Once upon a time Carolyn and I would talk multiple times a day. Now it seems like we only have time for a few errant emails and the occasional lunch. It's tragic actually.
Still, she loves me enough to send emails with photos like this one attached. It should be known that the jpg attachment was saved as "creepy harper" and frankly, I couldn't agree more.
Too stuffed to properly post a recap of today's events. In short, a lot of food consumed, and there was an adults-only colouring contest which Nicole won (by cheating, see below). Oh. And we kicked all the kids outside for some back yard skating.
This morning I drove you to Brantford for your first karate tournament. When we got to the college, you admitted you were nervous. "That's normal," I said, parking the car. "You just need to find a way to relax yourself."
Inside you sat beside me on the bleachers checking it all out. When you finally worked up the nerve to get onto the floor, you didn't look back. You practiced your kata a few times and when the convener called everyone to the front of the gym, you ran easily with the crowd.
While I sat watching you, I listened to a woman behind me. She was complaining to her dad about everything going on around us; the kids who were practice sparring without equipment, the parents cutting across the tournament floor, the people who didn't sing the national anthem, her ex-husband who fed the kids donuts at 10am. She didn't have a positive thing to say about anything.
When her daughter asked when her dad would be there, she said, "Never ask me that question again because I never know the answer!"
I don't know why she's so bitter, maybe she doesn't even know. Lots of people get worn down and angry at life, and over time they let it change them. I'm telling you this because I want you to know something important. The world will kick you in the ass and when it does, know this: we choose who we are.
Even in divorce.
It took me awhile to let go of my anger and resentment, and some days it's still a work in progress. Still, I hope I never speak to you the way that woman snapped at her daughter. I hope you never think you need to hide how you feel about your dad from me.
The very best parts of him are in you and I want you to grow up loving all of who you are. I want you to figure out what you will and will not stand for on your own. And most of all, I want you to know that I love everything about you.
I love the quirky curve of your smile because it reflects the person I believed your dad to be when I met him. I don't want you to ever doubt that. I loved him once and from that, came you.
I wish I could have told that woman behind me to save her fight for something worthwhile. And so I'm telling you. Choose who you're going to be, and choose wisely.
Nicole (not pictured above (or below for that matter)) and I have been friends since I was 14. In many ways we're not even close to the people who first met in grade nine French class. But nothing significant has changed either. We're both opinionated, logical and articulate. We both know our own minds and neither of us is easily led. She's a Christian and I'm confused. I could happily spend a month not talking to a soul and she's a social butterfly. I'm horribly unorganized and she ....well, she coordinates our girls weekends away for one. Frankly they should give awards for that because getting 6-8 women on one page is like herding cats.
Still, there isn't much I haven't shared with her over the years and she's been there through some of my best and worst moments. A few times people have asked if we're sisters. Obviously the answer to that is no, but she might as well be. I am completely at ease anytime we're together and when she invites you into her home she might as well invite you into her heart.
All this, and she has fabulous taste in pewter decanters.
I'm off work this week because my daycare provider is galavanting on a sand beach somewhere with her husband. But I'm not bitter or anything. My plan (initially) was to take Ben to school every morning and then sit down and get back into writing. That cackling sound you hear? Yeah, that's my plan laughing at me.
So far I've had a visit with Tiffany and her children. Daniel is the cutest little 2 month old and I got to hold him for three straight hours. Then Carmella conned me into putting together a princess puzzle and playing a game (or three) of Go Fish. For the record? Carmella is cute AND she cheats at cards.
Then yesterday I was: Okay, no seriously. Today I'm going to write. Instead I went and got my hair cut. It's super cute. You should just focus on that while I tell you that I got lost on my way to the stylist's. Again. Normally I can sort it out but these time I actually had to phone Nancy for directions. Nancy laughed at me a lot but she did manage to get me there. Goddamn you Wellsley and your Bermuda Triangle properties!
Then today, I was all: Okay this time FOR REAL I'm going to sit down and write something. But instead I ended up grocery shopping for baking supplies because my friend Jenn (and I use that term VERY loosely) somehow suckered me into baking cupcakes for some event thingy she's hosting for wannabe Urban Planners...which I think is different from Urban Outfitters.
Anyway, Jenn redeemed herself by linking me to this article which highlights the housing crisis in Detroit. For reasons I can't even explain, Detroit is one of my favourite cities...you know, near death experience aside.
In other news, tonight I'm honestly going to write because I have plans tomorrow with Nicole and if I don't hit my minimums then I'm not allowed to go out and play.
Seriously IKEA? Aren't you taking things a little too far? Personally I think reserved parking spots for pregnant women/people with small infants is ridiculous. Sure, lugging babies and their gear around is a gigantic pain in the ass but it hardly qualifies as disability. Now we're providing reserved parking for hybrids? That's going beyond stupid and then some.
Nicole's husband started framing the ice rink in their backyard in October. Then they waited for the snow. And waited, and waited. Once the snow came, they spent weeks outside flooding it night after night.
For a while there I might have laughed at Jeff's homemade Zamboni, but tonight I take it all back. Because frankly? That rink is amazing. It's hands down the largest backyard rink I've ever seen in my life and the kids went crazy playing on it.
I've never bothered with using photoshop before because I always assumed it would be way over my head. Last night I downloaded a trial version of Lightroom and it turns out I was right. Still, I'm relatively smart and I managed to tweak this photo a little. This probably calls for a large bottle of wine a few online tutorials.
MINT TEA IS THE BEST THING EVER. HOLY CRAP, HOW COME NONE OF YOU TOLD ME?!?
I’ve been Starbucks-free for over a month now. RIP Starbucks. I’m sorry if my radical departure triggers any massive layoffs within your corporate infrastructure but frankly if it does then that’s just poor fiscal planning on your part so shame on you for trying to guilt trip me otherwise. You’re like the bad boyfriend who beats you and then says, sorry baby I wouldn’t hit you if you didn’t make me so mad. Here’s a 6.00 coffee lets go have sex and I’ll let you give me a blow job.
(Seriously. I’m not sure why you even read this blog. Half the time it doesn’t even make sense.) (Also: Sorry Mom.) (Another funny fact: in the next few days, someone is going to Google Starbucks and blow jobs and land here. Poor bastards) (I’m still sorry Mom)
ANYWAY.
In the wake of our breakup I’ve been looking to find something that fills the 1100 calorie gap. The obvious choice was water. It fit the main two criteria of my one-person focus group: FREE and NOT LOADED WITH ENOUGH CALORIES TO FELL AN ELEPAHNT.
So far I’ve been drinking a lot of water which is fine but somewhat less refined when you’re schlepping an 18 gallon jug of it from meeting to meeting. I know, I know. Carrying a coffee doesn’t make you a professional…but it makes you FEEL like one. Confession: the only thing missing from my corporate fantasy (that I can post here without getting weird looks and/or fired) is a cap to fling into the air Mary Tyler Moore style. But I digress.
In a fit of Missing Tiffany desperation (hi Tiffany, I miss you) I left my desk in search of something to sip on while freezing my ass off under the air vent above my desk. That’s when I stumbled upon the miracle of miracles.
MINT MEDLEY TEA.
It’s a brilliant blend of spearmint and peppermint and frankly? It’s divine, Jesus even said so. Well. I don’t know for a FACT that he said so, but if he had some over dinner, I’m sure he would have.
The other day Ben tore the knee out of another pair of jeans; the hazards of having children, I suppose. I shot this photo while he was reading on the couch (in my spot, no less). Somehow (and I can't exactly say why) the idea of documenting his jeans seemed just as important as the letters I write to him.
Afterwards, when I was downloading it onto my computer, I thought about all the jeans my mother patched together and then called play clothes. Then I thought about how radically different my childhood is from his. The summer I was eight I started biking alone into town to go swimming. Just this week Ben made his first solo walk to a friends house.
Some people would argue it's a different world now. I'm not entirely sure that's the case. Part of me thinks we've just grown overly cautious, afraid of our own shadows. Still his walk alone gave me butterflies and I thought about all the things that could have went wrong.
I wonder, is this what's in store for me in another eight years? A thin skin of panic sitting in the back of my throat while he takes his first solo trip with the car?
Lately Ben has developed this habit of calling me “my lady” which is a step up from calling me “woman.” Usually “my lady” is said with an accompanying bow with one hand swept aside so that I may pass him by in the royal fashion generally accorded me. This is somewhat tolerable at home, less so at the super market.
Secondly, he’s picked up this habit of repeating things he finds funny. As you can guess, mostly he repeats himself because in his own mind, he’s hysterical.
An Example From This Morning’s Drop Off:
Me: Whoops, we forgot your spelling. I guess you’re off the hook today. Ben: Sweet.
Ben, turning to Lisa: Haha. I said, sweet
He does this all the time and I usually feel like saying something snide because quoting yourself two point five seconds after you’ve just said something is fucking annoying. But! I’m a grown up so I don’t. I get that this is how kids hone their sense of humor and comedic timing. Much like toddlers will repeat tricks after they’ve gotten a belly laugh out of their parents.
The other night Ben and I went to the grocery store before dinner. On the way home he suddenly blurted out, “I don’t know why I’m thinking this, but some day when Papa dies I get to have his ring.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ben confirmed. “He said I could.”
“Wow. So how does that make you feel?”
“A little bit happy and a little bit sad.”
“Ah, sad because that would mean Papa isn’t alive anymore and happy because you’d have something to remember him by?”
“Yeah.”
Ben thought about it for a few minutes, then conversationally added, “Who do you think will die first, grandma or papa?”
“Tough call. You never know how long anyone is going to live.”
“Is papa still sick?”
“No. Papa’s much better now. He has one more surgery and then that’s it. Home-free.”
“That’s good. I don’t want him to die.”
“Me neither. It would make me very sad, but everybody dies eventually. If they didn’t there wouldn’t be any room on the earth for new babies.”
“Well I don’t want papa to ever die so no new babies allowed.”
Ben is a hardcore gamer and sometimes I worry that it’s a little out of control. But then I step back and see that he’s also a hardcore reader. Somehow it all seems to balance out.
I'm sitting in the corner spot on the couch and the dog is curled up at my feet. I'm listening to Joe Purdy sing, and the rain coming down outside. It's a melancholy mix but I'm feeling happy because in a few hours you'll be buckled into the backseat of our car and we'll be on our way home.
I'll ask you about your weekend, and you'll ask me about mine. When you get home we'll start dinner and my two week long stint as a single parent will rev up again. Before bed we'll read together and once you're alseep I'll pack your lunch for Monday.
It's a boring life at times, but when you launch yourself at me with your arms out and your heart wide open, it is the best life I could imagine.
I'm breaking my own rule and posting a photo of me on the internet. On the upside, its grainy and slightly out of focus which smooths out all my wrinkles. (Thank you mid thirties) As usual, I forgot to check my white balance. Apparently: I WILL NEVER LEARN.
BUT! I had to post it because frankly, the hilarious awesomeness of Ben's head cannot be denied. This is me wearing my eight year olds sparring helmet. I swear to god, this kid is a walking bobble head doll.
I’m learning, as I get older, that things don’t begin or end - they just evolve. It was drilled home the other night when we had a conversation while I was doing the dishes and you were finishing up the last of your dinner.
“Sometimes I still feel sad that you and daddy split up.”
“Yeah? That’s okay. Sometimes I feel sad about it too.”
“But you said you didn’t feel sad about it anymore!”
“Well, I do and I don’t. I don’t miss daddy the way I used to when he first left, so in that sense it doesn’t make me sad anymore. But I do sometimes feel sad that your family isn’t together the way I wanted it to be before you were born. Sometimes I feel sad that you aren’t growing up the way I grew up with your grandma and papa. That’s what I meant. But it’s okay. You roll with it.”
I ask you to roll with a lot of things. I guess I’m lucky, because you do.
You finished your dinner and that was sort of the end of it. But I thought about it for a long while afterwards. We always think our lives begin when we’re born and that they’ll end when we die, but I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.
I think in a way we exist long before we actually arrive here. We’re a list of baby names and expectations. And when we die, we become the players in stories that get told over family get-togethers. And so in a way, we evolve into this life long before we’re ever born into it. And maybe family and marriages are the same sort of evolution. I guess to that end, divorce is too.
For awhile it’s this consuming drama that seeps its way into every waking thought you have and then eventually, it’s just an anecdote over dishes. An acknowledgement of what it was before it became what it is.
I’m not sure how they do it but the college I (finally) graduated from always manages to track down my email address – even though it’s changed at least two times. I know for a fact I’ve never signed up for any newsletter, but there it is in my inbox nonetheless:
An invitation to some Alumni event that celebrates the day all my student loans came due I graduated.
Like the tagline says, I’ve been off the junk for 27 days. That’s 270 dollars saved. Or (somewhat more importantly) 29,700 calories. Shocking, isn’t it?
The other day Derek and I were talking about it, because at least once a week I really badly want to stop and order up my old usual. Derek says I can’t because I’m like an alcoholic. One taste of that Triple Espresso Venti White Mocha and I’m off the wagon and back down in the gutter with the other mermaid junkies.
“I could have just one!” I argued. “I totally could! Like on the weekend or something...as a special treat.”
“No,” Derek said. “You only think you could stop at one. One taste and you’d be right back to your old habits.”
I’d just like to point out that it sucks to have shitty friends who refuse to enable you.
Carolyn is a brave woman. Today she hosted a trampoline party for 22 children and lived to tell. Personally, I've never been happier for my deafness. It's probably the only reason I didn't climb across a table and throttle the child who communicated by barking like a dog. No seriously.
On Friday Derek and I talked about how I have a self-deprecating sense of humor. When I screw something up, I'm quick to say I'm an idiot and laugh about it. I ruthlessly make fun of my kitchen skills. But the fact is, I'm actually quite intelligent and I'm more than adequate in the kitchen. I even have the pumpkin chocolate chip bars to prove it, so there.
When I first moved into my apartment I hated the train. I was bitter about my circumstances and I’d give it the finger every time it roared past. Then one late afternoon, I was sitting outside while on the phone with my dad. We paused our conversation while the train when by.
“Fucking train,” I grumbled.
My dad at that time was just about to begin chemotherapy. In his simple, no bullshit way, he told me to get my head out of my ass and appreciate it for what it was: an honest life. Security, he told me, doesn’t come from living in a large house on the other side of the tracks. “Better to live where you are with the truth,” he said, “then to live over there with a pack of lies.”
And he was right, even if it took me a long time to finally make peace with it.
While I don’t love the train the way I used to, I don’t hate it anymore either. I don’t lift my middle finger and face it to the wall whenever it passes. I do however, look out my bedroom window every morning and see this. It’s not pretty, but it’s honest and I have my dad to thank for the revelation.
Severe case of January Blues. Not to be confused with February Funk or March Madness. FYI: Last minute flight, round trip & taxes in to the UK is currently 550.00 CDN. Be still my credit card.
For some reason we got hooked on eating vegetable thins – sometimes as a snack and sometimes as an entire meal replacement. And for another equally random reason, we always referred to them in French.
Today I’m snacking on them with slices of cheese and I could not be happier. The lord truly blessed us the day these crackers were invented.
Orville Redenbacher doesn't fuck around like they do at the Oscars. No "And the award goes to" for them. They don't care that you're a delicate flower. They just lay it all out there, tellin' it like it is:
Last night you and your friend attempted to make an ice rink. It’s just a 4 x 4 patch of snow that will never be big enough to skate on, but you both packed it down and then spent the next hour trucking up our stairs with an empty jug to fill with water. Every time you’d come through the door, snow would spill off your jacket and boots and onto the floor. Your cheeks were red from the cold and your eyes were bright with excitement.
“Zoey knows a lot about making ice rinks!” you told me. Then, “Whoopsie. I’m sorry I’m making a mess on the floor.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll clean it up when you’re done." I handed you the full jug of water. “Be careful on the stairs.”
We ran through this scenario a dozen more times and each time you’d come inside you’d have more to tell me.
“We’re making ice sculptures.”
“We’re going to make a giant fort.”
“We sure are using a lot of water!”
I am not always so grateful for your willingness to share. I’m not always so gracious about the mess you make on my floor. But every now and then I try to step back and remind myself that you’re not always going to be so excited to tell me about your day, or your ideas, or the girl who makes your stomach do somersaults. One of these days you’re going to walk through the door with your head down and your shoulders bunched up. Until then, you are all snow forts and whoopsie’s and I’m doing my best to enjoy them for what they are.
Ben played outside tonight with the next door neighbour until I had to drag him in for dinner. We had potato soup and then fresh brownies hot out of the oven with a very large side of raspberries. Afterwards Ben flaked out on the couch to watch the news (his third favourite show next to Dr. Oz and Jeopardy...I don't know either) with his dog.
This morning (as usual) we had a problem getting out of our apartment on time. In the rush, we didn't realize that we'd forgotten Ben’s snowpants* until we were already packed into the car. Before I continue, you should know that Ben is famous for two things:
1) not zipping up his jacket and 2) forgetting shit
It generally makes me mad, so he was in the back seat wincing as though my head was about to start spinning while I puked bile. Honestly, I’ve never once went Poltergeist on his ass so I’m not sure where he gets this fear from. Anyway, I gave him my best, "I'm so disappointed sigh" and ran inside to grab them. When I got back to the car he was all: I'm so sorry mommy.
Aside: Ben's a very apologetic boy...annoyingly so at times because I feel like snapping: stop being so damned sorry and start remembering your crap. Aurgh.
Whatever. I was all breezy like tra-la-la Look at me. I'm the best, most calm mother in the universe. Then I said in my most solemn voice, "Benjamin. I hope when you grow up you have a child just as forgetful as you are...and then..."
(here is where I poetically lifted my fist into the air and shook it as I bellowed)
"REVENGE SHALL BE MINE!!!"
Ben laughed and rolled his eyes. Little does he know, like all mothers who have come before me, I have cursed him. The damage is done child. You will procreate, and it will be a child in your own image.
*ironic twist of fate: just as we’d pulled out of the driveway I realized that I’d forgotten my GPS and had to go back. Ben, as you can well imagine, cracked up.
I did have this bitchy rant about parents who act like they're 13 instead of 31 when arguing with their kids but I don't feel like it anymore. Instead:
All 16 of these shots are beautiful and provocative in different ways, but the last one of the little girl in her bedroom? It's so lovely. And also? I covet that painting hanging above her dresser in the background.
I think this qualifies as the best weekend ever. Ben and I vegged out all day on Friday, then Saturday we took down the tree and cleaned a ton. Ben even spent a few hours sorting through all his toys and made a pile to donate. Today we carted that to Good Will and then came home and made dinner together. It's been so low key and relaxed that I sort of hate to see it end.
In other news, I'm giving this photo-a-day thing another shot this year. I'm not sure how many of photos will end up posted in this blog but they'll all be available on Flickr assuming I can get it to stop being such a bitch. I figure all my upload/error messages are probably payback for my years of scamming free wifi.
Anyway, it should force me into using my camera more. As a side note, Ben's helping in a way because we're going to take a photo of him every day too. I'm not sure what I'm going to photograph the weekends/vacation days he spends with his dad but I've got until next Saturday to figure that out.
If he's not begging to play video games, he's reading about them.
Knowing my mom, she'll hate this photo. I happen to love it and it's by far one my favourite shots. Technically there are a million things wrong with it, but it totally sums up everything about my parents and their marriage that I love. More than anything, I love how unguarded my mom is in this photo.
I promised Ben we could have a lazy day - meaning no getting dressed all day long. I kept to it even though we needed to walk over to the Haber's this morning. Ben thought it was awesome wearing his snow suit over his pjs.
So far we've spent the day playing a disgusting amount of Wii Fit and I've had my ass handed to me in several games of Mario Kart.
For New Years Jen rounded everyone up and arranged a trip to our local snow tube park.
It sounded like a great idea when she emailed me about it a few weeks ago. It still sounded like a great idea two days ago when I broke down and bought snow pants that were so long in the legs that my feet looked like they'd turned into flippers. It even sounded like a good idea while we were circling around looking for a parking spot.
It started sounding like a stupid idea when I was about half way down the hill too terrified to scream. Okay so that's an exaggeration, but not by much.
Unrelated: Did you know that 10 year olds know pig latin and can figure out that ood gay orn pay means good porn? Well they can and they will call you on it. Awkward.
I’m not generally one for new year’s resolutions, unless you count resolving to not resolve. But I have been cleaning the mental house lately and I’ve made a few changes. One of which included my nasty break up with Starbucks. Although, to be honest, since that post there have been two bouts of break up sex which I don’t think we need to go into. But I will say it’s been six days since my last triple venti white moca!
I was proudly telling Derek about it this morning. “Starbucks and I are officially over.”
“So your divorced. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, no. Not quite. But only because Starbucks won’t sign the papers either!”
I’m just giving you a heads up now that I parked my car in an entirely new spot today.
Normally I squeeze into this space right by the wall because no one else will park there. It’s a tight fit but manageable if you know how to use your mirrors and don’t give a shit about the passenger side paint job. Anyway, over the holidays I got this brain wave to start parking up two levels so that I could work using the stairs into my daily routine. Brilliant, right? I thought so too until it dawned on me that at the end of the day I’ll probably be stuck wandering around the parking lot, lost.
At least this makes tomorrow's update easy to write: See Yesterday
For Christmas Ben got, among other things, his own bottle of ketchup. This from Derek who has just upped the ante in our ongoing argument surrounding whether or not mustard is a valid condiment. The note on the package said, "For all the times your mom won't put it on your sandwich."
If his kids weren't such picky eaters, I'd say this was war.
I can't wait. I've missed him so much this week that I can't even put words to it. I miss his feet in my lap while he reads on the couch. I miss pushing him through his homework and I miss his constant chatter. When I see him tomorrow night, I'll probably hug him until his head pops off.
I have a small hate on for Christmas these days. And even though I put on a good face for Ben I honestly have no desire to get into the season. Of course, Christmas doesn’t give a rats ass if you’re into it or not. It just waltzes in getting glittery shit everywhere, plops down on your couch, spills eggnog all over the place and then takes over your TV with cheesy shows about homeless couples named Meredith and Joe or something else entirely different but equally lame.
Somehow these productions are supposed to make us feel holly and jolly and bright. Mostly they make me want to swear at perfect strangers or run over small animals with my car. In fact, the only thing I’m grateful for this holiday season is the fact that morning traffic on the 401 is a virtual ghost town. Thank you baby Jesus.
Anyway. Last night CTV was running a show about some boy named Ben who believed that his neighbour (a man conveniently named Nick St. Claire) was Santa Claus. It starred the Andrea-chick from 90210 as some biter/bitchy widow. I tolerated it for about 15 seconds and then in a fit of desperation attempted to watch PS I Love You.
…FOR THE THIRD TIME.
Now Nicole swears up and down that this is a good movie, but I’ve honestly never made it past 20 minutes. I just can’t stomach Hillary Swank and even the Scottish charms of Gerard Butler cannot save this film for me. Last night was no different. Needless to say, me and my cold black heart went to bed early.
Just when I break up with Starbucks, Bell emails me this:
We’re glad you’re enjoying the Internet at Starbucks. But if you were a Bell Internet customer, you could surf for free as long as you want. Just sign up for any Bell Internet plan or purchase a Turbo Stick from Bell, and you’ll receive a $20 Starbucks gift card. Surf and sip for free!
In other news, today I threw out all the Christmas cards sent to me by vendors. Bah Humbug! Don’t worry Aunt Yvonne. Your Christmas card is still sitting on my kitchen table. I probably won’t get around to throwing that out until at least July.
Speaking of July, I’m considering booking my 2010 summer vacation already.
It hurts me to say this to you, but I think we need some time apart.
I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and it’s for the best. I’ll save some money and consume about 1,000 calories less a day. And you? Well, you're a big handsome corporation. You'll bounce back, I’m sure of it.
Seriously!
Look at you! You’ve got so much going for you! You’ve got flattering ambient lighting, tastefully displayed merchandise, and honestly no one plays a blend of indie rock and jazz at just right background decibel like you do. Any other girl would be lucky to have you.
It’s probably going to be hard at first. I’m sure I’ll think about you all the time and I’m definitely going to miss all the great times we had together. Who knows, maybe this is a huge mistake. By tomorrow morning I’ll probably look back and regret this, but I’ve got to try to make it out there on my own. I need to see if I can make it through the mornings without you and your triple shot espresso.
I hate hurting you like this. I hope you understand that it’s me, not you. I think I just need a little time and space to get my head together. Maybe take up tea or something.
Anyway, I want you to know I’m not going to see other coffee shops but I don’t expect you to wait for me either. Maybe after some time apart we can start hanging out again on weekends, as just friends. Take it slow, you know? You probably won’t remember my order any more, and I’ll feel a little awkward and shy but I think with time, we’ll be okay.
You’re a good coffeehouse, Starbucks. I’m really going to miss you. Michelle
For the last few days I've been looking forward to Ben's week-long visit with his dad. I was going to savor the quiet. I was going to go out without the hassle of tracking down childcare. I had big plans.
But instead of enjoying my Sunday off without him, I've missed him like crazy. Sunday's for Ben and I are usually spent going out for breakfast just the two of us, then a stop over at the book store. Then we usually spend the rest of the day watching movies or playing games until it's time for dinner.
Today, without him, I felt a little lost. So I curled up with Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven, a mug of spiked hot chocolate, and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. All in all, a nice way to kill a Sunday. Still, I do miss my sidekick.
One Photo, Three Hundred Sixty Six Words is a year-long project cleverly designed to bore you to death and drive me crazy.
The premise is this: I take one photo for every day of the year and then write three hundred sixty six words about it. One word, for each day. 366 days = leap year.
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