Waterproof mascara was the good idea I had heading into today. The dark eyeliner beneath was not. Sunglasses and lipstick. Why I ever stray from that simple rule is beyond me.
It turns out that holding a blow dryer pointed at your face in hopes of drying the tears as they come does nothing for your tears and horrible things for your already-dry hair. The end result is a wet, puffy face and scarecrow hair. This makes it hard to "blend" at parties.
Parties. That's what started this. Peanut had her birthday party today. Fifteen. She's turning fifteen.
And just like her past four birthdays, he's not here. And I can't do a damn thing about that. I can't resurrect him for her or for her brother or for me or for anyone. And every birthday I think it will get easier and it just doesn't. Because he's still not here to see his daughter grow up. And she's still growing up without her father who loved her so fucking much.
Fifteen. Another stone we dropped here along this mile we travel. Us without him. Us together. Us changed.