Moms writing their way through an ever-shrinking pool of time and attention. We write for our sanity, and yours. Welcome!
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But, as one does, I realized that 5 a.m. alarm didn’t feel so good. I missed it once. I missed it again. It wasn’t great. I wasn’t Good Mom – I was pretty cranky with my raring-to-go family. But school was close to done; did it really matter if everyone wasn’t exactly fed and dressed? Then, school was done and where did they need to be, anyway?
I barely even recognized my ten-year-old face when I looked in the mirror!
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But I want her for me. I want all of them for me. I find myself greedier and greedier for my kids’ childhoods as it becomes clearer and clearer just how little of them remain. I want to eat them up.
But this isn’t a story about things lost. Youth. Running. Identity. Or, at least, it’s not only a story about that. It’s about the inevitable morphing one does in big and small ways. It’s about what that morphing takes, no matter how old we get