My little girl’s going to school and I’m going to die. Literally, not figuratively. Not right now, but eventually.
If you were wondering what was going on with me recently, that about sums it up. Bryan and I decided last month to send Odessa to public school for Pre-K, which is what happens the year before you’re in Kindergarten, but it’s basically the same as Kindergarten: it’s a 7 hour day, you can’t be tardy, you can’t be absent without a doctor’s note, if you’re absent or tardy a whole lot, they send a social worker to your house. Probably. She has a Dora backpack now and all new panties and she’ll have to wake up at 6:30 every morning and somebody else is going to teach her how to read from here on out. She’s got a job now, so she’s basically just a regular human person.
And I could have sworn I was just pregnant with her.
I’m going to die. Take for instance Bryan’s little cousin Dylan who, if you asked me yesterday, I would have thought was 20 now–maybe 21. I’m pretty sure he was just 15 years old like last year, but that can’t be right. Anyway, he used to play guitar really bad in his room all the time. Now he’s apparently a grown ass man and in this really good band, which astonishes me:
I’m obviously going to die.
Maggie just came in my studio this morning to ask me to lunch, and I kind of teared up a little about the fact that I’m going to die, and made her squeeze me like an autistic person. And then she told me her new mantra: “Don’t Miss This.” Like, whatever “this” is. Don’t miss it. Don’t miss this mortal coil. Her yoga teacher told it to her while she was doing sit ups, and she rather liked it.
I’m going to die, but I’m not currently dead. Neither, presumably, are you. Not yet.
Don’t miss this.