Friday is my long day—kids are at school until 3:30. My day to run errands, to do the silly stuff I don’t want to do during the week, when my time to myself is more precious.
The day to write thank you notes, for instance.
Only the piece of paper with the names written down and what gifts they gave Sophia is nowhere to be found. And the trash went out this morning.
If you saw my house, you’d say, “You have 80 millions pieces of paper floating around this house, and you think that one just happened to get thrown out? And by the way, can you organize these other papers already?” And I’d agree with you: these should be organized. And the single one I’m looking for is nowhere to be found.
I feel sick.
The prospect of writing 16 or so thank you notes—relying on Sophia’s memory of who was actually at the damn party, with a generic “Thank you for your gift” message is really causing me anxiety. Neat.
I’m going to give it another day before I start composing “The world’s most meaningless thank you.” Of course, the school is on hiatus next week, and I really wanted to get the thank you notes in there by today…