Some Hatchings Hurt

I remember throwing a fit when I was a child, for some reason I can't recall, when my mother was helping me write in my journal and committed the heinous sin of writing the date on the page. I have no way of knowing why that was so upsetting, but I know I screamed and cried and scrubbed out the ink with an eraser before I was done. (I'm anticipating with delight similar episodes with my own children. Poor Mom.)

I'm feeling appallingly mediocre tonight. It seems like I can't do anything really well. (Please don't compliment me; this isn't a fishing trip.) I tried to explain this to Regis, and jumped down his throat when he tried to make me feel better, so I get to add "wife" to that list too. Earlier we talked about why so many great painters, writers, etc. were depressed, and I theorized that content people rarely try to change things. I'm hoping that this means my brain is gearing up to do something great. Like come up with the magic answer for potty training, perhaps.