Having 3 kids makes work hard, but I wouldn’t change a thing about it

I’m not that mother who goes to the pediatrician as soon as her child complains. I’ve been a mother for three days. Even if my child’s fever She is 103 years old. It has been 10 days. She was better on the third day, she even went for her annual checkup with no signs of infection or virus. But a few days ago, the virus came back with a vengeance. Her already large tonsils were blocking her throat, so that only a tiny pinhole led to her airway. Her nose was stuffy and her face was puffy. I called the doctor.

Even when I take time to work, the universe has other plans.

For a second, I considered sending her alone. She’s 17 and drives. Plus, an hour or two in a waiting room would have made a huge dent in my writing schedule. Today was the day. I promised myself I wouldn’t get distracted. Today, I would finish the book. I’ve been writing and transcribing the Too Tall stories for four years. The longer it takes, the longer he stays in prison. He’s counting on me.

Our book details the six-year story of our friendship: a writing teacher meets a man who is incarcerated As she teaches the memoir in a Florida prison, Bond develops, there are emails, phone calls, and trust builds. And after spending 29 years behind bars, she finally helps him break free. At least, that’s the hope; in our story, the break-out part hasn’t happened yet.

There have been requests and denials, lawyers and more requests. My version is written. His version is written. I just need to lay out the chapters. There are five rows of Post-it notes summarizing each chapter stuck to my office window. I need a quiet day to finish editing our recent emails and organizing the Post-its.

Just as I was about to suggest to my daughter that she go to the doctor alone, I stopped and looked at her miserable face. I thought about my decision 19 years ago to start a family on my own. Sperm bank. Anonymous donation. Three children. I knew this kind of thing would happen to me. I just didn’t realize how often.

I realize she needs her mother; that’s what she’ll remember. That’s what I’ll miss when she leaves for university and then life. The book will have to wait, and unfortunately, so will Too Tall.

“I’ll meet you in the car,” I said, grabbing my jacket. I knew we were going to be there for a while, and I didn’t want to get cold. I knew the drill. I’ve suffered through many visits with all three of my kids. As usual, she lies on the paper-covered table and scrolls through Instagram or TikTok. I pretend to be trying to hurry the doctor along while I scroll through my phone, trying to get some work done.

My children make my job difficult, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

An hour and a half later we were sent home with a prescription for prednisone to help reduce the swelling while we waited for the lab culture to come back. I went back to my computer. The screen lit up just as my 19-year-old son appeared and asked what he should do. University PackWe are leaving in two days.

This is a kid who packed his own bag for every golf tournament, family vacation, and spend the night with friends. It’s true that I usually print out a packing list, but it’s also true that I’ve forgotten to add underwear and shorts on a few occasions. This was the first time he’d asked for help. I told him, “Line up all your favorite clothes and knick-knacks, and then we can narrow down the choices.” Everything had to fit in the car, and then in his room.

He came back several times. “How many t-shirts should I bring?” and “How many shoes?”

I wanted to run to his room and lock his things away so he couldn’t leave, but I stayed focused on the book and tried not to cry. I really thought I’d be ready to push my firstborn out the door, but it turns out I’m not that mother after all.

In his room, he had lined up all his shoes—14 pairs. We picked 12, and he put them in a bag. I looked at the two suitcases, packed and ready, and walked back to my desk before I collapsed. He’s ready, I know, but I’m still sad that he’s leaving.

The phone rang as I was getting to my computer. My writing partner. We’re producing a live show in two weeks and she wanted to bounce some ideas off of me. Right after that, a student in my writing class called to ask me how to structure a pitch. And just when I thought I was going to cleaned up the messmy youngest child texted me. “You can go now,” he said. “The bus is close.”

He’s in 9th grade and just started a new school 45 minutes away from home. Cross country practice was canceled and his bus was on its way to the park where I had dropped him off 10 hours earlier.

I got in the car and the phone rang. “She has strep throat,” the message from my pediatrician said. “I’m sending an antibiotic to Walgreens.”

I had a horrible case of strep throat when I lived in Hood River, Oregon, billions of years ago. I have no idea what G stands for, but I think it stands for goiter, because mine was bad and so was his. I got my goiter-type strep throat from a guy named Fleisher. When I think of him, my throat still hurts.

As I waited for the bus, I thought about my day. I had failed Too Tall and I was going to have to tell him that it wasn’t done yet. I knew he would understand, but still. I didn’t accomplish what I had set out to do. Maybe that’s just life. Things happen. And even though I was disappointed, I wouldn’t have traded my distractions for a life without them. I texted my daughter to tell her the news.

She asked me how she got it. I said, “By sharing a straw, by babysitting, by kissing them.”

“Mom,” she texted back. “I didn’t kiss anyone. Nice try.”

“Well, I don’t know how you got it, baby. Maybe it’s just life.”