The house is quiet and still and miraculously, I am awake. I dig around cyberspace and find old blogs and sift through domain names, struggle with old passwords, plant my feet on arbitrary decisions to find myself here, again. More writing about mothering and about wanting to do more than mothering. More children to mother. Less time. Every day, less time. Again, a chance, a change, a proclamation that I am more than everyone else’s personal assistant. If I am a mom for all seasons, when is my season?