To date I've read the book "Oh, the Places You'll Go" to my son at least ten times while he toddles about his bedroom, engaged in far more interesting activities like dismantling his bookshelf, distributing his stuffed animal brigade one by one to the far corners of his room and implores me to play a modified game of hide and seek around the barred perimeter of his crib. So, at this point, I'm fairly confident that I'm getting more out of the book than he is. This is a glimpse into the bedtime happenings in our household where I know, at the hurried age of seventeen months, I should have picked "Goodnight Moon" but didn't in favor of reciting some encouraging Seussian truisms about life. Bedtime, like everything else in our lives, has its share of imperfections. Case in point - the copy of the book I'm reading from is stained and brittle along the edges from being doused with dog pee of all things. Still, it retains some sentimental value (a college graduation gift - nothing says "most likely to succeed" like dog pee) so I've kept it.
Nothing's perfect. Certainly not me - and it's been a long process of accepting that I fall tragically short of being the perfect wife or mother, having the perfect job or body or being more than a slim line above crazy. But, hey, those shortcomings keep life interesting (so says the crazy lady yapping about her messy life to the public unknown). So here it is, no agenda or objective, in medias res of my little story.
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