Happy Mother’s Day to everybody who is surviving the experience.
One of my earliest memories of motherhood was when my tiny little daughter who was too young to talk yet crawled all the way to the top of the stairs in the two seconds I took my eyes off her, and then when I called her name, turned to look and fell all the way to the bottom. My latest memory? Talking to her on the phone last night about surviving motherhood (hers) and life in general and hearing about her three terrific children, none of whom has fallen down the stairs that I know of. As if that weren’t enough on her plate, she mothers me. Guess she’s forgotten the stair debacle.
Call your mother, Argh. (Not necessarily the person who gave birth to you. You know, the person who mothers you. That one. Call her. Or him. Or them. Pick up that phone.)