My little boy has written me more love notes than all my beaux combined. They end up buried in piles of stuff on my bedside table, or the top of my dresser where I plop half-worn clothes, or the side of the desk where I work. I don't think I've ever discarded one.
We've leaned hard into the habit of driving to school; it always felt necessary amid a pattern of rushed mornings, when I don't even have time to make coffee until butts are in classroom seats. But I've realized just how easy a jaunt it is.
I still think rampant consumerism is a scourge, but here I am with a new 2021 car in my driveway, having traded up from a 2020 version of a similar model. This probably wasn't a financially wise choice.
