The Weekday Parent

At my son's open house last night, we were given a checklist with the different projects on display, so we could make sure to see them all. There was a wall where the kids had written about their favorite part of first grade (my son wrote "getting to eat breakfast in school," because he has his priorities straight), and a wall displaying illustrated book reports of their favorite Dr. Seuss story. The last project on the checklist was "My Home." There were little spaces where the kids filled in various facts about their home - how many pets they have, that kind of thing.

In my home, there are 3 pets, my son wrote. There is 1 adult and 2 kids.

I scanned the other kids' projects, doing the now-familiar hunt for Another Divorced Person (I look for them everywhere - at drop-offs and playgrounds and amusement parks; they're not usually hard to spot). Two of his classmates had 6 people living in their home (4 adults and 2 kids). The majority of them had 4 (2 adults and 2 kids). But - national statistics be damned - nobody else had "1 adult."


However Bad You Imagine Getting Kids’ Passports To Be, It Is Worse Than That


I was almost shockingly well-prepared for today's mission: Getting passports for my two children in advance of our Spring Break trip to Mexico. I mean, I've been around the international-travel-with-kids rodeo a couple of times before, and I know that it is terrible. But here's a fun twist: it turns out that when you decide to both get divorced and take your child on vacation? The government goes fucking after you. (Because they don't want you to kidnap your child. I get it. But STILL.)

See, when only one parent is doing the passport-acquiring on behalf of the child, the already-considerable amount of paperwork involved multiples like rabbits and requires the involvement of people like notaries. And if you hear the words "Could you get this notarized?" and think "Oh, sure! No problem whatsoever!" I do not think you and I can be friends.


Two Days In Hong Kong

The face of someone midway through a SERIOUS amount of traveling. 

I never wrote about Hong Kong! I meant to, but then ended up getting all distracted by the apparently massive controversy over whether or not filter-using is an acceptable life choice, or makes you actually literally the worst kind of human being there is (I can happily argue for both sides). And then the trip fell a bit into the distance, and I moved on to analyses of semi-obscure perfume oils and slime-making.

(Read about the Indonesia portion of our trip here.)


#BornToBlog (Alt Title: Watch and Learn, Gwyneth. Watch. And. Learn.)

Current mood.

Alright. So. Remember that time I ended up with the top half of my body inserted into an industrial-sized dumpster coated with 6-inch-thick black slime? Or that time I was driving down the highway and realized that the scent of Cheetos and death that was making me choke was coming from...me? Or the time Lucy's dead eyeball fell out of her head and crawled across the floor (well, not exactly, but let's not nitpick)?

This is all to say that I feel like maybe I was born to be a blogger. Because really: when you're bent over in a parking lot while your ex-husband kneels behind you, Windex-ing poop off of the seat of your pants, it can help to think, "Well, at least I know what I'm going to write about tomorrow."

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