Growing up is Hard to do, or How I Came to Fold Laundry at 10 p.m.

I was standing over the changing table last night, putting away prefolds and diaper inserts, and folding cloth wipes, when it hit me:

I am a fucking grown up.

I have a mortgage, I have a car payment, I have a lawn mower. And I have a son, who is peacefully sleeping while I'm up at 10 p.m., putting the diapers and wipes away because I sure as hell don't want to do it in the morning. And oh my fucking god, we're out of coffee? SERIOUSLY? How does this happen?

Part of me still feels like I'm still figuring it out, like I'm still the girl that moved here all by herself at 22. But this year I'll turn 30.

And I have a son. Did I mention that?

Oh, and we're out of French Roast.