I’ve done it. I’ve put Renee’s first foot forward on the path to automaton-ism (plus building time, creative time, story time, negotiating this is minetime, and snack time). She is now enrolled in the pre-school that nestles so serenely at the edge of my neighborhood – not to be confused with the crack house that sits across the street. (Okay, it’s not an actual crack house that I’m aware of. Some big wig somewhere bought his million dollar baby a house that they totally pimped out with watermelon colored carpets, swimming pool, a pool house and a changing house. For about a year a very pretty candy apple red Lamborghini sat in the driveway and Carl the Good Dog’s vicious litter mate sat chained to the rather quaint light post next to it. There was loud music and comings and goings at all hours and general carousing – so yeah. Crack house. It’s been quiet for the past few years – no candy apple red Lamborghini, no slobbering, anxious to mame canine, no carousing. Shutters are hanging off the pool house and the roof of the changing house has caved in. Weeds grow rampant in the yard. It really adds a lot to our otherwise very upper-middleclass neighborhood as it greets people who turn onto the street. Jack and I have a running bet on when it’s going to “accidentally” burn to the ground. But where was I? Oh, yes. Pre-school.) So yeah… my baby is growing up and I… I kind of hate it.
What I won’t hate? The 2 hours of uninterrupted writing time. Or napping time. Or whatever the hell I want to do time.