Your mind goes to what you might have been doing, what sort of career, what you'd wear and how much you'd earn. You think about that first job, so long ago, the stockings and mustard-colored pumps, the boyfriend back at the old church in East Nashville, just over the bridge. He was writing novels, parsing out Blake, and you were thinking about railroads and utilities, feasibility and warding off the good old boy gestures, that guy Bruce in the corner office with the curly hair and lecher walk. You went to a conference once, at the World Trade Center in New York City and it's just too, too, to mention that both towers fell -- that one in your mind, and then those others. Your mind goes to possibilities dashed but is filled up, again, by what came, what's still coming. Sophie couldn't go to school today. She's suffering from withdrawal. I can't go to work today because of that, and whose fault is it really? I've lost twenty years of wages. No one talks about that -- at least not out of the predictable and tired construct of the working versus the stay-at-home mother. Stunning vulnerability. No one talks about choices when there is no choice. We don't have choices. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. I can yearn for some kind of sea change in the way our society treats handles perceives reckons with deals screws pushes away the cost of caregiving. Or I can fill out the forms, get on my knees and swallow. Someone mentioned Chronic Traumatic Stress Syndrome to me the other day. Acronym is CTSS. I'm not complaining caresplaining. It is what it is.