Dear Kid,

Some days writing a blog is easy. Words fly into the computer at light speed and land with the grace of a gazelle in the right order.

Some days writing a blog is more difficult. Words stumble around like a drunken baby giraffe before collapsing in a more or less understandable (albeit graceless) order.

And some days writing a blog is basically impossible. As I stare into the Pit of Words, billions of letters (not all of them from the same language) stare back in unrecognizable order, mocking me, making obscene gestures at the deadline, and showering my screen with despair.

Which means that writing a blog is exactly like studying for finals (as long as by “exactly” you mean not at all).

Guess which category today’s blog falls into?

If you like, you can also guess how many blogs I’ve started only to discover that they either don’t go anywhere or they go someplace highly unsavory. (A blog about migraines seemed like a good idea when I started it….)

I’d like to blame it on my chipped nail polish. But not even my twisted brain can figure out a way to make that logic work (suggestions welcome).

Do you know the proper way to deal with chipped nail polish? You take all your nail polish off and repaint your nails. With lots of drying time.

Do you know what I’m doing? Not that.

I’m painting in the chips, hoping that Dad won’t notice the smell of nail polish and that I don’t smudge them while I type. Probably zero. Of both.

Yet hope springs eternail (sic).

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Welcome home, sweetie!

Exams are over (or just about depending on what time you are reading this). You have moved to a new dorm (or just about depending on what time you are reading this). You might even have slept a small amount (but probably not) and you are home (or headed in that general direction).

Your room is right where you left it. (So are the things you left on the floor as I discovered the other day.) The washing machine and dryer are right where you left them (although the dryer has a new dial—thought Dad was going to pop an eardrum when he told me that the dial for the washing machine costs more than your tuition).

Booker is probably right where you left him (if you left him standing in the kitchen hoping someone would drop something interesting onto the floor). Pi is probably not where you left her because that child is not known for staying still. Also she has school today.

All the House Rules are still right where you left them. (They’ve missed you.)

Most importantly, all the love is still right here for you. (But you take that with you wherever you go.)

Welcome home, sweetie.

Love, Mom