I admit, I've been lazy about this, but it's time to get back to writing.

School starts in three days. In. Three. Days.

I'm in a constant, bipolar state, crying that she's leaving, can't wait for her to go, double checking that we have everything, crying again. Miss Angel Tween is entering seventh grade.

I have a seventh grader. I have a twelve year old. Damn all of you, I'm NOT old.

My mood swings seem to follow hers. She's excited, I'm excited. She's scared, I'm the cheerleader. She goes upstairs, uncertain, and I freak out. What if she's right? What if she doesn't have any old friends in the same classes? What if she doesn't do well this year? What if I bought the wrong shirts and it's MY fault she's got no friends?

I wish someone would rip the bandaid off, already. It WILL be fine. With a little luck, I'll be rewarding her with the coveted highlights at the end of the first marking period for great behavior and a job well done. (And no phone calls home regarding twirling.)

We're also starting a new adventure: the homeschooling preschooler. Miss Angel Little Girl wants school, and I want to keep her for another year. I'm greedy like that. The compromise: We are to play school for three hours every day.

I think making all the alphabet sounds may finally completely puree my already majorly mushy brain, but I'm going to go for it. So, here's an apology in advance if this badly attended missive degrades into a horrible mass of single syllabled awfulness. My brain will probably be too mushy to notice.