" We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection ... we write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to speak with others."
- Anais Nin
Reporter Mama Observation: This work thing is time consuming!
But, I’ve been writing draft posts … not to mention the collection in my head so hopefully one of these days I’ll get caught up on them.
In the meantime, here are a few overheards from last week and a link to my most recent column “Meaningful action starts with silence” chronicling my reaction to the rash of tragic shootings.
Ironically, this column with the word “silence” in the title brought a lot of emails in response, and I’m thankful for all of them because it’s always nice to know when your words resonate with others.
Overheard in the newsroom:
Context: Reporter on the phone.
Quote:
“So, you’re saying I misquoted you but you haven’t read the story?”
- Name withheld to protect the innocent
Overheard on the beat:
Context: I’m paraphrasing but this was said during a meeting addressing a man who appears to one of Yamhill County’s own hoarders. In reference to all the junk on his property the man said:
Quote:
“It might look like junk but really it’s camouflage.”
- Name withheld because I kind of felt bad for the guy.
But, I can’t wait to tell Matt all the crap on our front porch is … camouflage. That’s totally going in the book.
Overheard in the minivan:
“I wish we could take a boom truck to heaven and make sure Lucy is still alive there. And pet her. I still love her.”
- Sam
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I'd stopped on my way home to catch a candid picture of one of the candidate's I'm covering putting up campaign signs. I was close to home when my husband called. There was an accident ... he started to tell me a baby got hit in front of our house ... it's pretty bad. But at the same time just before I rounded the corner to my house I saw the flash of a police car.
I heard the drum that beats inside to say something’s not right. I came onto my street and saw my house surrounded by police cars, caution tape and chaos. My husband was in the front yard – distraught.
He'd just told me a baby. Not Sam, not Jake. A baby. But time lapsed and all the information didn't click in my mind as I hurried into the madness. Could it be my boys?
I couldn’t get my car any farther down the street.
“You can’t go down there.” One of the world’s hall monitors informed me.
“I have to.” I shouted, trying to remember how to park my car.
what is happening? I ran.
I heard wailing coming from the left. I ran faster.
A toddler. Hit by a car.
Simultaneously I saw for sure that it wasn’t one of my kids because the toy-car wagon in the grilll of a Ford sedan didn’t belong to my boys.
It was Alex’s, next door.
Alex, a little boy who just barely got to the world before getting taken out on a random October afternoon. He just celebrated his 1st birthday September 22.
I never met him. But will keep a candle lit for him in my heart for the rest of my days. Because to me, the moment of relief I felt that my boys were okay, meant that someone else’s baby wasn’t.
I’ve done crisis counseling. I know what that’s called, I know it’s not rational: survivor’s guilt.
None of that helps when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night thinking of the baby, his sister, his brother, his father … his mother a few houses down. His grandmother, his grandfather, his babysitter … all people I only knew in passing … but now I hear them cry in my sleep. And I wake up with my own pillow wet from my own tears.
They each have their own stories … the stories that don’t get into the news because they’re happening at the same time as the news is developing and they’re happening in hearts and heads … not headlines.
There’s the story of his sister, Jessica. I can’t tell you her story, because I don’t know it. But I can tell you where my life intersected with hers, on the corner of 4th and Meridian.
A beautiful young girl, 14, sitting in the street, wearing one black Ked and hitting the pavement over and over and over again. Screaming for her brother to wake up. Screaming at the man who hit him. Screaming for time to come back. Screaming. Her grandmother never let go of her … shaking and bearing witness to the grief around her, holding her own inside.
The next day I came over to the house I saw Jessica, in a dark room sitting by his crib, she was still saying his name, clinging to the crib, Wake up, Alex. Wake up.
Then there is Javier. A handsome 17-year old who said he waited his whole life to have a brother. They were just about to share a room together – Javier planned to paint the lighting McQueen lightening bolt in their room. Maybe he still will, he can’t think about that now.
I met Javier at the same intersection as his sister, but hours later. The scene was silent now. The only evidence of the afternoon’s tragedy and chaos was the little red toy car still in the car’s grill … the street still taped off, the wailing echoing in the minds of neighbors but save the sound of detectives talking in low voices it was quiet now.
No one came to pick Javier up from practice. He learned something was wrong, but not what exactly. He ran all the way home. He was nearly there when he saw the tape, like I did. Saw the wagon, like I did.
But there was no relief for Javier because it was his baby brother. I told him what I knew. I held him, this boy I’d never met, this boy who just learned his brother was in a horrible accident and fighting for his life in a city an hour away. A boy who was alone to process all of that.
So I hovered around his house, in case he came out. He did. We talked a bit, I introduced him to another neighbor, the one who’d given his little brother CPR, somehow information was helping, at least it gave him something to process, perhaps.
If he needed anything I told him to come over. At 8 p.m. he came to the door. My heart lifting, I thought he was coming to tell me good news. Instead, he just wanted to let me know his brother didn’t make it. But he was braver than me and used all of the words: my little brother … died.
And he had to go talk to his little sister, who’d come from a friend’s house. I came home with him, not because there was anything I could do to help but because I could be there, to hold them, to let him grieve without having to be the adult in the room for his sister … and that’s all I did. Held them until he was ready for me to go. I haven’t seen him since but I think about him every day.
I do see the grandfather every day as he comes out to check on the flowers, tidy up the memorial site, bring fresh water, straighten what the wind has bent.
I talk to him a little bit as I come to tie the balloons back up in the battle against gravity, the rain has come to put the candles out, the chalk messages are wiped away, the markings in the street are fading … but the memories, the sounds, the moments of that Monday afternoon no one can take back.
Those stay. Those stay forever. The impact permanent. And that’s just for me. So I literally can’t draw a full breath when I put myself in any one of their shoes. The best I can do is what I told the little boy’s mama: though I never knew him, I will never forget your son.
Alex’s story hit home for most everyone in my home. Matt has his own story, one he’ll most likely keep to himself. But he’s not sleeping well either. He heard the impact. He called 9-1-1 knowing what happened before he saw what happened.
Sam, well, how do you tell a five-year-old this story? We’re working through it. Sometimes he understands, sometimes he doesn’t Same as me. He says he dreams of Baby Alex. And in his dreams, they are playing Legos, and running, lots of running Sam says.
But I did not cover this story. I was a part of this story. Their stories are now a part of me.
I share them with you as a reminder to always, but always, remember this moment matters.
p.s. some of you are asking for more information about the accident itself as well as what possessed me to tell my son about it. This photo is taken in front of my house, does that help answer that?
And the other questions are really good ones too and I’ll come back with the answers I have as soon as I can.
And some have also wondered - yes we have a collection envelope for them and you can message me for more information if you would like to contribute something to this family ... I understand things are tight and there are a lot of things vying for our attention and resources, if you feel moved to share a few dollars, let me know.
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It felt so good to write here yesterday, I thought I’d squeeze in another post, in lieu of a shower though so maybe that’s not such good news for the people who interact with me in person.
But, for those of you who have written asking if I finally succumbed to the temptation of sticking my head in the oven during my long cyber-silence, this ought to be a good sign.
And, by the way, that whole oven thing? Mostly a joke because I use inappropriate humor as a coping tool, hey, it beats drugs, right? See, I can’t help myself .
Also, mine’s an electric oven, so the joke would ultimately be on me.
Yesterday I was amazed at the way technology plays such a critical role in how I do my job in ways that I never dreamed of last time I had this gig.
A decade ago, I had a cell phone but it was at the coast and rarely charged – so between those two factors – totally pointless.
Yesterday I was on a field trip with a group of fifth-graders touring the local landfill. I was on the school bus when my editor texted me that we needed a story in the paper, due later that afternoon.
The story was about a young man named Cody Myers who was murdered a year ago by two sick-twist psychopath white supremacists monsters.
Actually, the story was about the foundation that’s been formed since his death by his family in order to continue his vision of providing children who couldn’t afford them musical instruments, and lessons.
I followed the Myers’ story very closely last year, it was when I was still a stay at home mom writing my monthly column. It struck a chord deep within me that these worries of mine with little ones are a blessing compared to those I will face when they are old enough to, like, leave my field of vision.
One night, on deadline this column came to me, truly channeled from beyond myself.
Anyway, in that column I mentioned Cody’s mom as she was in my heart so much as I followed the story. I’ve often thought of her and Cody’s story as a way of bringing myself back to a place of grace despite the madness around me.
For the story on a tight deadline, it was tempting to just stick to the basic facts of the benefit concert: October 21, noon to midnight, Trails End in Oregon City … but it means so much more in context doesn’t it?
So I used our archives and Facebook posts to put as much of it together as I could while praying for the chance to talk with the right person for the story.
An hour before the story was due, I got the opportunity to talk with Cody’s mom who was gracious with her time and in sharing such a painful story, but also she said it is good to have her son remembered.
I know I am only one of many who never even met him, and yet will never forget him, or his story.
It’s unreal to realize I am in my fourth week at my new job already. Let me preface this by saying I love my job. But … I may have underestimated the impact of this transition on myself and the boys.
It all happened in such a whirlwind (have I even told you the story yet?!) so I didn’t have much time to acclimate mentally, or emotionally to what I’m calling my New Life. Because it feels exactly like that. Sam and I, at times, would like our old life back. The one where there seemed to be more time, yet still never enough. The one where we didn’t have to be somewhere at a certain time every day. Dressed.
During our separation, I knew I was going to have to go back to work sooner than later. I just didn’t know how soon it would happen!
The picture above is after my interview day, which ended up being one of the longest times I was away from the boys and as you can see … we did alright.
I really miss writing this blog so I know I’ll be working on a way to work that in to my days. I just don’t quite know how that’ll look. Shorter, more frequent posts perhaps?
I’m writing tonight to ask that you don’t let my longish lag in posting be cause to unsubscribe me. I’m just checking in to let you know I haven’t stuck my head in the oven or anything, far from it! I’m just adjusting to this whole business of being a reporter mama.
(FYI: to those of you who care about this kind of thing, I loved the Reporter Mama idea as soon as I had it, then quickly realized it was probably because I liked Christina Katz’ Writer Mama … so I got her blessing to adapt it to my life now. ‘Cause she’s cool like that.)
And, some days are tougher than others. This is from the Friday of my first week. I’d been meaning to have a meltdown since Tuesday but just couldn’t fit it in.
More observations to follow, as well as one of my new favorite funny stories from the newsroom.
Best,
Clips – okay, these really are mostly for my parents who adore me enough to read scan the less juicy stuff I write, and also as a working list of clips for my own reference …
You’ve heard of the dad who popped a couple bullets into his daughter’s laptop, right? I’ve been so frustrated by the coverage, and public reaction to that story I had to address it in my most recent “Raising the Hardy Boys” column.
It was impossible to sum up my frustration eloquently in 600 words. There is so much that we’re missing in this story. Whether we agree with what he did or not, this event has triggered (yeah, pun intended) a massive, emotional response – that is part of the big story – why?
And then there’s the story of the fact that we don’t seem to have each other’s backs as parents at all. Sure, if we know each other we make allowances for off days or errors in judgment but if we don’t know you personally and you do something that raises our eyebrows, ire, or even the hair on our arms we’re quick to call in Child Protective Services (who have real kids in real danger to protect by the way) and then sit back and watch the circus from our couch, safely removed from it all while another family get’s theirs turned upside down.
Except but for the grace of God are the tables not turned. We all have moments we’d just as soon not have broadcast to the nation and beyond. Moments, say, when we reacted to something our kids did with our hearts and egos instead of a more grounded television-worthy place. Because we’re people first, parents second.
I don’t know a single parent who doesn’t want to be as good a parent as they possibly can. Let’s try to remember that when we see someone fall short of what that means to us and hope that same grace has our back when it’s our turn on Dr. Phil, or whatever.
p.s. Want a sneak peak for next week’s post?
My Project Life Hack (aka Tickler file) … wish I could think of a better name for “tickler file.” Anyone?
(The point of the thing is to serve as a home for all those papers that clutter up counters, desktops and purses, fridges and bulletin boards.) Details, instructions and Q&A to follow next week, if you’ve got questions post them in the comments or email me.
I found an unexpected use for my new favorite writing-related book: “The Writer’s Workout” by Christina Katz. It’s my Magic Eight Ball. Or, more honestly, it’s one way my intuition talks back to me.
My most recent example of how this works happened Monday. I was starting back to work on a novel I’ve been writing for years in starts and spurts. My husband and I finally think we’ve found a way to arrange our schedules to accommodate a few regular windows of time for me to get it done.
Our plan was nearly perfect except one small roadblock. Me.
I wasn’t caught up on all the other stuff I do around here. I didn’t have all my notes for this novel gathered in one place like I’d been meaning to. I didn’t know where my outline was, which is more important since I lost so much in the first computer crash last year. I realized, though, that to finish it what I had to do first was to simply just begin. So I did.
It.Was.Awesome.
And just before I started writing I flipped “The Writer’s Workout” open to page 145 and found this:
If organizing is cutting into your writing time stick with finding your writing rhythm instead.
… Don’t schedule writing time. Just write. Don’t decide too far ahead what you will do, just do what you need to do now. … Keep writing until you meet each goal.
Another example that happened literally as I was working on this post: I was thinking about another post I’m working on about Bill Johnson’s presentation at the last Northwest Author Series. I wrote a note to myself to encourage readers to be themselves in their writing, to use the voice and style that comes most naturally to them. And then I opened my Magic Eight Ball randomly to page 146 and found:
I was born to be Christina. Marc was born to be Marc. And you were born to be you. what kind of unique trail are you going to blaze?
See?!? It works. Every. Time.
(If you try it, I’d love to hear what comes up!)
If you want to buy a copy of your own, call your local book store and ask them to order it for you. Let me know if you do because I’d love to check in with each other as we make our way through the year. While it’s obviously helpful any time, any day, “The Writer’s Workout” is designed to start in the spring, which will be here soon!
Let’s flex our brains, stretch our fingers and get writing!
I'll be back tomorrow evening with a guest post from the coach herself.
Until then, here’s my Amazon review:
In the spirit of full disclosure, I know Christina. I like Christina. So of course I'm going to read her newest book. And I'm a fan so naturally I'll buy it. And I'm a polite person so I'll say some polite things about it. What I won't do, though, is encourage you to buy it unless it's a bookshelf-must. It is. If you're smart, you're more conscious than ever about how you spend your money regardless of how much you have. And if you're like most writers the last thing you need is another un-read book on your nightstand. But The Writer's Workout isn't meant to be read in one sitting. Instead, it's intended to serve as a constant guide and companion; a virtual coach clarifying your writing goals and guiding you ahead in your career with practical advice, thoughtful quotes and engaging exercises. I've read enough reviews on Amazon to know there are some who think knowing the author precludes a person from writing an objective review. Perhaps that's true. But, since I do happen to know Christina Katz, I can tell you something about her the book jacket can't. She's a writer who walks her talk. Her advice is relevant, current, solid and based on personal experience. Just like her first book Writer Mama wasn't helpful exclusively for mothers, The Writer's Workout isn't inspiring exclusively for writers; it's also motivating for anyone with a long-term personal or professional goal.
[Editor's note: I posted this after creating my own handwriting font, thinking I was so clever. I was eager to share it, and my love of handwriting with you all. Then I traveled across the country and got super sick. I returned to the land of the living to find Susan Branch, yes THE Susan Branch, commented on this post asking if the handwriting I was so sure posted perhaps didn't. Even though I saw it on my computer ... because, duh! Your computers don't come with the Nathalie's Notes font. Shocking, I know. I'll add it to my list of things to figure out someday.]
I LOVE handwriting! Many of my favorite books include the author’s handwriting in them: SARK, Sabrina Ward Harrison, Susan Branch to name a few. I think I love it so much because it’s personal. And I’ve always thought personal is meaningful. One of my favorite memories from my wedding season was when, at my bridal shower, my girlfriends each wrote some advice on a paper my Maid of Honor, Amy, prepared. They were anonymous. But I knew every single person’s handwriting by sight. Loved that.
All that is to say … this is my handwriting. How cool is that?! I used myscriptfont.com to create a font using my own handwriting. [[(Er... see above note). [[[[
I’d love to say it was in honor of National Handwriting Day last week – but that’s just a coincidence. I’m considering using this for my posts but am not about the .readability. Let me know your thoughts.
It just seems like a natural way for me to use this medium to communicate personal things as I work on developing my new class for Big Picture Classes, The Art of Self Preservation because … I got the gig!
The editors at Big Picture Classes accepted my proposal and I actually get to teach a class about the very thing I’m most passionate about. Online as many of you requested when I was doing it locally.
I am over.the.moon excited!
I hope you guys will consider joining me on that journey and taking the class with me!
So much more to say, but I just finished my TheraFlu and the alarm is set for 4 a.m. for a crazy-fun adventure. More on that later, too.
My newest Confessions of a Green Wannabe article ran this week, “A new approach for 2012- the ‘ecolution.’” Click here if you want to read it, starts on page 3. (If you’ve got a few extra minutes, check out page 4 for an awesome article highlighting the essence of my husband’s new business, Artisan Timberworks).
I referred to the following clips in my column, so here they are if you’re curious. The first one is Annie Leonard’s breakdown on “The Story of Stuff.” The second clip is George Carlin’s commentary on our obsession with our stuff. (Guilty as charged!) FYI, if you’re not familiar with Carlin’s work, he cusses recreationally and regularly so don’t listen to this around kids, co-workers, bosses or if foul language offends you. The “G” version gist of his bit is in my column.
I’m on deadline. So, naturally I’ve written the thank you notes from Sam’s birthday – in October. And one to the staff at the hotel we stayed at over Thanksgiving – Holiday Inn Express in Troutdale. And the Mayor and Council of my town … I’ve scrubbed random spots on doors and walls I’ve managed to ignore for 18 months and after this post I suppose I’ll have to actually get back to it.
Or … I could spend 40 minutes messing with my December Daily video because I’ve been meaning to do that since April when many of you couldn’t see what I’d posted. Turns out I used a copyrighted song in the background and that killed this video star.
Inspired by the awesome Ali Edwards, December Daily is a project I will hold dear because participating in it brought me light and kept my focus on the positive during a particularly dark period of my life. Anyway, here’s take 1,000 for those of you who asked:
December Daily 2010
This album turned out exactly the way I wanted. How often does that happen? My favorite part though is that it’s the first time I’ve finished something I’ve started just for myself. If there’s a deadline or it’s for someone else I’m all over it but things that are just for me get put on perma-hold. Or, rather, they used to.
I thought that was my favorite part until Sam saw me get the album out with our other decorations and has asked to sit down and read it together several times a day. I love, love, love that!
For more about my whole December Daily process, click here for archives or on the “December Daily” in the category cloud to your right.
I would love to hear from any of you planning to join in this year. I’ll share more about my current plans for THIS year’s book … but first I have to write the final drafts for my column and book review. Really. I’m on it.
Between 5 and 7:30 a.m. Wake up to sounds of my husband trying to be quiet. Marvel that my children slept through the night and pray for another hour of quiet before the party starts. Write morning pages, finish a few things for work and make my shake. Empty dishwasher, start breakfast prep, set out stuff for making dinner. Put in load of laundry.
Head back upstairs where Sam finds me stretching in my room so we do a little Yoga together before his brother wakes up. Sam’s the loudest little Yogi ever so Jake’s up before long and hits the ground running. And then falls hitting his knee on an unidentified object since I was being so negligent as to use the bathroom for a moment.
7:45 a.m. I bring some first-aid stuff upstairs to deal with his scrape. Sam insists his brother wants a boo-boo pack and hurries downstairs to get it. He falls too. So there we are, the three of us on the stairs, two-thirds of us in tears. I suggest we start the day over. We get dressed and come down for breakfast.
8:05 a.m. Noticed the box of Band-aids is suspiciously empty. Found them stuck all over Sam’s door. I scraped them off while he explains that he was “just decorating.”
8:10 a.m. Noticed the Neosporin cap is missing, spent the next 15 minutes hunting for it before Jake finds it and choke to death. Change Jake’s diaper. I’m too slow because in the 12 seconds he had the opportunity he manages to pee all over his lovey, Zebra. Luckily I have a spare.
8:25 a.m. The water I’d set to boil for our oatmeal evaporated in the meantime. Almond butter toast and honey it is. (It helps to remember that when Plan A fails, you’ve got 25 more letters to work with).
8:20-8:30 a.m. Managed Sam’s meltdown over not being allowed to watch “Bob the Builder.”
8:32 a.m. Breakfast on the table, bags are packed from the night before we’ll be out the door on time today. For sure. Except I didn’t read Sam’s mind and therefore “messed up” his toast.
8:33 a.m. Manage another meltdown because I cut Sam’s toast into rectangles instead of his “favorite shape, triangles.” FYI: yesterday, the request was for rectangles. Jake, on the other hand, loves the toast, doesn’t care about the shape but thinks it makes a lovely hat.
8:40 a.m. Eat my toast standing up while combing almond butter out of Jake’s hair.
8:55-9 a.m. Clean up (by which I mean the kids not the breakfast dishes, those get thrown in the sink on a good day), wrangle kids into shoes and car-seats. Catch a whiff of stinky realization that I need to change Jake’s diaper. Stupidly smell his pants to see if he needs new ones. He does. Plus, I need a shower because, well, let’s just say I should’ve used my eyes instead of my nose!
9:00 a.m. Load boys up, lock myself out. Get in through super-secret means, tie my shoes while I pee. Yes, multi-tasking at its finest. Sing wheels-on-the bus all the way to the gym, pausing only to look for Cement Mixer Melvin and Rescue Rita. Also, forgot to announce “Time Tunnel approaching folks.” Promise to try to remember tomorrow.
9:30 a.m. Arrive at the gym daycare, breathless after carrying 30-pound Jake from the back-40 and keeping up with Sam who can’t wait to play trains. In the spirit of efficiency, I consider that my warm-up and sign in pleased that we are, for once, on time today. At which point I’m told I was actually signed up for 9 a.m. Cool.
9:45 a.m. Grateful for a cancelation, I am finally able to hit the treadmill, workout and shower all by myself. Even in an itty-bitty shower stall with little privacy and no scented potions from home this time to shower and get ready in peace is such a luxury that I’m willing to work out hard enough to need one after years of boycotting exercise due to the fact that I hate it. A few people have asked me why I go through the trouble of going to the gym when I could just go for a walk with “one of those kid-pusher things.” For those who don’t know, that would be a stroller and I suppose it’s possible that someone who’s never pushed one with two siblings in it wouldn’t understand that is an exercise in both patience and futility but not so much a physical one since you’re always having to stop to give someone his bottle back or pick up the blanket that you just ran over and will now have to wash before bedtime.
11:00 a.m. Stop at the “Tractor Park” on the way home to supervise play and sharing practice. Watch in awe as other parents are able to relax and read as their children fling sand into my kids’ faces. Remind Sam we don’t have a snack bar because we had to leave the store last time due to his not listening. As he starts to throw a fit remind him that if he does that I won’t have the energy to remember to buy them next time either!
11:30 a.m. Bribe the kids back to the car with the promise of lunch and an episode of “Caillou.” Yes, even if it’s sunny. People say television is a babysitter like it’s a bad thing. I’m more of a “most things in moderation” kind of mom. Ad-lib “Wheels-on-the Bus” all the way home to include all of the “Sweet Pickles” characters.
Since I’m already over my word-count, just trust me that the afternoon is a blur of crafty activities, clean up, sharing practice, explaining why it’s not okay to tow each other by the neck, hunting down remaining strangulation hazards, trying to keep one kid relatively quiet while the other naps, prepping dinner, bum-wiping, re-wrapping the toilet paper on the roll, Google contents of Sam’s giraffe and ideas for how to fix his tail, laundry, and the list goes on.
Yeah, that whole bon-bon thing? It’s crap!
Flash forward to the chaos of the day fading into dinner negotiations, bath time fun and subsequent tsunami zone, then stories, songs, bedtime. I SAID BEDTIME!!!
And then I clock out.
Just kidding.
At Bedtime Jake is screaming for Zebra. Oh, did I not mention that as I was filling the tub he decided to toss Zebra in there, giving him a nice soak. Remember this morning when he peed on the other one and I was so glad I had a spare? Yeah. I didn’t get that into the dryer yet.
Motherhood is full of Sophie’s Choices. Do I give him the wet zebra or the one he peed on this morning?
I’ll leave you on that note … I know there are so many things I missed. I’m sure you can help me fill in the blanks. Hopefully this is enough to demonstrate the “bored” is the dumbest adjective to describe this mad-awesome gig.
*After writing this it was brought to my attention that technically I’m a work-from-home mom but as far as I’m concerned, the details here are representative of the stay-at-home mom part and the work-from-home part happens on the treadmill, at the park while supervising sharing practice, between singing rounds of wheels-on-the-bus, and between 9 p.m and 2 a.m.
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