
My toddler is in bed, and I’ve just sunk into the suddenly luxurious comfort of my couch, sipping herbal tea.
It’s still steaming, and I try to remember the last time I’d immersed myself in the simple pleasure of an hour of free time.
It doesn’t take me long to decide that it was well before my first born.
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Then slowly, an uncomfortable thought begins to surface, bringing an unavoidable truth to the forefront of my mind: it’s my daughter’s birthday in less than eight weeks, and I still don’t have anything planned.
I lean back into the couch again, which, just a second ago, had felt like crushed mohair against my skin but is now a sad bargain couch stained with pumpkin soup and sticky prints of licked lollipop.
I throw out a few dried cranberries I find wedged between the cushion and armrest, and just like that, I am back in mum mode.
Forty minutes of frenzied Pinteresting is followed by an hour-long WhatsApp conversation with one of my best friends to decide on a party theme.