By Rachel Turiel. Col was heartbroken and mad, and I was called out of my domestic smugness to mediate, to furnish the right words – the ones that would invoke instant empathy and resolution – the ones that I wish were always on the tip of my tongue, but instead, seem to be floating around the next zip-code.
I remember being in that club of cousins, being fast and light in my kid-suit, bonded in solidarity with anyone who shared the same set of grandparents.
And yet, tonight, in the ER, I squeeze back a few tears, tears that feel like that mix of gratitude and fear that’s been stalking me since I gave birth seven years ago.
Motherhood is about raising–and celebrating- the child you have, not the child you thought you would have.
I once thought being an adult meant having it all figured out, now I see it’s more like the grace and luckiness to continue learning.
My ten year old made dinner. I can do this. I can be the mother my children need in this moment, and the next.
It’s funny how having kids forces you to evaluate, well, everything.
