Hi, I'm Zivie Owens, and you're listening to the Webby-nominated podcast, Moms Don't Have Time to Read Books.

Please also check out my other podcast, kids do have time to read books.

I'm on Instagram at Zibby Owens and at Moms Don't

Have Time to Read books and at kids do have time to read. So please follow me. And if at any time

you have suggestions, my email is Zibi at Zivvy Owens.com. Thanks for listening. Hi, everyone. I recorded

one of the essays that I had written called Moving On Up a few weeks ago, and I asked all of you listeners to please let me know if you liked that I had done that. And I got a bunch of really nice emails, which really made my day. So I'm going to keep recording and sharing with you a few essays that have been published, and I hope you enjoy them. But again, comments are so welcome. I'm Zibby at Zibby-O-Ns.com, Z-I-B-B-Y at Zibby-O-Ns.com. Tell me what you think, any suggestions or anything. And I'm going to read you this essay. It's from K-V-E-L-E-R.com. I'm actually a fellow at Kveller this year. And the article is called Time Keeps on Slipping Into the Future, especially as a Mom. I'm in bed with three guys, but the only one I'm not touching is my husband. Somehow a pillow has wedged between the two of us, creating a hypoallergenic foam wall. I listened to them inhale, exhale. I watch the ceiling

as three square shadows with prison-like stripes creep across. It's the middle of the night,

but a horn blares, perhaps a taxi charging down Park Avenue. A dog barks. I wonder, who is

walking their dog at 307 a.m. One of the guys I'm snuggling with is our Pomeranian boo look-alike puppy who

resembles a stuffed animal. When I take him for walks, he's attacked by strangers as if he's a

Kardashian in Vegas and takes it like a media-trained champ. He is currently nestled in the bend of my

knees getting his beauty rest. Also in bed is my four-year-old son. His day is in this adorable boy phase are numbered, so I'm inhaling them frantically like a drug that's about to be snatched from my hands. He's my fourth child, so I have the benefit of knowing how fast this will happen. One day I won't be able to lift him. One day he'll ignore me at a school event, like my nearly 12-year-old son did recently and tell me to stop taking so many pictures.

I won't take it personally, I tell myself, but my heart cracks like ice. I can hear it. The cube

dunked in a glass of chilled soda. Crack. So when the little guy sneaks into my bed, he stays.

I hold his hand and stroke his soft, smooth cheek, watch his eyelids flutter in the dark.

I feel his angelic arms around my neck. I take him in, savoring it, grasping onto him, hoping to freeze the sands of time that are slipping through my fingers. I know I'll be tired tomorrow. I know I won't fall back asleep. My thoughts will turn to everything I have to do and then keep turning and turning. But I can't miss this, this joyous intimate moment with my preschool boy who will be a teenager before I know it. As a divorced and remarried mother, I have time away from the kids every other weekend. I have time to reflect and to long for them. Yes, I get to live a vibrant, rich life with my husband, filled with travel, sleep, and friends, but we'd both give it up in an instant to have the kids every day. The perspective it affords me is priceless, like a car

momentarily protected by an overpass and a rainstorm. The noise stops for just long enough

to register the silence before the pounding resumes. I can step back a bit. Process, be grateful.

I had a moment earlier this week, the day before

I got the kids back, when I found myself walking alone down Madison Avenue. I'm hardly ever alone.

I left my phone jostling in the bottom of my purse and headed purposefully toward a bakery

to pick up the special snack for my daughter's class party the next day. Yes, no matter whose day

...