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I don’t have any. Things to say. Maybe it is depression. For sure! Of course! It must be that because I never don’t have things to say.

I simply want to write something but opinions exhaust me. Plans are so last week. Life circumstances haven’t changed enough for an update. So what?

How about this? How about a day when my 4-year-old makes up his first joke:

“Mom. Want to hear a joke? What is my favorite letter?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Green. Hahaha! Get it?”

How about this? How about when my 13-year-old reluctantly turns his sadness into a game of, “You ask me any three questions and I have to answer and then I get to ask you three questions and you have to answer?”

How about a date night with my husband where the least charged topic we discuss is politics? Who knew politics would be our ice-breaker? We laugh and the marriage lives to see another day. That guy. I married him because he makes me laugh.

Aaaand. I’m out again.

How about how potty training is going? No. You’re right. That is not interesting to anyone, including me.

How about an ode to ice cream? One in which I sing the praises of the flavor combination of chocolate, peanut butter, and banana and then by sheer force of will, I do not indulge in said flavor combination? Best not. I really don’t have that kind of self-control.

How about this? Every year about this time, I go crazy on the house-cleaning. Top to bottom. Nothing is safe. We are reorganized and you can officially eat off of any surface in my house. In fact, I mopped my kitchen and then polished my dining table so well that if you are not careful, you will slip and fall if you are moving with any kind of speed through my kitchen. Visitors beware. My 4-year-old has fallen at least 12 times.

No. No. That is not interesting either. What is wrong with me? I just don’t have any… things to say!