Ten.Two Thousand, Three Hundred & Eighty-One
In the dream, I am walking through Trader Joe’s and see a newborn baby all bundled up, resting on top of a stack of boxes. I pick up the baby and decide that I’m going to take care of it. But I can’t find any formula to feed it. In the next store, the formula is locked behind the glass.
Hot-sauce burpee.
So much laundry.
I am the first one in the office, so I keep her on speakerphone as I turn on the lights and make my first cup of decaf.
It just might be okay after all.
In telling the story, he says the words “soccer” and “Mr. Rapinoe,” and there can only be one. We talk about basketball and building a program and he understands the significance of going from 4-20 to 7-8 with half a season to go.
I could fight it, but I don’t have the energy to.
To see three colleagues in one place is something that never happens—especially not in a middle school gym.
Well. That was fun.
What is the baby?
