Aletheia: Daddy, why are you still up?
Me: Email.
Aletheia: But daddy, you need to go to bed. You need rest.
Me: I know, but sometimes daddy needs to get extra work done.
Aletheia: Well, you can do that tomorrow.
Me: …
Aletheia: Tomorrow is Thursday.
To myself: Goddammit.
“No. [having Trump on Between Two Ferns] doesn’t interest me. Doing it the other way doesn’t interest me. He’s the kind of guy who likes attention – bad attention or good attention. So you’re dealing with a psychosis there that’s a little weird. I wouldn’t have somebody on that’s so mentally challenged. I feel like I’d be taking advantage of him. And you can print that.”
Up late writing emails. You’d don’t get a win unless you play in the game. Oh you get love for it. You get hate for it…
I make one wise crack about making my child cry on Facebook and now I have to deal with a vomit-soaked three-year old in the middle of the night. Well played, karma. Well played.
Aletheia: Daddy, do you want me to be happy?
Me: Well, no, that’s asking a bit too much, dear. But I do want you to have a full life.
Aletheia: [Blank stare. Then tears.]
I probably shouldn’t consider existential questions when I’m around my daughter.
That feeling you get when you do yoga for the first time in a decade. I forgot I had muscles there.
I’ve been striving to stop talking about how busy I am. It’s not easy:
“How did we end up living like this? Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we do this to our children? When did we forget that we are human beings, not human doings?
Whatever happened to a world in which kids get muddy, get dirty, get messy, and heavens, get bored? Do we have to love our children so much that we overschedule them, making them stressed and busy — just like us?”
From “The Disease of Being Busy” by Omid Safi.
Holy shit! I was just reading an article that I’m cited in. This is the first time this has happened to me serendipitously. Very humbled, and also kinda glowing.
