I have bee a mother for about half of my life. Granted, I haven’t always had my kids living with me, but it never took the fact that I was a mother for that span of time. A mom, I may not have made muster for, but the fact that I was a mother was pretty much irrefutable.
Now, I have my eldest son living with me, as well as my two youngest, who have been with me more or less constantly since birth. Connor was only three and a half when he went to stay with my uncle and aunt. He was seventeen when he got here, and he turns eighteen a month from tomorrow. Needless to say, it has been an adjustment to say the least.
For all these years, I have always been a mother. As messed up and off track as I may have been, they were always in my thoughts. I have always hoped I wouldn’t pass on the Factor V Leiden to any of them (and cried like a baby when I learned that I had passed the damn gene to at least three of the five). I worry about all of them, most of which is totally unfounded. When none of them are around, I miss them like you wouldn’t believe.
Yes, they make me want to pull my hair out sometimes, there’s no sense in denying that. They are also my biggest brag. Yes, if given the chance, I’d do some things very differently, so long as I would have them in my life.