I’m working on a book. Actually, several. And I’m transitioning into trying not to write about my son anymore, and blog about all the things that happen to me, instead. But that’s difficult, see, as 99% of the things that happen to me during the day aren’t really about me.

Sure, there’s the ongoing internal struggle that forever wages war inside, and I’m sure we’ll settle into that, here, again. But, honestly, most of my brain is consumed by the bub in one way or another, so much so, that everything around me often fades into the background.

Like, you know when you’re with someone more than a decade and you have a child and every once in a while you are laying in bed and your skin brushes against theirs in the right way and you’re like, oh, there you are.

Like you knew someone was beside you, but for a few months minutes or so, you forgot who was beside you.

It’s the same way with me. Sometimes I pass by the mirror and do a double-take and think… Who the fuck is that?

What am I driving at, exactly?

Well, my backyard is separated into two portions. The front portion with the grass and the flowers and the fun. And the back portion where our garden and our two big goldens live. It’s rough and dirt-covered, as you would expect from a place that houses two large dogs who love to wrestle. Our neighbor has a mess of bird feeders in her backyard, which brings a ton of doves into our backyard and doves love sunflower seeds and then said doves love to poop out the seeds. In our yard.

The back area where the dogs live is covered in sunflowers. Which is kinda cool, but kinda also looks like an abandoned lot that’s been overrun with weeds. They get on my husband’s nerves, but he knows I love to bring the flowers inside, so he humors me nicely and brings them in and vases them, without mentioning it.

He’s great like that, but anywho…

So, I’m sitting here this morning… Knowing I need to write something, anything, other than that today is the bub’s goodbye party at kindergarten. Today, his teacher will wave a magical wand and officially turn him into a first grader.

And I’ll cry.

But I won’t write about it here.

No.

I’ll write about the eight foot tall sunflowers, which are flourishing and, this morning, covered in gold finches.

Apropos.