Raising three children is like fording a swift, waist-high stream whose stones are covered with moss: it’s possible, but move heron-slow and measure each step, or you’ll topple and end up who knows how far downstream.
I thought as much this morning in bed during a rare reflective moment as the snow-lit predawn seeped between the curtains. I faded back into sleep with vague hopes of extending my metaphor and woke shortly thereafter to a distinct pounding sound. Was it my brain begging for hydration in response to last night’s vodka, or one of my children inventing another way to wake me? I opened my eyes.
