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.

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Love Handles

I am fifteen months postpartum, though with each day that passes, I question my right to use the word postpartum when describing myself. It is dark, and I am nursing my youngest, who has somehow turned from an infant into a walking, teething monster who loves nothing more than removing every item from every accessible shelf in our house.

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It was one of the beautiful days – warm and sunny and weekendy. We were visiting my in-laws, far, far away from the city we call home. We had spent the day, trying to cram as much summer as possible into it - watermelon and sprinkler runs and failed attempts at getting the toddler to nap in the pack ‘n play.

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