Somewhere between the I-can’t-do-everything-around-here and the it’s-easier-to-do-it-myself syndrome I hear the whisper, “Don’t forget Me.”
But the day is full and fragmented. A tiny face with serious eyes bores into my closed ones. Level with my pillowed head they pull me from a dead sleep.
“I gotta go potty,” a little voice announces.
It is the bugle call of a mommy, and I throw back the covers, feel for a damp bottom, then…