There are half empty packs of wipes in every room of our house, in the bottom of every bag, in each car, sometimes twice, there’s a new pack of wipes and then the wipes you forgot you had, then the pack that’s dry that only has three left that you can’t bring yourself to throw away, but is now more dry paper than wipe. Life is wipes. We use them to wipe off faces, butts and hands, smiles, tears, frowns and ankles, feet, bugs and butter and ice cream, they do a decent job getting watermelon juice off the wood furniture. Amazon screams at me everyday, DO YOU NEED MORE WIPES?! And I scream back OBVIOUSLY YES. I wonder if Life will ever not be Wipes? When the kids are old enough to stop dripping things on themselves, will I still feel like I need them? Will they be in college and I’ll be across the country, shoving wipes into the bottom of my bag, cleaning the kitchen with wipes? I’m 82 years old, on a flight to see someplace I’ve never been. The row behind me has a toddler, and a crying mom. She’s doing this alone and left in a hurry and her kids’s eyeball tablet is dead. She needs a wipe. I’m nostalgic, and thrilled. I reach for my purse.

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