More and more I feel my parenting happening in interstitial spaces—the hour and a half before preschool where Rose climbs in bed with us and then climbs out to be the first one to pee, tells me she’s scared of having a boy picture-taker at school today, asks me to define “selfish” and we make up examples with prunes and cranberries, lets me spread the fruit leather before her like a deck of cards for her to pick the color du jour; the hour and a half between the time I get home from taking David to a study at the university and Rose going off to Spanish language storytime at the library where she convinces me to let her feed David and does a great job listening to me and only giving him half a spoonful of blueberry yogurt at a time and letting him guide it into his mouth, complains about her tummy hurting again and I suggest, again, that she try going to the bathroom; the forty-five minutes after storytime before she should be asleep where I read three stories, tell two stories, brush her teeth, sing her songs, and tell her I love her, sweet dreams, good-night.

School, gymnastics class, Sunday school—they are all getting the big blocks of time, and I’m in the in between spaces. I know it’s inevitable. I even know it’s going well for her; she comes home from school gleeful. I know it’s my choice to have her be in school four days a week and I would be struggling with her home. I know all this and still I feel jealous and sad and shunted to the side.