home sweet home.
Eight years ago, I arrived in Portland. If I close my eyes and listen to Either/Or, I can see it all clearly: I stumbled down the jetway with a tiny Dylan slung on my left hip, my messenger bag strapped across my chest, and a car seat in my right hand. I wore what I called my “Angsty Single Mother Costume”: beat up Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and one of the few pairs of sneakers I kept after dumping most of my Chicago belongings at the Salvation Army near my mom’s house in Central PA. Dylan was gnawing on one of my pigtails as strangers cooed about her cuteness. My mouth tasted like Cheez-its. The day had consisted of three thousand miles, two airplanes, and half a dozen diaper changes. I had a headache and a baby and a couple thousand dollars in my checking account. All I could think was “should I reset my watch now, or wait until we’re all settled in M’s car?”
