Here’s a typical afternoon in my house.
Okay I just have time to edit—
“Mom! The cat’s playing with a half-dead chipmunk and my soccer coach is going to bench me if I turn up with only one purple sock and by the way I flunked my Spanish test and what’s for dinner and did I tell you Tim is staying over and why is child no. 3 allowed to watch Halloween, Part 8 you wouldn’t let me see that when I was five?”
. . . now where did I file that synopsis and was it the short one or the long one? And did I send the critique of that sex manual to—? Oh god, the school guidance counselor is going to think I’m a sex addict when he finds it in his inbox. He’ll probably call child protective services and . . .
“Mom! I’m scared and I just know I’m going to have nightmares and can I sleep in your bed tonight.”
. . . what was I making for dinner . . . and oh, there are my glasses, in the fridge with the deli slices . . . HAS ANYONE FED THE CATS? . . . must remember to clean up the chipmunk guts from under the . . . oh, that gives me an idea—where’s a Post-it note . . . credit card bill, hoped I’d lost that . . . glass of wine . . . aaah!