It is a caring mother’s responsibility never to let her head throb like this. But last night, amidst the chaos that is laughably called our newly-painted apartment, I dug out my leather pants, got Jackson’s girlfriend (babysitter) to come over, and went out to dinner with Jack and his business partner and their employees at a fancy, exclusive, charming little mud hut where I guess I drank too much wine. It was hard to tell, my glass was just always miraculously, Jesusly full of local chardonnay. This morning, my child demonstrated a knack for knowing just when to hit me over the head with a bike pump. So he went to work with daddy for a little while. I should be napping, but I’m talking to you. To prove my love. Before I go back to clinging to the life raft that is my king-size, freshly cased pillow.