I don’t know if my need to purge had to do with the faux spring that was lurking outside my door or if my ability to clean and organize hit overdrive because of the small space we call home.
Are these daily battles a sign of my failure as a mother? Is there something wrong with him, or is there something wrong with the way I interact with him?
I find myself worrying now, at the airport, if I should be more nervous. I have friends who wouldn’t let their 11-year-olds fly alone, and I start to wonder if they know something I don’t.