I watch as my boys scamper through the obstacle course. Foot after foot, knee after knee, hand over hand. Then, suddenly, down goes my youngest. I rush to help him, my heart beating wildly. He flashes a wild grin. No fear, this one.
My in-laws live in Springfield, Missouri. Home of Missouri State University, the Springfield Cardinals, and the original Bass Pro. This particular Bass Pro more closely resembles Disney Land than a sporting-goods store. They have a turtle alcove, gigantic fish, a Christmas display that rivals the North Pole, and pet alligators (seriously).
I glance over the kitchen island at my husband. Pressed shirt, slacks, and sports coat. Immaculate. Not a hair out of place. My eyes take in my own once-pink pajamas, soiled with eight-week-old baby spit-up. The germs of a very sick two-year-old cling, and my hair hasn’t been combed in at least two days. I hastily gulp down instant coffee (ugh!) and salvage half a bag of granola from toddler hands—the other half ends up on the floor. I watch my husband make a protein shake, thinking, I will be lucky to get a piece of peanut butter toast down this morning. A shower is out of the question.