This damned month gets me every time. It’s like a Dickens novel, A Tale of Two Months.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Preach it, Charles.
I’ve been struggling this September. Hard.
I’ve been fighting the world and fighting myself and winding up completely overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to turn in my Adult badge and build a fort in the back yard where no one can find me.
When Katie was ten, she got really angry about growing up. Like really, really angry. One day, it all bubbled up and over and she came into my room yelling and crying and railing against the inhumanity of it all. This was what I wrote at the time …
“I see you,” she said accusingly. “your life is HARD – and you know it. I don’t want that. I don’t want to grow up. I just want to be five.”
My mouth was still trying to form words. I had none.
“Five is perfect. You get to go to kindergarten and you learn how to read and everyone thinks you’re adorable and your homework is to find the word THE in a magazine and you don’t have chores and responsibilities and stuff you have to do and no one expects anything of you and you can just play all the time and they give you a snack – A SNACK! – at school and yup, I want to be five.”
She punctuated the sentence with a sob.
And still, there was nothing I could say.
I pulled her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her. “I know, baby,” I said softly. “I know.”