I cannot go to bed without saying goodnight. I cannot wait until I get to see her face in the morning. I look forward to seeing her after school and hear about her day.
I, too, am grieving a loss of self that I clawed and bled and fought to earn as a working mother in this society—an identity that seemingly disappeared overnight, largely without my consent.
At that moment, standing in my cluttered kitchen with crumbs everywhere, dirty dishes, half-full juice boxes and half-eaten apples on every inch of counter space, I was the JLo of dinnertime.
