Personal essays and reflections on early motherhood — written slowly, usually after bedtime, and never tidied up too much.
Every day has one hour that asks more than the others. Ours falls between the end of the nap and the start of dinner, when the light goes gold and everybody, me included, is at the very end of their patience.
August 2026 · 8 min read
I can be entirely glad of the life I have and still stand at the kitchen window mourning a version of myself who had whole afternoons. Nobody warned me that both feelings would live in the same body, on the same ordinary Tuesday.
9 min read