It’s a three day weekend and my friends are all out of town or otherwise occupied. It’s me and her, “she who must be obeyed,” my daughter.
Good time to sit back and contemplate:
- So, God, why did you mess up my kids so bad?
- Is this a cosmic joke, no god, just fate, just some cosmic ray attacking my gonads one day in my sleep?
- Why are they the first in medical literature diagnosed with such so there is no known track record, what will happen next?
- Why can’t they communicate at all. No way. Her math skills would be put to shame by Clever Hans the horse. Her English skills are greatly surpassed by Alex the parrot. And she does not come close to the communication of Washoe the signing chimp. Ummm, why?
- My daughter has never told me (if) she loves me. She has never given me a kiss. She has never said “thanks.” And, probably never will. Not that I need a “thanks” but a purposeful smile would work for me. Why?
- How am I supposed to wake up every morning and look forward to the day when I have no clue what will happen? Usually it is about 60% doable, 37% tough, and 3% sheer terror.
- Is it worth it?
I can answer the last one. That should count for something.