I’m not a parent, but I am the big sister of a kid whose dad walked out on him when he was a baby so I got used to him accidentally calling me mom.
I was twelve and a half when he was born. It was a few weeks before Thanksgiving of 1999. He looked like an alien, all yellow and pallid and big-headed. I didn’t get why people called newborns cute and it was weird to know that he was an attempt-to-save-the-marriage baby so I think I probably looked at him differently.
As soon as he could start laughing though, he was mine. He was all belly laugh, all heart. All climb-in-your-lap-and-kiss-your-cheek-when-he-wanted-something smooth. He was rambunctious and brave, all adventure and love. Continue reading “We create these broken families.”