As the mugginess of a July dusk washed over us from the outside, we heard cars rattling by in the rutted dirt road as George Kell called the play-by-play on WDIV-TV.
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The beating inside my chest, that fluttering of an idea, the winged creature encapsulated in my ribcage flaps mercilessly as I take the toddler's temperature or sit, jailed and impatient, behind the wheel in the carline to pick up my shiny-haired boys from school.
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Brennan, my three-year-old son, is standing at the refrigerator door, balanced precariously on a kitchen chair. "I can get my OWN juice," he tells me.
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Every time I think I have this writing thing down, I read about a nomadic writer who's living her life in Budapest, the Pacific Northwest, a stretch of beach in Portugal, and save for her thoughts and her coffee, she's alone.
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I'm convinced that my success as a mother is measured, in part, by my ability to manage almost anything I've been handed.
When my three-year-old shrieks, "Here!" from the backseat while I'm driving, I deftly reach back to accept any number of things he's screaming to be rid of:
Dear mothers, tucking your white sons into bed tonight:
I am you.
They wanted adventure. The thrill of speed and wind. They wanted to zip like his favorite jet through the sky, past the clouds, and into the galaxy.
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