Kiddo was asleep when I came home today.
For the third time in five years, I wasn’t there for the good night kiss.
To every person who went:
I’ve met some crazy mother hens, but, really ?!?! third time in Five Years ?!?
To every one of you, I will say this: I know. You’re right.
It’s a bit on the intense side of parenting things. IknowIknowIknow.
More so because, tonight, I got to sit on the smallest chairs in the room, like other parents, to listen to the kiddo’s « K » teacher.
I mean, those people have lives and all! Doing this, playing that sport, going through that, wanting to volunteer or get involved in the school stuff.
While my humble little person just wanna go home to put a pj’s on, get a fluffy fuzzy perfectly soft blanket at the ready, get cozy and write.
We, writers of novels, and short stories.
We, poets and essayists.
Are we simply slightly odd in our own charming way?
Or are we full-on odd in our own a bit tat weird way?
My heart cannot find rest between the two.
There I feel at home.
Not here, nor there.
Not that kind of human, nor this sort of person.
Just balancing in between every moment, every new encounter.
Very dear, very wonderful fellow writers, until next time, take care of yourselves!