I’d written a book about sobriety and creativity, and maybe parenting was the new sobriety—a condition of regularity, rather than recklessness, that I needed to prove generative; a way of living built from daily accumulations more than epiphanic watersheds. You didn’t write in the glow of your own self-immolation, but in the puddled light of a cell phone screen, or by the metronome of a breast pump.
