It's 8:23 a.m. I've just dropped off the P'tit Grand at school after lugging his 10-ton satchel for five endless minutes. I joked if he had a cinder block in there—he hit back with a casual 'lol'.
It's 8:23 a.m., and I'm already wiped out.
Along the way, I learned Saturn's rings are made of ice and dust particles around the gaseous planet.
I spilled my bowl of cereal.
The kid theorizes they formed from an explosion—not on the planet itself, since we'd see a crater, but in nearby space. He seems to agree (or disagree—I caught most of it) with the astronomers, his future colleagues. (Hang in there, experts; you've got about 15 years before he joins you.)
I've already walked 1 km to drop off the tween, who's old enough to complain her clothes are 'too wintery' but not big enough to take the subway alone. And back. Grabbed the freshly disinfected-but-uncombed P'tit Grand from school to swap for her turn.
Rummaged the kitchen for a bag so the 12-year-old could pack cookies—bought for high schoolers with her brother's money.
Folded the clean laundry.
Refereed the sibling negotiation over cookie money.
Reminded my daughter about the cash in her piggy bank.
Picked up the dirty laundry.
Did a double-take at the stash: all big bills, and 'who wants to break a 50 for 1 euro?'
Asked if layering two sweatshirts was smart.
Yes.
Actually, no.
But this winter jacket? It's unbearable—we're roasting.
It's 8:23 a.m., and I'm brewing coffee before collapsing on the sofa...
...tonight.
