As I write this, today is Monday, March 30. A couple hours ago, I stepped outside, barefoot, and threw the frisbee a few times with my dog. Inside, my 8-month-old daughter, Penelope, was screaming her tiny head off in her room and frankly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed air. I needed to breathe. She cried for half an hour attempting to take her usual afternoon nap. She cried the whole time I made dinner and she cried the whole time eating her dinner. I put her pajamas on against her will, cradled her in my arms, held that binky in for dear life, and rocked. And rocked. And rocked. And she finally drifted off to sleep. In moments like this, I am so clearly reminded that I am a single mother to this sweet pea, and I have been from day one. Literally.