Grant, 3, Palm Coast, Florida
I’m writing early morning, when Grant stumbles past my door, eyes closed. He’s still asleep. His hair is a forest. Still in his wet pull-up, he lies on the floor next to my chair, spreads out a coloring book and scratches with dried-out markers at pictures of cartoon frogs. At bedtime last night, I yelled at this boy. I hissed. I tell him I’m sorry and I lie next to him to color a frog leg hot pink. I will color until he forgives me. The sun rises in the window and sets again, and he caps a gray marker and uncaps a green. He’s getting better at staying in the lines, he says, and he turns another page.