When Grace was 5 and her dad and I were separating, it felt like her bucket had holes in it. Big, giant, gaping holes. And no matter how much love and attention I poured into that bucket, those holes would let all that goodness run out in a pool around her feet. I imagined her looking at her empty bucket and then looking up at me with pleading eyes that begged for more. And I tried; more love, more attention, more hope, more encouragement - but those holes... those god forsaken holes. Well, I think Ellamae found that old rusty bucket. She doesn't have that deep sadness or rage, instead, an insatiable thirst for my time and affection. A constant need for reassurance of my love for her. Mom, can we snuggle? When you're done with that do you want to sit on the couch with me? She's the one who thinks the bathroom door is more of a suggestion than an actual request for privacy. The one who will sneak into my bedroom 600 times between the hours of 7 and 9 on a Saturday