Laura
I used to think being tired meant staying up too late or having a long day.
Then I became a mother.
Then I became a pregnant mother.
There was a difference. A very big, very humbling difference.
By eleven in the morning, I had already stopped Evan from putting a toy car in the toilet, peeled a banana he immediately decided was offensive, changed his shirt because he somehow got applesauce on the back of it, and cried for absolutely no reason while folding a pair of tiny socks.
Tiny socks should not have that much emotional power.
Yet there I was, standing in the laundry room of our very expensive New York penthouse, holding one of Evan’s socks in my hand like it was a precious family heirloom while my eyes burned.
“Get it together, Laura,” I whispered to myself.
From the kit
