Yesterday, I cried into the arms of my six-year-old. We were on snow day 12 or maybe 27. I’d long since lost count. We'd been riddled with fevers and vomit and rashes and runny noses since the onset of winter. Cancelled school made these days drag on even longer. Surrounded by buckets and couches-turned-sick-beds, I was certain I would never make nightfall when my husband was due home on a flight sure to be delayed given the Armageddon-esque weather patterns of late. The sitter I’d lined up for the afternoon had cancelled with the pending blizzard, forcefully crushing my aspirations of accomplishing anything for the remainder of the day with the ding of a text. I hadn't accomplished anything in weeks.

I’m learning to parent like I’m dying. Tomorrow, or next Tuesday, sometime soon. Death is imminent. And really, it kind of is. In the grand scheme of things, the hundreds of millions of billions of souls floating back and forth from Earth to sky, our death is imminent. We are all dying. Every day. Every second. This morning, I laid on the floor with my middle child, his chubby fingers stroking my shoulder. He picked up my arm as he always does, turned it inward with both of his hands, straightened it and kissed the folded skin of my elbow. Twice. Three times.