A few weeks ago, I walked into my local AT&T store to see about getting a new phone—only to be told that, since my husband is the main account holder, I can’t. Unless, of course…

In my house, I wage a never-ending war. And every now and then, I fool myself into thinking I’m going to win it. I roll up my sleeves and turn up the music, and decide that this is the week I’m finally going to do it.

“I don’t really get it, what’s the point?” my nine-year-old asked as I was putting him to bed on the last night of 2020. For the first time ever, he’d wanted to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. We’d gotten out the snacks and the sparkling cider and, after playing Monopoly (Redneck edition!) for a couple of hours, we watched the ball drop in an eerily empty Times Square on TV.

It’s the night before the U.S. election and we are all on edge - especially in light of the dumpster fire that has been the year 2020.

On my refrigerator, there is still my third-grader’s school lunch menu from the week of March 9th―what I think of as the last normal week. Maybe I’ll take it down and recycle it soon, or maybe it’ll stay up there until the next one comes home, whenever that may be.