Confession

On days like today, I fear returning to work.

My husband came home late last night and went in early this morning.  Our 3 y.o. woke up miserable at having missed Daddy.  When a toddler gets mad, you can see it coming - the wind-up and then the pitch.  He screamed for nearly 30 minutes straight, as I dressed him, hustled him through teeth-brushing and hair combing and shoe putting-on.  He howled as we walked to school.

I’ll admit it - I wanted to hit him.  If I though it would make it any better, I might’ve done.

 

The Things She Left Behind

“You?  You have a kid?  How old are you, anyway?”

It’s not the world’s most polite question, but then, it’s being asked by our 22 y.o. intern, a bright and likable young woman who is staring at me as if I just announced that I kept poisonous spiders in my desk drawer, or took pole dancing classes in my spare time.

And the truth is, it’s flattering to hear that a recent college grad assumed for months that those pictures on my desk were snapshots of a cute nephew.