Yesterday my older daughter–the one whose 8th grade round-up I just survived–walked up to me and asked me what book I’m working on now. I told her I’m not writing a novel at this very minute (I just finished a textbook revision and I’ve been writing some short stories). She shook her head with disappointment. “Oh, Mom!” I think it’s pretty cool that she not only expects me to write, but seems to actually want me to. She writes a lot too and has taken to carrying a notebook with her wherever she goes.
But oh God, 8th grade. Being around several hundred of them this morning reminded me that that age is probably the epitome of awkwardness. My daughter’s handling it with more grace than I did. She’s quirky and happy to be that way. She has a lot of friends and a good head on her shoulders and I only want to strangle her once or twice a week.
Here are the most recent three pictures I took: