He was actually a French surgeon in the 1700s. I’m not sure which of these men I am, and that’s up for debate. What I’d like to do is write posts about quotes now and then. Because of words about words, right?
They’re in town, really. Two in the same house. Plans changed for one and brought her back to Charlotte. Another will leave for school in the fall, but won’t be far. The youngest? She’s got budding wanderlust in the 37th degree.
I don’t blame her.
She’s the one who has lived in one town. She’s the one who has seen Charlotte – or east Charlotte, anyway – as only a waning wasteland of faltering lifestyle. They all want to see the world. I imagined I’d be the one with a passport and plane ticket next to them.
I did it. I found my way back. Like, in a real way. I keep hearing and reading about doing what we love and loving what we do and you know what? Me, not writing, was kind of like me not thinking about tacos. Only, kinda worse, you know?
Anyway, I’ve found a way to schedule writing and reading and commenting.
I promise it’ll be better than the new Full House or even slicker than those Detroit Lions throwback jerseys, which actually look like a kid just peeled all the Lions stickers off. I’m grateful for a chance to breathe some new life around her.
But sometimes, you just want to tunnel your butt someplace else. Not always even to a churro factory after hours, although … well, we all have aspirations. And I’ve asked several strangers, bloggers, friends, and a few strange blogger friends this question:
If you could build a tunnel from your house directly to anywhere in the world, where would it go? And why?
That’s a lot to get into six words, but it’s possible.
Some are working. Some aren’t. I’m in that journal nearly every day. The 30-day pushup challenge? Well, it might have been 30 days since I’ve done it. I’m sticking to the systems, though, and have found a couple new ones that I know will help.
I have a lot going on. I can handle it. When I don’t deliver, though, people get ticked. And I don’t sleep so well. I’m having trouble getting the time to do it, though, and that’s problematic. After I post this. I’ll get to it
It’s not like the girls’ questions have ever stopped. No, dad just doesn’t answer them on the internet like he used to. He’s all … responsible. Writing stuff for his job, journaling, sitting perfectly still in his recliner, silent.
It’s different from when he does this after eating pizza.
At that point, he’s reclined and grinning like a baby with gas. No, he’s actually meditating. That’s fine and all, but Go Ask Daddy posts don’t just write themselves.
Definitely the parental sideline at any youth athletics event.
These are all places humans have gravitated toward boorish and ill-advised behavior. Today’s guest post is from my oldest, Madison, who, like her sisters, says she blocks out the noise from the familial upline, but what she wrote today demonstrates otherwise.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one. It’s kind of late for a school night. They’ve just lost a playoff soccer game. Thoughts turn from how to build an attack, to where can we load up on pizza. As a team, we just want a place to sit and eat and be together.
The internet says the place is open until 10.
It’s almost 9. Only, the person behind the counter asks the girls, are you going to order?We close at 9. The girls tell them the door says 10, and so does the internet. It’s wrong. So are you going to order?