering over the steering wheel of my Cadillac in the church parking lot after a bridge tournament, because that's about as elderly as I'm feeling right now.
I tried to compensate today wearing my amazing new "Robots are coming and they want kittens" t-shirt, but I didn't feel nearly as young and hip as I did when I excitedly bought it last weekend, handed it to Geekster, told him it could be a Christmas present for me, and then stole it back from him an hour later before I went out. Not even close.
And then I tried (with said t-shirt on) to take hip and trendy black & white photos of myself. Because that's what the young people do. It was an epic youth fail as well. I still feel like my time on earth is limited and am pondering if my awesome will become fossilized or turn into some kind of overpowered hyperfuel.
My consolation prize is that I have a new Facebook profile picture. In which I still look like I'm in my mid-thirties. But I'm not driving a Cadillac, so I guess that's something.
Anyway, the point is that our eldest is now sixteen. Other than feeling old, I'm amazed that any child of ours has survived this long. Not only that, but he's the most together, balanced human being I know. That either says a lot about him or very little about everyone else in my life. Let's go with the former because I like it when people talk to me.
Intrepid is kind, funny, sincere, creative, thoughtful and wise beyond his years. He shares his birthday with the likes of Mark Twain and Winston Churchill, which doesn't surprise me because he's absolutely amazing. I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. The boy positively shines.
My friend D posted on my Facebook wall today. One thing that made me teary was this:
"Your journey began [sixteen years ago] and I believe so much of who you are was born in that day."
I told her off for making me cry. But she's right: so much of who I am was born the day my son was. He gave life to me as much as I gave life to him. Unconditional love for another will do that to a person.
And it's with that in mind that I begin the process of writing my book. The whole thing seems positively overwhelming, but it's time. I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's heap another project onto the responsibility fire, why don't we? It seems fitting to start it today. And since I have no common sense whatsoever, I'm going to do what I do best and follow my impulses down the windy trail to What-the-fuck-did-I-just-get-myself-into-Land.
Geekster ran out and got Intrepid a new keyboard. Despite being hearing-impaired, he's a great pianist! (I still can't say that without giggling. The kid rolls his eyes at me every time.) I took it upon myself to write his card:
Note how I initially suggested he might emaciate himself. Nice.
I meant emancipate. Which he might want to after that card.
Did I mention I'm writing a book? Lots of big words in it. I'm sure it's going to go great.
He's six-might-as-well-put-me-in-a-home-right-now-teen.
Sorry. Was my inner dialogue coming out again? I'm supposed to be working on that. Now that I'm a screenwriter, I have to try and be less wordy. I have to get to the point; to make my writing as tight as a--
No, Maven. Just no. That was going far, far too South, even for you. Besides which, I think I've used up my "vagina" quota for the week.
To get to the point, I'm suddenly stupidly old. It doesn't matter that I'm "only thirty-six" and "that's so young." I might as well be 96 and peering over the steering wheel of my Cadillac in the church parking lot after a bridge tournament, because that's about as elderly as I'm feeling right now.
I tried to compensate today wearing my amazing new "Robots are coming and they want kittens" t-shirt, but I didn't feel nearly as young and hip as I did when I excitedly bought it last weekend, handed it to Geekster, told him it could be a Christmas present for me, and then stole it back from him an hour later before I went out. Not even close.
And then I tried (with said t-shirt on) to take hip and trendy black & white photos of myself. Because that's what the young people do. It was an epic youth fail as well. I still feel like my time on earth is limited and am pondering if my awesome will become fossilized or turn into some kind of overpowered hyperfuel.
My consolation prize is that I have a new Facebook profile picture. In which I still look like I'm in my mid-thirties. But I'm not driving a Cadillac, so I guess that's something.
Anyway, the point is that our eldest is now sixteen. Other than feeling old, I'm amazed that any child of ours has survived this long. Not only that, but he's the most together, balanced human being I know. That either says a lot about him or very little about everyone else in my life. Let's go with the former because I like it when people talk to me.
Intrepid is kind, funny, sincere, creative, thoughtful and wise beyond his years. He shares his birthday with the likes of Mark Twain and Winston Churchill, which doesn't surprise me because he's absolutely amazing. I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. The boy positively shines.
My friend D posted on my Facebook wall today. One thing that made me teary was this:
"Your journey began [sixteen years ago] and I believe so much of who you are was born in that day."
I told her off for making me cry. But she's right: so much of who I am was born the day my son was. He gave life to me as much as I gave life to him. Unconditional love for another will do that to a person.
And it's with that in mind that I begin the process of writing my book. The whole thing seems positively overwhelming, but it's time. I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's heap another project onto the responsibility fire, why don't we? It seems fitting to start it today. And since I have no common sense whatsoever, I'm going to do what I do best and follow my impulses down the windy trail to What-the-fuck-did-I-just-get-myself-into-Land.
Geekster ran out and got Intrepid a new keyboard. Despite being hearing-impaired, he's a great pianist! (I still can't say that without giggling. The kid rolls his eyes at me every time.) I took it upon myself to write his card:
Note how I initially suggested he might emaciate himself. Nice.
I meant emancipate. Which he might want to after that card.
Did I mention I'm writing a book? Lots of big words in it. I'm sure it's going to go great.