My Dad Laughs at Me

I'm really enjoying my beginning writing class.

It may sound snobbish (it probably is snobbish) but I don't feel like I've learn anything new about writing yet. I mostly just appreciate the opportunity it gives me to write, often for writing's sake. It isn't something that happens as much in other classes. In my other classes we don't pull out our writing journals and write furiously for a few seconds and hope that it's coherent.

I've missed that. The feverish brain-to-pen writing and the hope that there is a complete sentence or two in there.

On Valentines day we were supposed to write about how we knew someone loved us. Love in an unromantic way, my professor clarified. This is what I came up with:

When I'm having a truly terrible day, one of those I-hate-the-world-why-did-I-bother-getting-out-of-bed days, I call my mom, and then I call my dad. My mom comforts me, sympathizes, understands, and tells me she loves me. My dad laughs at me. That's how I know he loves me. Because he reminds me not to take myself to seriously, that the world isn't all bad, and getting out of bed was probably a good idea, even if it doesn't seem like it just then. He tells me that hard things are good for me, that I can figure it out on my own. All these things, which rankle my woebegone soul at the time, later remind me that my dad thinks I can do hard things. He thinks I'm smart enough to figure it out on my own. And he loves me.

(i know you love me too, mom. next time i'll write about you ok?)