for a minute there, i lost myself.
It’s hard to tell, but that’s Radiohead. And they’re playing an encore of “Karma Police.” How many nine-months-pregnant women do you know who would brave thousands of drunk, sweaty hipsters in the dead heat of August?
days of youth.
Last night, we went to the county fair after celebrating K’s 5th birthday with my parents. It wasn’t her first time at the fair, but it was the first time she rode real rides, including this roller coaster and a ferris wheel. We left hot and sticky and hopped up on sugar, but she was utterly satisfied.
Five years ago this morning, I was in a hospital, hooked up to a pitocin drip and rocked by contractions that eventually brought my beautiful and deliriously crazy daughter into the world. I’ll be there again soon, for the last time, to meet the boy who will be my son. K will be a big sister, a kindergartener, and closer every day to growing up into someone who can read, have math tests, go places by herself, drive a car, live her own life.
I’m terrified and excited for her all at once.
Happy birthday, kiddo. I love you, always.
shut up already.
About the New Yorker’s Obama cover. It was clever, it was over-the-top, it summed up all the misconceptions about Barack, and it was funny. Sure, it could have been misconstrued by some, but those kinds of people don’t read the New Yorker. Or, at least, they shouldn’t.
