Eighteen gets to be a gut-wrenchingly small number when you realize that’s the number of times you have to make significant memories with your kids.
My son wouldn’t meet my eyes but I could see the tears in his, “It doesn’t matter,” he said. But I heard him, it did matter.
Gratitude is not a lesson to be learned like English or Math. It’s not something I can MAKE my kids understand. It is not something I can shame my kids into either. I have to model it. I have to model HOW to be grateful to them.
“I’m scared. Scared I’ve ruined my life and I’ll never be happy again,” I cried, wishing I wasn’t alone. Wanting someone there to help me, to pick up my baby and hold his anguish for a little while. To let me stand outside, away from the cries, away from his need of me, away from my shame. I wanted to hear that this would pass, there was help, a break.
My mom has decided now that she’s 71, it’s time to say f-you to what…