I rush down to put the uniforms in the dryer but she’s already done it. I can see the thin band of light coming from under her bathroom door.

How is it already time to go? I haven’t even had a sip of coffee.

I tell him about the email. About its irony. About how this was my whole point about deadlines.

I keep looking up to cheer on the girls as they step up to the plate. She asks me if I’m working. I tell her that I’m trying, but I am really struggling. Really, really struggling.

Perhaps it was the caffeine that is making me naseuas.

I can’t remember the last time, if I ever, writing has been so hard.

Caesar salad.

Two different texts. They each need something from me.

Sweating under the late afternoon sun.

Lead-off triple. If only he would practice he would be even stronger.

I wonder if this, too, is motherhood: always worrying if you have not set them up to reach the potential you see in them.