April showers in Manhattan are only romantic in the movies. In reality, it means my arthritis flares up to the point where I can barely tie my own combat boots. I had fully intended to take the subway today to save a few bucks, but my knees absolutely refused, so I splurged on an Uber. The driver was playing some awful top 40 radio, and I just sat in the back with my headphones blasting old 90s grunge, staring out at the grey city. The 9-year-old had a total meltdown before school because he couldn’t find his specific blue socks, and I had to dig through the laundry pile while the 14-year-old stood there making sarcastic comments. Sometimes being a mother to three boys and a fiercely independent 21-year-old (she’ll be 22 soon) girl drains every ounce of my goth-vintage energy. But I made it to work, pulled my shift at the coffee bar, and came home to a blessedly quiet apartment. I made a decidedly non-vegan grilled cheese sandwich just to spite the universe and curled up with a heating pad. Tomorrow is another day.
nan's life in all the words.
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