Ah, moms. You love em', you hate em', but no matter what you do, you eventually turn into them. I'm not saying this as a curse or death sentence. I am presenting this as a celebration. I lost my mom at the age of 25. She was 50, and the significance of me being exactly half her age does not elude me. My Beautiful Mom at age 25 She never met my husband, and she never met her grandson. I argued with the universe about what was fair and what I felt I deserved. Just so you know, the universe never argues back. About four years ago, when my son was just a wee babe, strange occurrences kept happening. I began accidentally breaking every gift my mother had given me. They were all silly little things but full of magical memories. The toothbrush holder she made in pottery class, the glass sculpture she gave me when I graduated high school, planters, and jewelry all broke in my hands. I sat and sobbed over every shattered remnant. I cried ugly, dramatic, child tears. One time my son...
Sharing our Journeys to Give Strength to Others