Rain pelts against the windshield and we welcome it. I delicately unwind the black leather strap from around my journal and open it to a blank page. This next page will decide a lot for us; much more than either of us realize in that moment.

He comes home and I can hardly muster a “Hello.” He told me once that one of his favorite things is coming home to a warm welcoming– a smile and a hug.

I can hardly look up.

He finishes, but turns back for more. There is no more. What is a mom to feel when all she has to give is not enough? And right when I begin to feel as though I am not sufficient, I realize how true it is. I am not enough for him.

“We goin’ on a date, Mommy?”

I back out of the driveway onto an unfamiliar road, and set my GPS to a park we do not know. I’m praying for a mountain view.

Exactly when I decide to turn the alarm off and sleep in, whatever that means for a mom of three boys four and under, the baby begins to cry. He wants breakfast. And I am the only one who can deliver.

I keep waiting. And then after two hours I finally stop waiting.

And only then—when I give up waiting and lie back to stare into the indigo blue sky eclipsed by marshmallow clouds, do I stop wasting time. Because time severed by divided attention is atrophied time–starved of all its potential.