Lots of screaming, lots of chaos. I feel whiskers on my cheek. “Hi,” my husband, home from work, says as he kisses me. If he is home, it must be 5:20 PM. I am going to need his help. I need to get three kids fed, bathed, and in bed by 8:00 PM. The countdown starts. Most of the time, I fail at this target, but I am not aiming at perfection. I am aiming at survival. All those years as a street-level drug addict have prepared me for the challenge of a busy life as a mother. It feels like I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in three years. But all those years on methamphetamine had prepared me for the first child who refused to sleep through the night. All those years of homelessness have allowed me to take a nap anywhere, at any time. I am not above putting my head on my desk, lying down on the floor, or catching a few fleeting moments on the train. I started out as a mom who swore up and down I would never let my children watch TV. I had more than one argument with my mother about it.
