What's Going On In There?

I don't know sometimes, I really don't get it. Me. Here is what I did today:
cleaned--quite a bit
My youngest kid--got her, took her back (hate that part, hate writing it, hate knowing it, she isn't here and I hate that)
pedicures for two
dinner for 3...roast chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, peirogies smothered in onions
Sunday night meeting with friends
homework...3 page paper, half of a 2 page paper, read
called my mother AND ex-husband
And now I am manic. It's not enough. I am behind. I will never get it done. Futility reigns. I am fat. Why did I say that? Why did I wear that? What was I thinking? I should live alone.

My dad's birthday is Tuesday. He always asked those questions. "What are you talking about?" "What did I tell you?" "What's going on in there?" (um, giggling with my sister.) Well, I really miss him a lot. I loved my father, and I know he loved me. He wasn't always the nicest guy, he could bite you to pieces, he could really shred you to bits. I don't know why he felt he had to do that, or why he would really want to if he had looked closely enough at it, but he did it, his whole life, right to the end. My dad could be loving, encouraging, supportive, funny. When he bit, though, he bit hard, and I really wish he hadn't. There are people here, now that he is gone, who only remember the teeth, and wear his toothy scars. My youngest kid is one of them. I'm so mad at him for that. I have enough apologies of my own to make to that girl.