We stayed at my cousin Jen’s house for four nights last week. Jen’s now down a plate, a bowl and a butter dish. I think two of the pieces of china were from her wedding set. They smashed rather fantastically on her hard wood floors. Only one was during a fight over whipped cream, though, so there’s that. We offered to replace them but Jen said, “No problem. Things break. You’re more important.”
In conclusion, everyone needs a Jen.
P.S. We lost Jen’s cat at least six times.
P.P.S. Statistically speaking, two out of every four teenagers lose their ever loving poo during Thanksgiving weekend. Their EVER LOVING POO, folks. Crying. Screaming. Histrionics. Poo; just everywhere.
P.P.P.S. Statistically speaking, four out of every five children lose their ever loving poo during Thanksgiving weekend. So that’s 80% of children and only 50% of teenagers. In other words, PARENTING GETS BETTER, man. Better. True truth.
P.P.P.P.S. I still have snot and tears on one of my t-shirts from holding one of those teenagers during a meltdown. Not my teenager. But totally mine, you know? In the way we own each other’s kids? And it was one of my favorite parts of the weekend because I got to be love in the middle of the mess. Turns out, there’s always a mess. Always. No matter what. The mess in this life is the part that’s static – unchanging, except in type and volume – but there’s always a mess. To infuse it with love is where we find the magic.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Another grown-up was love to my teen in the middle of the mess. Magic and mystery, I’m telling you. Magnificent.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Can someone please tell me why we don’t co-parent more often?? Like, why – WHY – do we not all move to a commune and share the parenting and the mess and the magic-making? We would break a lot of dishes – a LOT of dishes – but THE VILLAGE, friends. We’d be smack dab in the middle of broken glass AND THE VILLAGE which is what we call WORTH IT.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. This was supposed to be a real blog post, but then all this post-scripting happened. I don’t know what to say.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Also, I was supposed to write a blurb for my friend Nathalie‘s upcoming book, but I forgot. I told her I’m sorry, and GAH, and I hate being a schmuck. Nathalie said, “DO NOT FEEL BAD. I’ve dropped so many freaking balls this week/month, I’m sucking all over the place.” Then I told Nathalie I’m drowning in dropped balls.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Just FYI, if you, like me, are a visual person, don’t ever use the phrase “drowning in dropped balls.” It won’t end well.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. In case you’re drowning in dropped balls, I want you to know you’re not alone. You’re not. And, also, want to move to our commune? BECAUSE SERIOUSLY. We can call it the Dropped Balls Commune which might send the wrong message but also means we dropped the ball on naming our commune so it sends the right message. BOTH/AND, baby! Who’s in?