Photo by John Gibbons San Diego Union/Tribune20,000 March to Protest the Denial of Basic Rights
I wasn't there. I don't walk well enough to join in things like this. I also don't do very well in crowds. Lingering PTSD things. Rather than fight stuff bubbling up inside me, or expend the energy it takes to control my heartbeat and emotions when under that kind of stress, I spend my time in the kitchen with Dani. Her mom was picking up an extra shift at the prison today, I get Dani all to myself. I ain't sharing neither.
Today's plan is to watch the Charger's game, whip up some of my patented Buffalo Wings, maybe, if I can coerce the right pair of little hands into helping we might explore the wonderful mysteries of bread baking. . .
I love the way the smell of baking bread fills a house. When I was doing my single parent thing the highlight of my day was when the dogs and I would schlep on down to the bus stop and collect our young friends. I would always have something going, something that would send its smells right up their faces as they walked in the door. It not only said "We're having some great stuff on the table tonight." It said much more than that.
It said
"Dad's not going anywhere."
"He's staying right here with us."
"He's here, every, single day."
"He's doing this because we are important."
"Us kids matter."
It hadn't always been that way in our house. Before I took custody during my last divorce, as far as my kids were concerned I was this dude who showed up every three or four months, tossed a couple of presents on the couch and started yelling at their mom for a couple weeks. Then, I was gone again.
Anyway, what's ya'll's Sunday looking like? Done any rousing of rabble? Any chain pulling? Cage rattling?
What's for dinner at your house?
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