I keep meaning to come write about stuff. Mother’s Day! (Monkey got me a mug that sports a monkey, as in, the handle is a monkey’s arm. Also, the monkey has visible nipples. Not creepy at all. Of course I love it even more because of the creepy factor.) Our familyversary! (SEVEN YEARS! “How have you put up with all of this for that long?” I ask my beloved. He looks quizzical and says he has no idea.) Having this new job with an actual HR department that sends me pamphlets about benefits in the mail. (“I’M A REAL BOY, GEPPETTO!” I screamed as I opened it. “Mom, you are so weird,” said Chickie.) Also, school is almost over and I haven’t strangled anyone. Real life accomplishments are happening here, in other words.
But I’m so busy not strangling anyone (NO MATTER HOW CLOSE THEY ARE TO FLUNKING GYM, OH MY GOD) and enjoying having other people pay into Social Security for me that there’s precious little time for that, I guess. Instead, I’ve been reading stuff from people about how we feel about motherhood and whether people tend to regret motherhood… and so instead, I wrote this over at Alpha Mom. (Spoiler alert: I don’t regret it.) Mostly I think there are things we cannot possibly know in advance, and at the end of the day, I tend to think that’s a good thing.