by liz petrone

“Mommy! Look!” my daughter Gabby, six, is yelling at me from the back seat.

“Honey, I’m driving,” I tell her. “I will look in a sec.” I think about also explaining that she doesn’t need to yell, since the space between her mouth and the back of my head is at max eight inches, but math isn’t her forte yet and I haven’t had enough coffee to engage that much.

“MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY. LOOK.” All sorts of things that she could want me to see run through my head, a ticker tape of possible horrors. She’s puked. She’s peed. She’s pooped. She’s blown her nose down her