Dear Reader,

I am reading a book that makes me wish that I were a letter writer. That I had correspondents with whom I communicated with through pen and paper, although I can’t imagine when I would have the time. This week I was planning on coming to this space to write about a million little things. Like when the sweet ex nun who lives down the street stopped to give me geraniums to plant in my flower garden and tell me that my children are growing before her eyes.
    
I was going to ask you what the deal is with social media. Why don’t I get it? We’re learning about it in the (great) class that I’m taking and I keep hearing from all kinds of sources how important social media is to grow your business, but I can’t make myself care. Am I weird? Do you love it? Does it float your boat? Do you see a witty tweet and then go buy something?  Do you love checking your facebook page to see what's going on with your friends?  How in the world would I find the extra time to socialize so much? 
    
I was going to write about my oldest sweetheart of a child. She is growing up—going to middle school in the fall—and the only thing she’s anxious about is opening her combination lock. (She says she tried five times and didn’t get it once.  So I bought her one that we can practice with over the summer.  I know, I'm awesome like that.) She’s not worried about the fact that she’ll be the youngest in the school or that there are about 1400 other kids there or that so much changes in the next few years; she’s leaving that to her mother. I was on the floor in tears, in fits of laughter, when she was telling me about her embarrassing moment in school. It makes me giggle every time I think about it and then feel all protective-mommy-ish and wish I could take it all away for her.


Yours,

Brittany