I take the girls to the bus stop each morning and thenI drive to work. Each night we talk about our day at the dinner table, the time is usually filled with the girls’ stories, which never fail to require getting up from the table and going through very extended and physically dramatic retellings. It goes beyond hand talking to whole body retelling. Later, as we tuck them in, they brush their noses against mine, or trace their fingers along my face and say, “Tell me about your day. What did you do?” It can be so hard to explain. Did I really only write emails and take phone calls? It’s me asking this, not them, though I imagine they must wonder how that…

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