Screw a college degree. Find a kid who knows nothing but the moment and study them up.
The year that old dude (well, he was old to me) wrote that bestseller about learning all you needed to know in kindergarten, I was overstuffing my brain with college wisdom.
I rolled my eyes at Robert Fulgham’s simple truths while sacrificing many, many precious trees to fill notecard upon notecard with endless biology facts. I filled many paper cups with vending machine coffee while yawning my way through Dickens and Tolstoy. I turned a blind eye at free-spirited children’s laughter and squeals in the park I ran laps in until my legs gave out.
A parent’s love-hate relationship with their children’s bodily goo.
I hate poop. H.A.T. E. it. Hate is a strong word, I know. From dirty diapers to accidents in undies, I’ve had uncountable moments cleaning, smelling (or trying not to) and griping over ongoing poopcidents (yes, I made that word up).
Ironically where hate lives, love isn’t far behind.
Soul Writer. Single Mama. Life ponderer. Nature Lover. Therapist. Introvert. HSP & Empath. Life is my playground and each day a blank canvas.