Chang-ing

It's noon and I'm at a bar scribbling about "change."
You know, that kind of uncertainty that inspires us to practice yoga in too tight sweatpants, to fuck strangers with good teeth, and to meditate on a splintered bench next to the bird lady.
Professional lives are built upon our inability to cope with change. Talk about job security.
Bartender, can I get another?
As autonomous adults, we build fences, stilts, ball fields, and water parks to contain and regulate lady luck. But when we morph into adult PARENT persons, all boundaries are decimated. A mighty Oz wind howls our sexy theme park to shambles.  Damn all.
Kids move quicker than hip. "I got this" quickly flips into "SOS." Vulnerability becomes our shaky vehicle to shore. On we go, with love, humor, and folly. Follied.
So what can be done if all we have is a bartender, a compass, and a pen plus paper?
Write. No one else will save us. And we can't afford the therapist.