Nothing about my life has turned out the way that I had planned. Not my marriage. Or motherhood. Or me. I am learning that this is actually the best part.
Upstairs in my bedroom behind the always-open closet door sits one of my prized possessions. It is an art print on canvas of a mother nursing a baby. This thing has been through a lot – I would venture to call it “weathered.” Over-stretched, it looks like a pair of wrinkled khakis under the glass.