Kids. They are the greatest: At keeping you exhausted. Trying your patience. Implying your presence is desired and despised in a five-minute span. Hugging as though the soft warmth is a future lifeline. Absorbing all the yeses and letting the noes slide off like temper tantrums. That’s the Great Beauty of spending time with young kids. You remember hope, relearn the confident ask, raise your expectations because no won’t kill you, and you’re confident you can win the yes. The world hasn’t broken them yet, and if you can carry that fragile memory from your nieces in NJ, home to ME, you can cheerful your way through the months until you hug them again.
But srsly, exhaustion. I may be speaking from a delirious, alter-ego state of being. Seeeee? I’m actually writing, not speaking. Not enough coffee, or Ritalin, in the world for this…
I ordered pink kicks by Vionic, with orthotic soles or insoles or something podiatrist-approved. The size was not-good, so I ordered a different size and shall return the first pair. Said podiatrist injected numbing solution into both sides of each ankle to release presumed nerve impingement. Ouch. Pain decreased from walking on hot coals and nails, to walking on dull tacks with gentle-ish vice grips. Take that, toe arthritis. And heel bone spurs. And plantar fasciitis.
Putting a pin in my love for Neil Gaiman’s many Great Works. Will resume on the morrow. I mentioned the exhaustion, right?
Pumped-up, pink kicks: