Once upon a time, I used to love road trips. The snacks, the music, the endless stretch of road ahead of me. But that was before I drove seven hundred miles with one arm stretched into the backseat, hooked over the edge of Juno’s rear-facing car seat so she could hold onto my fingers. Or so I could retrieve her pacifier or stroke her forehead or tickle her shoulder in what were mostly fruitless attempts to calm her fussing. Not to mention the fifteen billion times we stopped at rest stops to nurse or change diapers or question every decision I’ve ever made in my life. Now that I’m finally
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