And everything is good enough like it was.
And everything is good enough like it was.
And everything is good enough like it was.
Like it was.
I'm sitting here, not drawing a blank but instead painting so many pictures I'm not sure what order I should present them in.
Bridget is the supreme adherent. I drank what I was given last night despite knowing I shouldn't, I returned to the table when I was ordered to when Ben showed up at our front door and I continue to slice and dice Jacob in marriage therapy as instructed.
It would have been better to skip the alcohol, sleep with Ben sometime over the past several years and ultimately protect Jacob from the pictures in his head now from having to listen to my brutally graphic and protracted descriptions of Cole's favorite things.
I was doing such a wonderful and admirable job of sugarcoating shit right up until today and I slipped and now I can't put it back in. The things I've already shared with him were so mild and I had hoped it was enough. It was not.
Dinner was lovely, by the way. The turkey was perfect, the kids cleaned their plates and everyone had a great time, since Jacob managed to throw Ben off the front lawn without any sort of fuss whatsoever.
Someone please remind me why I'm here? I'd ask Jake but everytime he looks my way he loses his composure all over the floor. And for that reason alone we're staying home for the rest of the day and I get to do some one-handed typing, because he won't let go of my other hand.
