When a giant, heavy box arrives at your front door at 9am on a Saturday morning, you want it to be a present. At least I do. Instead, it’s a box packed tight with syringes, injectable medications and alcohol wipes. I can hope that the sharp objects and hormones will bring me closer to the present I actually want. (Hint: a baby)
Youcandothis. Youcandothis. Youcandothis.