Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m just working on some stuff that — you know — actually pays me. Plus, the kids are all in growth spurts, which means that I need to dig out the next size clothing, so if you all ever want me to have time to blog again, please send me all your hand-me-down size 5T clothing. Because Zachary looks like he’s wearing pedal pushers these days.
Benjamin was eying my computer the other day, which — ever since the Flying Laptop Incident — makes us all a little nervous. “Don’t touch Mommy’s computer,” Zach told him. “Or you won’t be allowed in our house anymore.”
“For goodness sake!” I said. “Don’t tell him that!”
“But it’s true. If he breaks your computer, you won’t be able to work anymore and we’ll be homeless.”
Now, in response, did I point out to him that what I make as a freelance writer doesn’t even pay for our yearly supply of dental floss? No, I just reminded him for the hundred and ninety-seventh time that — in the event that we run out of money and are not be able to pay rent — we can always move in with his grandparents, so he has no reason to fear homelessness. Because, if that child wants to believe his mama is picking up 50% of the tab around here, I say bless his little heart. Who am I to set him straight?