It was just a Tuesday.
The kind of quiet, predictable weekday that fills up the bulk of a suburban mother’s life. The sun was shining, traffic was tolerable, and I’d just clocked out from work early to pick up my five-year-old son from kindergarten.
His name is Tim, and he’s the kind of kid who sees the world through sparkle-tinted glasses. Everything is exciting. Everything is new. So when he climbed into the backseat with glitter on his cheeks and proudly presented me with a paper plate turtle covered in googly eyes and glue, I didn’t think twice.
“Look, Mommy!” he grinned, holding it up like it was made of gold.
“Oh, wow! Is that a ninja turtle?”
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