Yesterday, we celebrated our oldest boy’s birthday. Fourteen years. Fourteen years of being a mother.
I remember so clearly the day we brought him home from the hospital. We carefully loaded him in the car seat, and my husband cautiously driving home. A home, that was no longer ours, but now his too.
Unpacking, we folded and put away gifts in the room that had long awaited his arrival. The yellow rocker, that my own mother used to rock my brother and I, waited patiently in the corner for a chance with our newest family member.