I'm sorry. I can't blog.
I can't stay focused enough on anything these days to see whatever it is I'm trying to focus on through to the end. You know, like cleaning the bathroom and forgetting to do the toilet? Like washing the dishes and not putting them in the rack to dry, just leaving them in a sink full of rinse water? Buying groceries and leaving the bags of sugar and flour in your trunk?
The week was hard. Very hard. And I was distracted.
I used to look forward to Friday's. The end of the work week. A little grape going on in the evening. Relaxation. Two days of a different kind of hard work.
But not this past Friday. I was not looking forward to Friday.
#1Son was writing his test to get his learners permit.
His permit to start driving my car. His permit where someone else tells him he's mature, responsible and smart enough to get behind the wheel of a vehicle and propel himself down the highways and bi-ways at speeds way faster than a pedal bike. Someone who doesn't see how immature he can be when it comes to bugging #2Son, the dogs, his dad, me. Someone who doesn't see the temper tantrums when it's his turn to do the dishes. Or shovel the snow. Or put his freshly washed, dried and folded laundry away.
And he passed.
I'm sorry, I just can't blog right now.
I can't stay focused enough on anything these days to see whatever it is I'm trying to focus on through to the end. You know, like cleaning the bathroom and forgetting to do the toilet? Like washing the dishes and not putting them in the rack to dry, just leaving them in a sink full of rinse water? Buying groceries and leaving the bags of sugar and flour in your trunk?
The week was hard. Very hard. And I was distracted.
I used to look forward to Friday's. The end of the work week. A little grape going on in the evening. Relaxation. Two days of a different kind of hard work.
But not this past Friday. I was not looking forward to Friday.
#1Son was writing his test to get his learners permit.
His permit to start driving my car. His permit where someone else tells him he's mature, responsible and smart enough to get behind the wheel of a vehicle and propel himself down the highways and bi-ways at speeds way faster than a pedal bike. Someone who doesn't see how immature he can be when it comes to bugging #2Son, the dogs, his dad, me. Someone who doesn't see the temper tantrums when it's his turn to do the dishes. Or shovel the snow. Or put his freshly washed, dried and folded laundry away.
And he passed.
I'm sorry, I just can't blog right now.
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