One early morning when Zoya was a year and a half, Elaina, then three years old, came into our bedroom, crawled up in between Sergei and me in bed and placed her hand on my chest.
“Mom, Zoya’s crying.”
“I hear her, Lainie.”
“Well, then, get up and get her,” she admonished.
“Elaina, I will. I just don’t want to get up this second.”
She was silent for a minute.
“Mom, you shouldn’t have had kids if it’s too hard for you.”
Oh, the wisdom of children.