Three things:

1) Small Daughter turned seven this weekend and I am realizing anew that time only flows one way, i.e. she will not be six ever again and my days of being able to grab her and pick her up and squeeze her until she squeaks are limited;

2) Large Son had his first ever hockey game on a team with many kids who have been playing for five-plus years already, and I watched him lumber out on the ice with great trepidation, not that he would get hurt but that he would be yelled at or humiliated or scared by mean people;

3) I sent drafts of my first ever completed manuscript, The Dangerous School, Class of 2030 out into the world.  People are reading it, even as I type.  In some cases, relative strangers are reading it.  In others, dearly loved family members are reading it.  I’m not sure which is scarier.  I’m just glad there are no graphic sex scenes.  (Well done, all you romance authors who share your work and don’t dissolve into giggles when critiquing each other.  You can tell why I writer for the teenage market!)

Anyway, I would say it’s been an interesting week of learning all over again to let go and jump.  I’ve learned that lesson oh so many times before, in wildly diverse settings both literal and figurative.  But the triple-play of this past week and weekend have reminded me that no matter how well I’ve done at being brave in the past I have to relearn it all over again.  It’s a lesson I learn best from my kids, and that I hope will show up in everything I write.  Because as the photos of Small Daughter and Large Son show me, letting go and jumping off can be the most fun in the world.

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