The Blues

This Saturday is my birthday. I'm so tired of thinking about my life, I have nothing left to write.

Here's a rhetorical question: What the hell is up with my child?

Scene: Mid-afternoon. Child 2 walks up the stairs, making up a cheery little 4-note tune as she goes, unaware that I can hear her. The words:

I'm going upstairs and when I get to the top
that's when I say
My dad is always right and I'm always wrong
My dad is always right and I'm always wrong
My mom is always right
My big sister is always right
And I'm always wrong
Everybody is always right and I'm always wrong


I shouldn't have, but I ran into her room and asked, almost laughing, "What are you saying?" She looked at me guiltily, I think--it was as if an adult were staring out of a 4-year-old's eyes--and tried to pretend she thought I was talking about something else. I pressed her once and she became clearly annoyed, so I left.