HOUSE OF KB

I have always wanted to write. I have, actually, for years. But I don't think the adolescent ramblings of a tween or the documentation tendencies of a young adult count. I've recently reread them. So I can tell you, they don't. Now I need a place to be free. Unfettered. As I figure out this new space and place in my life. Newly single mom. Business owner. Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend. But no longer wife. Grab a cup, sit on the comfy couch and chat with me.

What do you do?

We call it Corona Confidence.

Living in the gray.

Sweet P, please. I beg you.

Sweet P has been sick since the day before Mother's Day. That would have been Saturday, May 11th. For anyone who doesn't remember. Which was approximately eleventy billion days ago. At one point she had a double ear infection, pink eye and pneumonia (maybe). The upshot of the maybe pneumonia was that she did not need eye drops for the pink eye. Getting them into her brothers was hellish enough. I was playing the glad game. But here we are, three plus weeks out and the little

Not in the books...

Parenting is just different variations of eating the last of something you don't like because you're too cheap to toss it and too lazy to figure out how to cut it exactly in threes. Also, this makes me think we are teaching fractions wrong. Instead of this part to whole nonsense, reframe it. There is only one candy bar left, your mother says you and your two siblings have to share it fairly or nobody gets any. How fast you think kids will split that effer into thirds correctl

Not in the books...

Whack-a-mole? Groundhog Day? Both?

Almost a year ago to the day, I posted about how being a single parent is... like a never-ending game of whack-a-mole. With twice as many moles but a q-tip instead of a mallet. Please pass the wine. You know what I have learned in that year? That actually does not only have to do with being a single parent. That has everything to do with parenting. A never-ending list of things to do, papers to sign, butts to wipe, counters/floors/all the things to clean, piles to sort, piles

I'm sorry, what are you saying?

A hundred years ago, in 2004, I fell down a flight of steps rushing to my classroom. I tore ligaments in my ankle. Though we didn't know that at the time. I was already going for physical therapy for my knees, we just added the ankle. R was my physical therapist. By the time we found out I needed surgery almost a year later, he was my boyfriend. Around the New Year, things started to shift for me. I started to soften. Angry less. Bewildered more. Upset less. Content more. Uns

Here we grow again.

Yes, it's true. (*No, I am not pregnant. Come on, you lot!) I guess I never do anything in half measures. It's too late to change that now. What is that old adage? You can't teach an old dog new tricks? Speaking of which... I have always wanted a dog. Like, always. For the most for of evers. In my first apartment they weren't allowed. So I got a cat, Guinness aka Ginny. Then she was lonely. So I got her a brother, Dante. And I learned to love cats. They are pretty awesome. Bu

Nothing to see here.

This is the last of then. The last of those posts I had written and saved and scheduled. The last of the ones that seem so outdated, so past the point of present, that they don't seem worth sharing. And we begin anew. In the present. In this new cycle of now. With the posts I have been writing about 2019. But this one? This one was worth pressing Publish. Because this is when I realized that I was past survival and had started to live. This is the day I realized I had begun t