It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m painting my hallway baseboards.
These hyper self-aware words repeat in my head as my hands cut a clean line of white paint at far too late an hour. You probably don’t paint that late at night. Normally, neither do I. But it was a relentlessly busy season, and I was convinced that this was the best and only time to do it.
I wasn’t happy to be that busy, of course — to have just bought a home which was built only a decade or two after the Civil War ended, to be remodeling it, to have a baby that refused to sleep, and to have a demanding job. In fact, I was angry.
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