Sylvia Plath and her children.

Sylvia Plath and her children.

In the midst of holding my daughter while she howled over having bitten the inside of her lip, as the 92-year old dog (in dog years) tripped yet again and fell to the ground, as Thomas screamed that he couldn’t have desert because he’d already been given two sugar cookies (before dinner and without my permission) at soccer, as no freelance work appears on the horizon and no new metier makes itself clear, as the bills overflow on my so-called and poorly named “communications table” … I wonder if I’m really going to be able to do this on my own. This is not what God intended – and I don’t even believe in God. But who/whatever created this great soup of life surely did not intend for one woman to care for two kids on her own while trying to make a living. It just doesn’t add up.

When I was pregnant with both kids and living in a different house — a very narrow, old farmhouse with a single toilet downstairs — I’d invariably have to go to the bathroom at 2 a.m. on frigid nights. All the way down, gripping the banister that a thoughtful friend had installed, I’d repeat mantra-like: “At least I have a bathroom. At least I have a bathroom.” It got me through many nocturnal pees with my grace intact and without rancor. I’m looking now for my mantra.