"I’m a mom and a therapist because when this happens, you become a therapist”
The real-time indicator reads two minutes — like it has for the last two minutes.
We lean against the wall, my friend and I, heads turned to the great mouth.
Where is the train?
In front of us, a little boy, four, maybe five, stamps on the platform. He jiggles his feet, pulls his mother’s arm in the direction of the yellow line, throws back his head, and guffaws.
I’m about to get annoyed — it’s irritating, this stamp-pull-laugh, and dangerous. Why can’t he behave himself? Why can’t his mother control him?
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