He pulled himself into a standing position the other night. He’s so mobile now, and I am so tired. I feel like I’m breaking my motherly balls trying to keep him safe. Sometimes he’s the Dalai Lama, and sometimes he’s like a cross between a bad boyfriend and a high-strung puppy. And it never matters what my needs are. He never says, “Hey, babe, you’ve been working too hard—why don’t you take a couple of hours off? I’ll just lie here and read.”
