Your poor daddy. Both of his girls are currently losing their shit. It is 11:00 and you’ve been crying since 9. I’ve just been crying since your daddy got home and asked me if I was OK. Tears of frustration. Tears of inadequacy. Tears of hurt for you that I can’t make it stop. I run through the list in my head . . . your diaper is clean, your tummy is full, you’re warm and safe . . . what is wrong and why can’t I make it better? What am I missing? I can’t even google my way out of this one. My ears are ringing with your screams. My cheeks are so hot I’ve convinced myself I have a fever. There is no mistaking what is making me cry – these are mommy tears. Now that you’re settled down with your daddy (thank God for your daddy!) I start thinking of my mom and suddenly feel sorry for all the hot, stinging mommy tears she must have cried over me too. Everyone says that it will just keep getting better, but tonight I’m pretty sure I’ll have mommy tears for the rest of my life. Your poor daddy.