If I Only Had Another Brain
The days of chasing little people and grasping at personhood are the days of miracles and wonder, of doing everything and nothing.
I am trudging behind a tricycle, eyes watchful and feet wary for uneven paving and stray sticks. There is a baby strapped to my chest and a preschooler pedaling ahead of me. Is he decidedly a preschooler? Can I call him a toddler anymore? He has passed that title, hasn’t he? What was the word people used for this age before preschool was a thing? What would Jane Austen have called a three-year-old?
I want to reread Northanger Abbey. I need to add it to my list. But I need to spend less time on my phone and my reading list is on my phone. Maybe I need a paper list.
My grocery list is on paper. So is my weekly menu. I have to think of four dinners to cook and then I can fudge a night of leftovers and do a pizza. I should read more cookbooks and not fall into such a rut of making the same meals all the time. When can I make time to read a cookbook?
The sky is pure and cold and the baby keeps looking up at the bright cloudlessness and blinking, and I put a warm brimmed Elmer Fudd hat on him but he does not like his hat and keeps trying to pull it off, and I suppose it’s getting too small for him but I have not…
