end of grad school: t-minus 25% and counting.
that’s right baby.
one semester, 2 classes, 250 unpaid labor hours, and one comprehensive final exam away
Today at work an 8 year old boy told me he wished I was his mommy. I laughed a little and said, “Trust me, you don’t.” When he asked why, I really couldn’t think of a good answer other than the fact that I just told him he couldn’t pour chocolate syrup on his eggs and hash browns at breakfast anymore because he’d have diabetes by the time he was 20. He looks at me and says “Well that’s ok. That just means you care.”
Ugh… My heart.