My daughter is back here with me from her dad's after more than a week there. "Fake" shared custody, I guess you'd call it. Since we are not legally divorced (have been separated since 2003), we make our own parenting agreements, often on a week by week basis. I like being friends with my child's father. We have a lot in common, still. Not just our child.
I am trying this blogging thing, but this site has already eaten the entry I originally posted here. That's all right.
My daughter is talking to me as I type (or was). This is better than listening to the latest episode of Glee, which she was watching on Hulu.com. Much talent on that show. The story lines make me want to stab a mechanical pencil in my ear.
To give myself a leg up on this blogging thing, I might start participating in Reverb 10. I'm days late, but I'm also prolific and quick. I think I can catch up on the prompts without too much trouble.
But I don't know that I need another project to distract me from my other writing (and from finding paying work, like, NOW). I'll try it to see if writing to the prompts helps me move forward with my work and focus or keeps me feeling daunted and drained.
My daughter wants to color a small section of my (very white) hair bright pink. I think I'll let her. She wants to color a hidden strand, not one on top and in plain site. What the hell, you know? It's not like I have a boss who will fire me for having a pink streak in my hair.
My daughter (16 on just Friday) is an artist. Everything is a canvas to her - hair, paper, walls, face. She is about to take a pair of scissors to her own amazing hair, maybe add some layers. I suppose a different kind of mother would forbid this? What do I know? I'm only my kind of mother.