Hi I'm Elizabeth Berget!



Featured Essay


the slowest sheep

I would say that we were having “one of those mornings.” But honestly, each day that we have to get to preschool involves a fair amount of frenzy, so really, it was just morning.

My oldest son was scrambling around, putting on his clothes and shoes while eating what felt like his fifth piece of toast, trailing crumbs behind him like a far more uptight Hansel, and asking me every forty-two seconds if we were going to be late.

With an eye on the clock, I was running wind sprints through my house, stopping each time I passed the kitchen counter for a sip of lukewarm coffee: to the back for the diaper bag, to the front to track down a wayward mitten, to the back again for the snacks left on the counter. With each pass through the house, I found myself stepping on more and more of the Cheerios that my youngest was supposed to be eating as he stood on his chair, somehow still only in a diaper.






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