Scarlett woke up this morning and got dressed in Parmesan cheese. That probably looks like a dictation mistake, but it’s true. She ate her breakfast of leftover pizza, wearing nothing but her underwear, and by the time she crawled onto my lap to listen to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, she was covered in tiny flakes like pungent snow, and so was I. And really, what could be a more auspicious start to the day than being sprinkled with secondhand dairy dandruff? When Scarlett flounced off to brush her hair and change her clothes, I just sat there with my winnings.

When she was younger, my daughter used to hand me all of her garbage to take care of. And as far back as I can remember, I would direct her to the nearest garbage can instead. She was three years old when I got a wheelchair, and when she tried to give me her garbage then, I would say “Mommy is not a garbage can”, and shoo her away. At six years old, she’s good at cleaning up after herself, and yet, I feel like I’m always holding something that is hers, covered in something she was eating, or in sudden possession of a lap full of sticks and flower petals because she “needed them for later!” Read More>