This weekend, I explained intersectionality and erections to my nine year old and also made healthy food and built a fort and did virtuous bill-associated tasks and that means I win.
I was going to write tonight about confronting the reality forced by posting every day: the lethargy of wine vs the commitment to write.
But I don’t fucking feel like it. Sometimes, living and working the story of how I actually want to author my life means looking back over two days of parenting and saying it was enough and just reveling in what it feels like for your kid to look at you and roll his eyes because you are dancing in a Trader Joes and to high five you for a good pun and also to ask you to “say something wise” about how overwhelming it all is sometimes. He is nine and still holds my hand and wants me to read to him and today I am savoring this sweetness for as long as I can.