I have taken myself on a date. As I write, I am in Bellingham, at a Mexican Restaurant. Chips, Salsa, Sangria. I’m waiting on the seafood Taco salad and I spent the afternoon browsing TJ Maxx and Target admiring all the pretty things. It was lovely and restful. *edited to add* Turns out a seafood taco salad is not the best choice. I should have known, honestly. It’s a cheesy, fun Mexican place that specializes in tequila, margaritas and appies – clearly the seafood salad wouldn’t be its best offering. Ah well, you live, you learn.
At Target this afternoon I was buying a few decorations for Avie’s first birthday and I referenced “my daughter” at the till and thought, Holy Crap I’m an adult. I have a daughter! I’m a mom. That’s just crazy talk. How is that possible? I’m pretty sure I’m still a kid myself. I’ve gotten over the surprise that someone let me be a parent. Mostly parenting seems to be about patience and kindness rather than any real skill. So that works in my mind. I’m learning patience. But I am still sure I’m not an adult. A mom. It probably won’t sink in until she calls me that.