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The day my husband got a vasectomy made me realize that it was true—women are, in fact, the superior species. I had pushed out his two giant-headed children, one of which I didn’t even make it to the hospital for and delivered in the car.
Meanwhile, he gets snipped and was in bed for four days, moaning about the agonizing pain with bags of iced peas on his crotch, exclaiming that this had to be the worst pain a human being could possibly endure. It took every ounce of willpower and fear of the law to not smack him in the head with a cast-iron skillet.
As mothers, we don’t realize we are drowning while trying to be everyone else’s anchor.
I was consumed by being a wife and a mother, and there was no room left to be me.
It was true, behind every overthinking, anxious wife was a husband who had zero worries in the world.
She was the typical first child—responsible, compassionate, and understanding. Max was always my carefree, act first, think later second child.
It’s okay to not be okay.
It’s a lie when people say everything will be okay. How could they possibly predict that? My
“You need to calm down,” he warned. My eyes widened as I looked at him wildly, and I processed the five words a man should never say to a woman.
“Mom—” His voice broke me. What was it about the simple shift in how that one name was said that made every mother know exactly what place their child was in.
