Riding up in the subway elevator I felt my belly start to flutter while my fingers fiddled with my zipper. Nervous. Anxious. Like the anticipation of seeing an old college friend. Or a former crush.

But it wasn’t.

It was my kids.

The 10 hour, 12 hour, 15 hour work days lately are taking a toll. I raced home tonight, the one day I could make it out before six, but the subways weren’t cooperating. Missed connections, delayed local trains, a stop between stations.

I raced through the turnstiles, out the exit, into the rain. I bounded up my stairs and through the door.

“MOMMY!” Thalia cried out, and I ran to her.

“Sage just couldn’t wait any more,” our sitter said. “I just put her down. She was so tired.”

I sighed.

Later, we sprawled out on the couch together, Thalia on my belly facing up. I leaned in close–cheek to cheek, skin to skin, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as she’d let me. I felt more like a needy lover than just another working mom, trying to Do It All. Like we’re supposed to. Like we somehow think we can.

She talked to me about her day and I breathed in the smell of her just bathed skin. I stroked her arm, tickled her feet, twirled her damp hair. She told me about school, about her classmates, about the snacks they ate. I was so wrapped up in her, in the moment, it was desperately hard to focus on what she was saying. It wasn’t important.

But it was.