Like having a student throw up on my rug and when asked to go rinse his mouth out he innocently asks “why?”
Like the personal safety of a certain oh, shall we say, maternal figure in my life after asking if I’ve lost weight followed immediately by “because you know, you could be beautiful.”
Like the random discontinuation of favorite products by Trader Joe’s. If you’ve ever shopped there, you know what I mean. Or you don’t buy the good stuff. Either way, it must stop.
Like the fact that I get along really well with teenagers. Even though most of them are morons.
What the hell does that say about me?
Like the 9:4 girl/boy ratio in my classrom right now. I feel like a mama cat nursing kittens because the girls all want hugs and love at the same time. If anyone needs Exposure Therapy for claustrophobia, germaphobia, girlaphobia, kidaphobia, lifeaphobia, or maybe just wants to torture somone they know, please contact me.
Like whether or not my Halloween costume this year will live up to the one I had last year. I take this holiday very seriously people.
Like the dream I just had about a co-worker who got plastered on rum on our school field and I had to go rescue him as he stumbled around belligerently before our boss found him. Will I ever look at him the same way again?
Like the fact that Monchichi’s new favorite song is “Happy Birthday” and must be accompanied by a lit candle. This is how we get him to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and juggle forks and knives. Lately, it seems his childhood has just flown by since by my latest calculations he is now approximately 656 years old.
Like that I care enough about Twitter to try and schedule it in among children, a husband, work, writing my damn book, physical therapy, autism therapy, piano lessons, playdates, Polish school, Saturday chores, potty breaks, and other mild inconveniences related to existing on planet earth.
Like that I feel like I am coming down with something ugly that may or may not be the swine flu and that I am only half kidding when I tell you that I’m filled with terror. Terror.
Like that if I don’t get my act together and start blogging more regularly, you’ll trade me in for a prettier, shinier, less moody blog. And then I’ll have to hunt you down and make you spend time with my Polish relatives.