And honestly? I hope she never settles for less.
She walked in on me mid-existential spiral,
saw the Canva tab open,
and asked,
“Are you making another trauma meme or a goat sticker?”
I said, “Both.”
She nodded like I’d just told her the weather forecast.
She’s six.
She thinks healing looks like glitter markers, sarcasm, and a half-empty coffee mug that says:
“Cried today. Still hilarious.”
One time she caught me on the floor,
journaling with a vengeance,
crying with one eye,
laughing with the other,
and whispering “f*ck you, Ned” into a scented candle.
She didn’t run.
She brought me a juice box
and said, “You need a reset snack.”
To her, I’m not broken.
I’m a character arc with merch.
She thinks boundaries are just house rules.
Thinks tip jars belong under stories,
and that “emotional regulation” is a game you win by taking deep breaths and petting the cat.
She once asked,
“Why do you write sad things that make people laugh?”
I said,
“Because it’s how I survived.”
She said,
“Oh. Like my Minecraft house. Creepers can’t get me now.”
Same, kid. Same.
In this house,
we don’t pass down trauma.
We upcycle it into punchlines.
We don’t teach silence.
We teach how to scream into pillows creatively
and then publish the poem.
She thinks this whole life is normal:
that crying at Target is a rite of passage,
and that grandmas don’t knit—
they build digital farms with trauma goats and a side hustle.
And you know what?
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe this is normal.
Because it’s honest.
Because it’s funny.
Because it’s ours.
And in a world still addicted to secrets and shame,
this kind of weird might just be the healthiest legacy I’ll ever leave.
My Grandkid Thinks This Is Normal
She thinks breakdowns come with punchlines and pens,
And goats in pajamas make perfect friends.
If weird’s what I leave her, then weird she shall be—
Laughing at life with a juice box and me.
—The Funny Phoenix, redefining “normal” one sticker at a time
