I’ve spent a lot of today thinking about a viral article about how to make your kids “successful.” The definition of success was, of course, wealth, which is so depressing. The woman who wrote it can tell you all about her CEO kids and doesn’t spill a single word about whether or not they are good people (they probably aren’t, they’re very techbro-heavy). I just want my kid to be kind.
I’m (very slowly) reading a new book about scientology even though I am pretty sure I know everything there is to know about scientology at this point. Update: still fucked up.
Yesterday, someone asked when I thought things would start to get back to normal for me and I’m still mad about it. To be clear, the answer to that question is: never. Normal is my dad being here. Everything else is not-normal.
It’s the golden age of streaming and I am currently watching the third season of a show called High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. They’re at summer camp this season and I genuinely don’t understand multiple significant plot points. For a show called High School Musical: The Musical: The Series. Someone in this relationship is an idiot. It’s great when they burst into song, though.
This evening’s drug of choice is Cadbury Mini Eggs.
Today, I took a thank you card and a chocolate cake to the paramedics. My gratitude for them is infinite. And also, I almost said, “Thanks for saving my dad; it didn’t stick.” You can’t say things like that out loud but I increasingly think my after-Dad life will be organized around maximizing time with people I can say things like that to.
The thing about this High School Musical show is that I’m very invested in the drama of the main actors, who were in a relationship but now are not, and who are basically children. But I don’t have the resolve to read about it for any length of time. So I’m invested but not very committed, and I can’t keep track of the details, but I still try to explain it to other people.
My kiddo is obsessed with Pokémon and I don’t know anything about them except that there are so many Pokémon. My secret mom hack is that if you ask a kid to invent a new Pokémon they will talk for the next ten-to-twelve minutes without needing any additional input from their caregiver.
The dog says I have to go to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll aim for a coherent narrative. I promise.
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