My girls are always thirsting for me when get back home from work, and they are always talking fast, non-stop. They realise there’s just too little time for us to interact. And the time is flying.
I have to endure breathless shouted reports about their day, each doing their best to get their story out before they are told it’s time to go to the bathroom, or something. They are much like journalists trying to scoop each other.
The times they mis-speak or interrupt each other feel like what happens when journos rush to tweet so they can write better stories later with the satisfaction of having broken the story in the first place.
Most days, I am also just tired, wanting to just relax. I am a private person, as I’ve rediscovered lately, but these apples have fallen way off from the tree.
I know. Soon, there’ll be nothing to tell me. I wonder if that will be as lonely as most people in books make it sound. Something tells me I am so much like Mr. Bennett in Jane Eyre. That man perfected the art of being aloof.
Bennett’s house was like mine in a number of ways. Only that his daughters were much older (at least at the time we were introduced to him), but of course there were years when he had just three and they were as young as mine.
Life goals, Mr Bennett.