I never knew motherhood would bring so many tears. Sure, it was assumed (acknowledged as a truth although never fully processed, funny how that seems to happen a lot when it comes to things you’ve heard about parenting) there would be plenty of tears from babies turned toddlers turned threenagers turned basically college graduates. But tears of my own? Never thought of it, really. Indeed, I give both of my children a run for their money in the tear department. Daily, at the absolute minimum, tears of my own well up in my eyes and eventually roll down my cheek a time or two before it’s on to the next thing, and the necessity to dry it up and move along is abundantly clear. And as we are in the absolute throws of threenagerness, an abundance of questioning follows consistently behind my trail of absolute raw emotion. Most of the time, eerily gentle, almost as if she is far older and in tune than her little 3 year old self could possibly be, comes a little whisper, sometimes accomp
real talk about kids, food and being a grown-up.