Mom on the Run: The Next Chapter
OK. I give up. This damp rag is not working. I roll back off my knees onto my heels, stand up, and cross the kitchen. I pull open a silverware drawer, slide aside the divider with the knives and forks, and root around in the assortment of random mismatched implements. Finally I find what I’m looking for: an old steak knife from probably the 1970s, donated to our then-new family by my in-laws when my husband and I set up our household in 1989.