It's 6:30 in the morning, I have dishes to wash, children to breakfast, dress and load into the car, lunches to make and keys to lose. Sometimes I dress myself too, although there have been a few disastrous near-misses.
One of the hideous curses of my existence is that I am at my most clear-headed and productive of the day for a two hour window that opens roughly 45 minutes after I roll out of bed. The largest swathe of this time is generally wasted on Independence Boulevard, trying to enjoy Bob and Sheri while a tiny voice pipes incessant questions about fairies, the atmosphere, slime, addition, or the size of Spongebob's boat.
But I will not let motherhood and wifeitude smother the passions of my generative soul! The voice inside will not be silent all these years but will leak out onto a medium whose achingly transitory nature stands in stark contrast to the granite permanence that is my genius:
I am referring, of course, to lunchbags.