Oh. My. Gooooooorrrrrrd.
Today is like the longest, least good (zip it, phrase police), most tense shoulder day of all of the days.
I swear that I could generate electricity with the energy generated by the tension in my shoulder blades at the end of the day. They positively hum. I understand how Atlas felt.
The girls have been demanding bike rides lately, now that the weather is improving. Which is normally fine. But the last two times we’ve reached the halfway point and someone has decided to act the damn fool. So I’ve had to carry a bike home once with a screaming child following behind me on foot, and I almost had to do it a second time this afternoon and I do not know what has possessed them but the power of Christ better compel their asses to get right because I’m not playing this stupid game without handing out some stupid prizes at the end.
I’ll be like Oprah the next time I have to deal with some resistance at the bike hill.
“And you get a week of no bike rides, and you get a week with no bike rides. Everybody! Everybody getting a week with no bike rides up in this bitch.”
That’s what I’m gonna say.
This cannot be allowed to continue.
So I hope they ask themselves some hard questions and decide that what they want in life is the freedom to go on supervised bike rides because I actually do not struggle nearly as hard not to check out mentally when we’re on a bike ride.
We got home and it was just about the for showers and bed but Harper decided she’d better practice her kata one more time.
Please don’t judge me for my floor. It’s the garland. Harper has a problem with not pulling it apart. I can’t make it stop. I vacuum every second day. It’s going to be fine, Ethel. You know what? Worry about your eyebrows, you need something to worry about so bad.
Things I learned tonight about Harper practicing her kata at home:
1. It’s probably not correct form, but watching her do it in a pink princess dress makes it even better than it already was, and it was already pretty awesome.
2. She isn’t really practicing she just wants to watch herself on TV. So I’m going to need to learn the kata myself so that I can help her practice.
I have a new hobby, by the way. I have had about 2,000 Scrabble tiles leftover since I got a real job and stopped slinging shit on Etsy.
And now I’m gluing them to flat back earring posts and making lobe statements.
That’s been fun.
Also, Juniper has been burning through journals like a crazy person.
Or her mother.
Exact same thing.
She’s already written (and illustrated – you always dream that your children will surpass your skills) 11 stories.
She writes them in the teepee in her room. Like she goes in her room and closes her door and crawls into the teepee with her journal and her favorite pen (even the pen specific OCD has rubbed off y’all, I’m in trouble), and she tells me she needs some time alone with her mind to write her masterpiece.
I literally could not be prouder. My heart has been liquefied and sucked up into my very soul.
Drive me out my damn mind 23 hours a day and make up for it in ten minutes every damn time.
Finally, my cousin resurrected this filth and threw it up on social media so it’s over now and I might as well share it with y’all.
Little Bo Peep has lost her will to live.
Yep. Thirty years ago. Before it all started to unravel. It’s all fun and games ’til you stop letting them dress you in costumes and take you on an annual parade of humiliation to various places throughout town where you will be complicit in the creation of your own future blackmail material. Then all the sudden, everybody’s feelings get hurt.
The hippie force was strong with my dad though, eh? That’s how there’s still any hippie left in me at all. It was just super concentrated on his end and I’m still contaminated.
In the best way, I mean.
Contaminated in the best possible way.
With patchouli and Jerry Garcia lyrics.
It’s all good. The amount of coolness a person possesses is positively correlated with how dark it has to get before he takes his aviators off.
And it’s like 9 p.m. in October in this photo so. You know. Cleary, my father is a bad muthafucka.