My sketchbook feels messier than usual. And not only because the kids scribble in it sometimes and half the pages are quick sketches of letters and Angry Birds and whatever else David and Norah request. It's just looser. I'm not trying hard for perfection, I'm just trying. I like the results less, but I think I'm learning something.
Also. I sort of hate when people talk about how they're sick. But guess what? I'm sick. And I wish my mommy was here to rub my back and bring me jello and let me watch Sleeping Beauty on the couch. Instead I'm the mommy. Being a grown up feels like a pretty raw deal today.
