Like 2015, 2016 has been a Jekyll and Hyde sort of year. Last year it was the dichotomy between Rowan’s birth and Rowan’s existence. Something that made my life so much more difficult and scary also filled it up in amazing ways.
You may remember my general distaste for scales. Not the weighing type, but the type healthcare providers are always trying to use to measure subjective issues. Pain scales. Anxiety scales. That sort of thing.
I know you’ve all be waiting to hear about our Halloween costumes this year. Are your F5 fingers tired from all the refreshing?
When something shitty happens, it is inevitable that someone is going to tell you to be grateful for whatever is less than shitty. I get it, I do. My imaginary memoir is titled, “Well, It Could Have Been Worse….” But sometimes I just want to wallow a little bit in the unfairness of things that are, well, unfuckingfair.
There are times when the fact that my backyard is a giant downward slope is annoying. When I am offered a free motorized toddler car, but know it would never make it back up the hill. When I want to set up a kiddie pool on flat ground. When trying to build garden boxes. When the garage at the bottom of the yard floods.
Lorelei has taken to dumping glitter on her head on a semi-regular basis. I don’t mean a cute little glitter shower, I mean a freaking glitter deluge. She had a friend over this weekend and they took turns filling a cap with glitter and pouring it on each other. Her mom used a lice comb to get some of it out of the friend’s hair. I… just left it. A beautiful gold layer of shine is coating my floors. By that night I looked like I had the glitterpox.
When I started writing more publicly late last year, I could not have foreseen just how often I would write about obsessive-compulsive disorder. But at some point in my slight breakdown after Rowan’s premature birth I completely ran out of fucks to give.