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.
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.