My husband had hobbies. My kids had activities. Somehow, I only had laundry.

My husband looked at the towels spread across our back porch. “Why paper making?”

My 13-year-old didn’t even hesitate. “Paper is so cheap,” he said.

I had spent nearly two hours on my knees on the hot concrete, scooping watery paper pulp into a frame, sponging out the excess water, and laying each fragile sheet onto a towel as if I were preserving ancient documents.

Instead, it looked like wet, nasty oatmeal.

Just as I finally stood up, my hip bumped the bucket, and over she went. Cue the sound of dirty paper water pouring straight into the grass.

Was I making paper? Was I making papier-mâché? Honestly, I wasn’t sure anymore.

My back hurt. My…