The early years were a blur of bottles and fevers and lullabies whispered through cracked lips at midnight. I memorized the squeak of the stroller wheels and the exact time the sun hit our living room floor. There were nights when I sat on the kitchen floor and ate spoonfuls of peanut butter on stale bread while I cried from exhaustion.
I lost count of how many birthday cakes I baked from scratch; not because I had the time, but because store-bought ones felt like giving up. They grew in bursts. One day they were in footie pajamas, giggling through Sesame Street reruns.
The next, they were arguing over whose turn it was to carry groceries in from the car. “Mom, why don’t you eat the big piece of chicken?” Jude once asked when he was about eight. “Because I want you to grow up taller than me,” I told him, smiling through a mouthful of rice and broccoli.
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