![]() My two-story colonial in South Riding was just close enough to the city to make ten o’clock sound reasonable when I’d scheduled it. My agent was already on a train from Grand Central to Union Station, where I was supposed to meet her for a brunch reservation at a restaurant I couldn’t afford so we could discuss exactly how overdue I was on my deadline for a book I had started three times and probably would never finish because … Jesus, look around me. If you’ve never had to wrestle a two-year-old slathered in maple syrup into a diaper while your four-year-old decides to give herself a haircut in time for preschool, all while trying to track down the whereabouts of your missing nanny as you sop up coffee grounds from an overflowing pot because in your sleep-deprived fog you forgot to put in the filter, let me spell it out for you. On the particular morning of Tuesday, October eighth, I was ready by seven forty-five. ![]() ![]() It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight thirty A.M. ![]()
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