I am, in general, a pretty good dealer of the shit. I can put up with a lot. Life in a foreign country, with a spouse who speaks a different language and lives life by a whole other set of values, has that effect on a girl. Not to mention the sheer fortitude of will required to get through a morning of PTA bullshit counting out “bell marks,” (proofs of purchase,) and pink work gloves that I-shit-you-not we will be using for Sports Day.
Will take pix, don’t worry.
And then there’s the picky eating and the post-tonsillectomy-ban on crunchy foods that apparently no other adult on planet earth can comprehend, add in the daughter’s birthday requests that MIL completely fucked up leading to a do-over today. I got all that, no problemo.
But a friend made some revelations that knocked the wind out of me, family is weird, and I’ve been plunged into that time of year when memories of my Dad are closing in and making it hard to function. I’m finding myself at my emotional limit, but it’s not like when you walk around with a cast or something. No one knows. No one can see.
I guess we’re all dealing with shit, all the time. Better to be nice to each other because it could get dangerous out there.