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 feel the sting of failure when I see glimpses of other families doing the wholesome stuff that, I’m convinced, leads to healthy, socially responsible children.
The phrase "touched out" originated from mothers' aversion to excessive physical touch, by kids and partners alike, but for me it resonates for all kinds of sensory input.
