We went to the shore for Easter. The weather was supposed to be nice, and we figured it was worth the hour and a half drive.

Elizabeth, my youngest, could have resurrected Jesus herself with her screams. Then there was Emilia, frustrated with her little sister’s screams, and decided to scream back at her. I remember the car ride as a continuous highway of trees, tension, and wondering why we decided to do this in the first place.

But we arrive and my mother makes a dig as soon as I hand her Elizabeth. “Her nose is running,” she says. “Do you have a tissue?”

“No,” I say, too worn out to check my pockets.

“You’re a mother now,” she says. “You need to have tissues at the ready.”

“You’re a mother,” she tells me again when we go to the boardwalk for ice cream, and I forgot to bring along a sweater for Emilia. “You need to remember these things.”

“I do remember them,” I say. “But I also can’t remember everything! I will literally go insane trying. I’ll become neurotic and stressed and to be quite honest, I’d rather forget a sweater and tissues and just be chill.”

She doesn’t realize I’m trying to tell her something as well…