You know you’re in a maybe not so very great headspace, lifewise, when you grow bitingly jealous of somebody whose hands are covered in literal shit.
I learned this at the start of my daughter’s tenure here on planet earth, when so much of my life orbited around fecal matter and untold longing of one sort or another.
Two summers back, at the end of a rather trying day with a very fussy and colicky Baby G, I scooted my neglected nursing glider out from our living room and onto the front porch.
“If this baby won’t let me be out in the world,” I’d resolved bravely to nobody in particular, “I’ll bring the world to us.”
And so I plopped us down among the thirsty herb pots and the mosquito-infested rain barrels, reattached Baby G to her breasty perch, and leaned back to watch said world pass by.