I remember finding out that I was pregnant with my first son, not feeling pregnant and finding it unbelievable that I was.

I walked into the NICU terrified. The babies looked so very sick, attached to ventilators, feeding tubes, IVs, you name it. They were dwarfed by the machines surrounding them.

It happened every afternoon with the sun making its downward trend toward the horizon.  The postman would come down the block, his heavy bag slung over his shoulder giving his body an unnatural  tilt. 

I am NOT a “cat person”. I do not like cats. I find them cold, rude even, uppity and untrainable.

My hands are getting sweaty and I feel like I am going to throw up. 

For as long as I can remember my father told me “never buy a Ford”. I

I wish I had boarded a plane with my mother for Rome. 

For a week before the event the girls in my sixth grade class and I would whisper about what was to come.  We had heard about the dreaded visitor from previous classes and knew it was our time. 

Being the mother of four sons I have frequently had a hard time keeping up with fashion. 

Every once in awhile when I am at the gas station filling up my tank I have a profound moment.

As I walked into my third grade classroom the nausea that had started when I woke up that morning rose up in my throat. 

As a new nurse I had worked the night shift so after dinner I laid down to catch up on some sleep.  It was Thanksgiving and I woke to the loud voices of my family reminiscent of 20 years before on a cold Thanksgiving day. 

When I was in my 40’s struggling with being the best Mom, Nurse, Wife, Sister, Friend I could be, I thought that by my sixties (which at the time seemed very far away)  I would be satisfied with who I was. 

I had decided that I was NOT going to be “sweet 16 and never been kissed” so I actively sought out someone to kiss before I turned 16. 

I left the house begrudgingly my exhaustion seeping into my bones.