my girl, interrupted

So most everyone (who’s anyone) knows that I’ve been writing that other blog during our current family shit storm to keep the peeps up to date with whichever way the poo is flying on any given day. It’s a good outlet for my feeble mind, and allows me to keep everyone from my coworkers to my cousins to my TKB instructor in the loop, which is also good for me because then I don’t have to answer those loaded “how’s it going” questions with such detail. So basically, what I’m saying is that it’s all about me. Duh.

I’m keeping it pretty clean over there, so you can expect a whole lot more foul language from me back over here where I belong, because I’m busting from holding it in and how the fuck do you write about your kid in a fucking wheelchair without saying fuck? See?

(And if you’ve covertly found this blog through the commenter profiles on that blog and you know me in real life, especially through work, please just let me pretend you’re not here because I don’t censor myself here and although I never talk about work, I do sometimes frequently sprinkle the f word around)

But nevermind all of that, let's talk about my girl!

Look at her. She’s so dreamy.

My girl seems to have grown up (and turned Balinese?) while I was otherwise occupied. I can’t get over that face of hers! With or without the luscious redness of her lips, that face is suddenly so changed! We are planning for her ninth birthday party next month. The last year of her single digits.


The shit storm has been hard on all of us, but Bill and I have learned without a doubt that kids somehow roll with the punches a whole lot easier than we old folks do. We tend to get all hung up on the later, while they stay squarely focused on now. The biggest impact this unexpected left turn has caused for my girl is that her number one playmate and partner in crime is suddenly benched. She's a pretty good sport about it most of the time, but every once in a while she has no choice but to abandon him in the backyard after being ordered to fetch the wayward ball one too many times.

In the last few days, the kids have been using the tumbling mat for smack down grappling. It's horrible to witness, all knees and hair and stinky feet with giggles morphing into screams.

It got a little intense for my comfort, so before they asked again for the green light to kick the shit out of each other, they donned their safety gear.

And my girl might be compassionate, but she shows no mercy: