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So this morning started out ok.  It’s Thursday, nearly the end of the week and my calendar didn’t look too scary.  At the end of the day Community, The Office, 30 Rock awaited.  I woke up early enough to read a bit before I had to get out of bed. Bonus.

Trust a teenager to bring it all crashing down, or at least start the downhill slide.

I missed our oldest daughter leaving this morning and had gone to bed before she’d gotten home the night before (yes, I know) so called her after we got in the car (yes, I know) and asked how her evening had been.  She answered in short snips of words and when I asked about tonight and then tomorrow night, I got some ‘tude with my snips.

Ok, so I’ve screwed up with that child.  I’ll try to connect with preteen son sitting next to me.  I lean over and chuck him under the chin.  He’s wearing a fedora that’s adorable because it’s hat day at school.  That calls for a chin chuck, right?

Apparently not.  He chucks me back, but not in a cutesy way.  “And your hands are cold,” he says.

Strike two.  Quiet remainder of the ride.  He gets out at his school.  The little one still likes me.  Always my refuge, my shelter in the storm of adolescent hormones.

Until we get out of the car to cross the street to preschool and she announces as I reach for her hand, “Mom, I’m a big girl,” and puts her hand in her pocket.  She’s turning five soon.

“I’m 39 and I still like to hold hands,” I say.

“Thirty-nine.  That must have taken like a hundred birthdays to get to,” she says.

“Actually, like 39,” I counter, sticking to her shoulder since the hand has become an issue.

I transfer her to her teacher and slink back to my car to head into a classroom full of young adults who are not exactly dying to hear what I have to say about the sixteenth century.

As I get out of the car I contemplate starting a petition on one of those social activist sites to create a morning happy hour.  Think anyone would notice if I put Bailey’s in my hot chocolate?

So why is this post called hugs from the potty?  

Because when I get home, my daughter, the one too big for holding hands, is sitting on the potty and calls me into the bathroom.  Seriously, I think, aren’t we beyond needing someone else to wipe your butt?

I steel myself for some serious intimacy with a bottom and a wet wipe and instead she says, “Can I have a hug?  I haven’t seen you all day.”

I’ll take it.  Thank you, Thursday.

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