When the hours burn up in front of my eyes like newspapers on fire, when I go from nursing, to scrubbing poop off the infant swing, to picking up little pieces of shredded paper, to filling up a sippy cup, to reorganizing my storage systems, to scheduling when I'm going to blend up the humus for tonight's dinner, I look back fondly on the days when I could choose whom I wished to serve and when I would serve them. Those days when I could listen to the refrigerator humming and the planes outside powering down, when jumping in the car and running to the grocery store to pick up a dozen eggs was a quick and simple task, when all my time was MINE and all my body parts were MINE and all my thoughts were MINE MINE MINE! So I tell myself, it’s just a phase. Soon the children will be able to do these things on their own. One day they’ll be able to take care of themselves. One day they’ll move out, and Phil and I will be able to travel, have decadent meals to the sound of our own v