Last day of September

(Not actually that bummed out...was going to take a "bummed out" photo but Mulan 2 caught my attention and this is what happened).

September is my favorite month of the year. I'm not even going to pretend that it's for any other reason than the fact that my birthday is in September. For me, this month has always felt like more like New Year than New Year does.

I really hate New Year and New Year's Eve. People build up that night, much like Valentine's Day, and all your hear about leading up to the event are questions about what your plans are and then the questioning persons' questionable event plans.

My plans are always the same by the way; stay home because it's cold and I hate wearing dresses in the winter, watch movies and go to bed early. I'm raising a toddler here people, it's uncouth for me to be out drinking all hours of the night to celebrate what exactly? The only person I know with 100 hundred percent certainty I'll be spending the year with is her, so why not hang out with my lady and have our own party where I don't have to pretend that anything Ryan Seacrest says is interesting.

But I digress. Do people still do that? I am.

September, being the month I was born, feels more like the better time of year to start over. I always feel beginning at the end of August that my life is on the verge of something. For a long time I felt it was just a premonition that my life would soon be ending.

I couldn't visualize my life past 21 years, so from oh I don't know, ten years old, I always thought I would die young. I didn't. Well...yet, I mean people still think 30 is young (me being one of them) so you never know. I hope not, for my vivacious daughter's sake because that's a lot of energy to put on someone else, without having the biological build to fight it back.

I'm so impatient. I want to feel change now. I have all these things I want to do and I start them in good faith, but then I fall asleep. Like every night. Raising a little person is hard. And it just gets harder, because it will only ever require more of you. The best of you. And rising to that occasion, on a daily basis, is hard.

I fail a lot. Sorry Mila.

It used to be easy to blame your father for what I perceive as shortcomings in my parenthood, but these days it seems like a cop out. Although I've yet to figure out how to rewire my trigger to do so.

I wonder often times what Mila feels like her life is like. If she feels like she's lacking for anything. I know she has, since school has started and we've already had the conversation about the other children's dads.

She doesn't need one, she tells me.

She likes having just a mama better, she tells me and the other school kids, as that stingy thing happens behind my eyes right before I'm about to cry. (I don't, and plus I was wearing sunglasses at the time).

It's crazy stuff like that which makes me want to write books, and eat weird food, and figure out mind-blowing things and drag her all over this planet like we're gypsies. Want her to feel like the differentness of our situation is exactly what makes our lives special and amazing and crazy. I just have to figure out how to finish something I've started. I'm terrible at that.

I don't know why, but I realized it this year. And I've no one to blame but me. I guess the answer would be to just pick one thing I've started and finish it.

Maybe, like writing in a blog everyday. Or finishing one of a hundred unfinished writing projects.

Maybe.