Unloading the groceries yesterday afternoon, I had the fleeting thought, wow I’m tired, I really don’t want to figure out where to put this 40th jar of back up peanut butter, maybe the Grown-ups will come and do this instead, and then I had the horrifying realization that I AM THE GROWN-UP, it’s just Morrison and I, and that there were not one but TWO kids in the house and if anything happened to them, it would be up to US to fix it. Like even if my parents, the Grown-ups, come to visit, I am still the grown-up within my own family, and it is now, and forever more up to me, to fix it, solve it, protect them, think ahead, shut the windows, brown the ground beef for dinner. There are tiny toy kitchens for kids to play in and pretend to be Grown-ups, I need to be wrapped in a giant baby blanket and placed in a giant basinet for a nap, a grown-ups finger stroking the bridge of my nose, while meanwhile the beef in the kitchen is burning and there’re bills to be paid but I can’t smell either of these things.