It was my choice to have babies early in life (sort of) and later in life (most definitely). But as I watch my baby, the last of the lineage, sleep, I worry. A lot of us joke about my age and I’m cool with that. I’m crawling on up there. I get it. But this baby is 4. He means the world to me, and I am his world (other than cartoons of course).
He thinks his mommy hung the moon and the stars. Let him think it. He’ll know as he grows up that mommy won’t be here forever. I wish I could be, if nothing else but for him.