Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Two
Those darn Britney Spears videos.
This one might be my fault.
“I think everyone had the same idea as us,” he says to me as he grabs a pound of butter. It’s the week of Thanksgiving, how does he need only one pound of butter?
I stumble down the back stairs and make my way down to work. The sun is bright and golden and everything is wet but the air is crisp.
This is one of the better 3-year-old parties I’ve been to: tacos, wine, and wide open spaces.
Op-ed draft.
She agrees with me that he is indeed a scary driver.
Everyone always wants to play on the mini hoop. Thud, thud, thud. Three boys.
I laugh at him. That’s silly. Go to bed.
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but oh, boy. I think this might be the year. I look at my Year 1 Goals: Conditioning; Reduce points against; 8 league wins; Increased parent participation; Spanish translation for parent meeting. It’s happening.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-One
Needed that.
Waffles and bacon. Giggles at the table while they eat.
I finally find a copy of the latest issue. I scan the table of contents to find the spread, even though I know I will never reread what I wrote. I just like to have it in hand.
Am I trying too hard?
I reread his text and decide I’m going to ignore it. Maybe I’ll get over it. Maybe I won’t.
He tells him to head south because he doesn’t want him to cross the bridge. Yellow leaves and wet pavement and gray sky. The weight of everything.
But would it be the worst thing?
I know what the gaps are. The question is how to get them filled.
The exact kind of Saturday I needed.
I think of how she asks me what I want my title to be. What the next thing is. My instinct is to say nothing. I don’t want a title of any kind. I just want to be me.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty
Game day. Red-and-white-hair-tie-day.
He gets into the driver’s seat, checks his mirror, connects his phone to the Bluetooth. I look off in the distance and see the hot air balloons sitting low on the horizon.
Not as scary as I thought it would be. I do my work emails and basketball posts while he drives.
Success.
We talk about possibilities, where we feel expansion, about reframing our relationships with time, about the magic connections we can have with teenagers, about meaningful work.
In the note, she says that she thinks I’m an interesting person. It makes me smile. I lean my head against the window and listen to the rain.
No energy. They have no energy in their face.
1-1.
Chicken tenders and sweet potato fries, a vanilla milkshake with rainbow sprinkles.
The audacity of his text message after all of that.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Fifty-Nine
No pants.
I make a full pot but forget that I’m meeting someone for coffee, so I didn’t need any of this.
Yogurt with a bunch a dried unsweetened coconut flakes.
“Less but more perfect.”
He says that it is a beautiful morning. It is a very beautiful morning. He reminds me that the rain is coming.
Irritated by the rub.
I talk out all the things and she said I did a great job and sometimes I think you just need to hear that from someone who doesn’t know you.
You always hope that you’re doing the right thing.
I get out of the car and walk myself to the passenger side. “He’s driving now!” I yell to him. “Take care of your mother!” he says.
“I prefer her.”
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Fifty-Eight
Game day.
Black dress seems right for today.
A missed connection.
Something about the way these sentences fall out of their mouth affirms that this isn’t right for me.
But this pumpkin creme brulee.
The click-clack of my boots against the cold pavement. Brown and yellow leaves and moisture in the air. No sun. Fall.
She asks me how I’m feeling. I tell her I’m always nervous on game days. That I felt like I wanted to throw up after I crossed the Pope Street bridge. How many years do I have to do this before I stop feeling nervous?
I misinterpreted all of the noise. Too close. Too close.
Yeah. I have a good feeling about this year. 1-0.
Forgot about these sleepless nights.