Dear Kid,

I started writing this letter to you (in my head) while driving home from the soccer game last night. Well, not exactly this letter.

I composed a great beginning. And a pretty good ending. I had a general idea about what the middle of the letter was supposed to do. Only it refused to come together. The words simply did declined to arrange themselves in a way that would make sense to normal human beings. (You can refrain from pointing out that the vast majority of the time the words in my brain refuse to arrange themselves in an order that makes sense.)

Here’s where it started:

There is a lot of road work being done in Cincinnati these days. That makes now differently from the rest of the year in exactly no way whatsoever.

Good, right?

The middle part of the letter would go on to discuss how roads are like life (stick with me here). Some parts of our lives are just fine and can handle regular wear and tear. Some need a little bit of cleaning up (street cleaning), some parts need repair (potholes), and sometimes we need real structural overhauls.

This part was going to be brilliant. It would be quoted by poets and philosophers. It would be The Defining Blog of the Day.

Except for the part where I couldn’t compose a single coherent sentence.

Which, when you think about it, is a lot like some road projects. The ones that get started and never really go anywhere.

Making life a lot like road construction. But without a publication deadline.

Love, Mom

P.S. We won the soccer game.