When I was younger I kept a journal for years and years, and about 80% of it was grumbling and angst and violent fantasies about things I would do and say if the world was a different kind of place. (Why waste energy dreaming of a world where my angst didn’t exist? So much more satisfying to imagine telling my German teacher to stop looking down my blouse, you perverted creep!)
Nowadays I try to focus on the finding the joy in things which are real, rather than wishing for things which are not. Nonetheless, once an active imaginer… well, you know the rest. [Why does my spell check believe imaginer isn’t a word? Isn’t an imaginer a person who imagines?]
Nevertheless, today my fingers are itching to give in, and if you can’t indulge and bitch a bit on a Wednesday, well, what is Wednesday good for? Nothing, that’s what.
Dear Monkey’s teachers,
I love you. All of you. You are good and patient and smart and—I’m certain—kind to small animals. Your magnificence knows no bounds. How you handle a classroom full of children day in and day out with such aplomb is a mystery to me, and I am ever-grateful that you’ve come into our lives.
That said, if you continue to ignore my repeated requests that Monkey’s homework assignments be either 1) written down in his agenda or 2) stapled to his body (your choice! I’m not picky!), I am going to hunt you down and kill you in your sleep. I’m sorry. I hope it doesn’t come to that.
Dear Girlchild Who Is Inappropriately Obsessed With My Daughter,
I assume that you are not getting the love you need at home, and/or that you have difficulty making friends. I was patient and tolerant and encouraged kindness right up until the incident with permanent expo marker all over MY child’s (new) shirt. And no, she still doesn’t want to be friends with you. Because—quite frankly—you’re kind of a bitch.
Stop it. I suspect there is nothing more embarrassing than someone calling your mother when you’re already twelve and ALL GROWN UP and everything, but I am VERY CLOSE to calling your mother. It will not be pretty.
Dear Girlchild o’ mine,
Back away from the drama. BACK AWAY. Do not forward creepy emails to your friends so that you can all laugh at the poor obnoxious girl who is probably being so annoying because she desperately wishes you liked her. Do not respond to continued pleas for your locker combination with fake numbers. Grow a spine, remember your manners, and DEAL. Repeat after me: “I don’t give out my locker number.” “Please stop bothering me.” And learn to love the delete key, or learn to love life without email.
And stop rolling your eyes at your mother. Your brain isn’t fully formed, yet, and until then, you’re just going to have to trust me when I tell you this sort of thing has a way of coming back to BITE YOU ON THE BUTT. I’m just trying to help.
I SAID, stop rolling your eyes.
Go do the dishes.
Thank you for saving my sanity this last month. You’re a delightful little beastie.
I totally forgive you for taking that ice cube you were playing with in the kitchen this morning (so cute! bat it! get it!) and putting it in your crate. You didn’t know.
However, please stop dragging your ass across the carpet. Because… ewwwww.
Imaginer IS TOO a word.