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I don’t use Twitter anymore. But on more than one occasion this week I had the great desire for the instant relief one feels from throwing tweets out through the computer screen. And release them I shall, 140-character limit be damned.

Threatening to take away components of your child’s upcoming birthday festivities 10 x in one week either makes him a brat or you an asshole. Probably a little both. And you deserve each other. Phhhhphttt&*$#@*.

I do believe I’ve undone the angelic act of using organic, gluten-free cake mix in my child’s preschool party treat by adding instant nonfat pudding to it. Enjoy your phenylamawhatever, kids. Cancer’s on me!

Teaching your son to use the word “bullfrog” in place of the problematic favorite “bullsh*t” only helps so much at the playground when he deliberately shouts ONLY the first syllable.

Deciding to wait until the heat index hit the high 90s to let the kids play in the sprinkler while I jumped rope/did weight work on the back porch was a lesser-genius idea than usual. #heatstroke

Four-year-old Nazi interrogation, “Why do you not play ze trains wiz me, daddy?” on Last Comic Standing this week = brilliance.

Afternoon swimming lessons = fastest bedtime ever. Why is this nugget not on the home page of every parenting website out there?

10-minute chair massage at work reminded me of how pissed I used to be that my husband isn’t into giving them. But then time went by and I forgot. I REMEMBER AGAIN, MY DEAR.

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Every morning we wake to new flowers unclenching their riot of colors on the tree branches. Soft buds appear on the hard wood of the grand trees. Petals in pink and fuchsia flutter to the pavement during the nightly thunderstorms. Rainbows beckon.

I pretend that one morning I will wake up with a beautiful something that has grown in me over the night, that I will have a marvelous transformation too. I want to open some small compartment and find a sustaining joy inside.

I’m on the other side of 35 today.

Unanticipated consequences include crunchy knees and a delicate system of fine lines around my eyes.

Also, the teenagers at Marsh regularly addressing me as “Ma’am.”

And an early-twenty-something teacher at the boys’ school complimenting me on Pitter’s nutritious lunches with the comment, “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to pull that together when I’m your age!”  W.T.F.? So when you look over thirty you give up on health entirely and pack lunch boxes with Ding Dongs and Doritos?

Anyhoo. Last night Sweet Cheeks took me to a David Gray concert, and today I’m taking the boys to a cupcake shop.

I’m not as freaked out as I was last year. All week I’ve been treating myself the way I would treat a best friend–with kindness and love–rather than letting my regular inner narrative prattle on. It feels kind of nice. I might just keep it up.

BAM! Wisdom.

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