and turned on the TV just in time to see the aftermath of the first plane. I grabbed for the remote, thinking Tig had left the TV on the action movie channel.
No such luck. All the major networks had basically the same images. Maybe a different camera angle, but it was all the same thing.
I couldn’t look away from it. Not even when the horror multiplied.
Daniel fussed as my body reacted to the horror of watching the second plane. No milk for you kiddo, not right this minute…
Alannah was downstairs, doing her schoolwork when Tig came home from work. He tried to explain to her that this is a time for FAMILY and that’s why he was home so early.
Where were you?
You sure have come a long way in the last few years, huh? Listen, thanks for not exploding when my blood pressure took off. Hell, thanks for not exploding during that last month of pregnancy. It really means a lot to me that you were able to keep it together through all that neglect. And I know, I know - I need to start taking vitamins again. But can I have props for at least remembering to take our daily meds?
I want you to know that I really don’t expect you to look a certain way anymore (although I really wish that I had THIS attitude back when a quarter could bounce off our ass and make change). I know that the off-the-shelf clothes don’t really fit properly, and I’m sorry about that. Clothing manufacturers have to hit a sort of size range, and well….with a waist that is 7 inches smaller than your hips, nothing is really going to really work.
The way I see it, there are only a few things we need to work on. That whole not-sleeping thing we’ve got going on? Yeah, we need to fix that the rest of the way. It’s time to wrap the brain around a bathing suit - we promised the kids we’d go to the beach this year. And really, truly - it’ll be OK if we leave the majority of the books in the van instead of carrying them around all.day.long. Also? How about if we work on that whole “priorities” thing? You know - schoolwork THEN the google reader.
One last thing: You were a huge asshole when you were fourteen. Your daughter is a huge asshole now that she’s fourteen. You got over it (for the most part), so will she. A panic attack every time she pitches a fit really is overkill.
This is my contribution to BlogHer’s Letter to my Body campaign.
