Dear Scarlett,
Last weekend we were in Los Angeles to hear Uncle Rob's band ScreamCreature open for O.A.R at The Troubadour. It was amazing, and I wish that you could have been there to see your "Runcle" on stage in front of hundreds of people, rocking like the rockstar that he is. Instead you were at the hotel, trying to convince the babysitter that it was ok for you and Jack to watch a TV show. Dubious about your claims, she texted Shishie, who told her that no, it was not ok. NICE TRY.
We had a great time on our trip, going out for brunch and hanging poolside during the day. I was not a big fan of LA when I first traveled there for work, but when Rob and Shishie moved there, I started to like it a lot more. It was fun to be back, even for a quick trip, especially because the plane ride was so short and manageable. It was the first time I'd ever traveled with a wheelchair and I was a little nervous about how everything would work out. But it turns out that the airport people are way better at handling a woman in a wheelchair than they ever were at figuring out how to deal with me and my walker. Sometimes they treated me like they thought I was practicing for a part in a play instead of actually struggling with mobility. So it ended up being a very successful trip on all counts, as I'm sure you agreed from your window seat, where you watched Dora and ate snacks.
This month you started taking a martial arts class called Hapkido with a group of boys from your class. "Is me going to be the only girl again?" you asked yesterday as we rolled from school down the street to the studio. You've become very aware of dynamics like this, and have been refusing to get in the pool at swim class, because the other girls haven't been showing up, leaving you the only swimmer. This bothers you immensely, my little social butterfly.
Hanging out with my friend Sarah last night, I had an epiphany that someday you're going to need to write a memoir to try to work out everything you went through with your sick mom who shared a ton of personal information about you on the Internet. And that memoir will be called "Watch Out for the Wine Glass." It's not the sentence you necessarily hear the most in our house (I'm thinking "I love you" or "Why aren't you wearing pants" are uttered at slightly higher frequency), but I'd be lying if I said you didn't hear that one quite a bit. So, there you go. I've titled your memoir. Be kind to me in it.
I love you,
Mom
