Metaphor.

I wish I had something else to say. There's only so much a person can ramble on about how she's looking forward to the changes that will eventually come with the new chapter in her life. Only so much imagining that can come before the dreams start to sag under their own potential.

So I will tell you a story, instead.

Ben loves Legos. Loves them. He's got bins, baggies and a huge sack of them stuffed under the bed. Claire loves them too, and, as it happens so does my husband. (To be perfectly honest, I'm rather fond of them myself, but don't yet have my *own* set of Legos.)

Chances are, if there is a mess here, then there are probably those little plastic bricks involved. Not too long ago, I was puttering around while the kids were at camp. I stepped on one of those things. HOLY CRAP, believe me when I tell you, it was one of the single most painful experiences of my life. Childbirth, root canal and hand surgery. Nothing compares to the feeling of that little plastic piece cramming itself up into the bottom of my foot. Nothing. And I limped around for two days afterwards. Two days.

I told a friend about it, and she said. "Man, isn't that some sort of perfect metaphor for parenthood."

Pain, caused by your kid, that you have to power through to deal with your kid. Yep, that is pretty perfect.