On motherhood and growing up.
One day I woke up and I was still on the couch. I wasn’t magically whisked away to my bed, my innocence carried back to slumber. Many nights I’ve found myself rubbing the morning off my eyes wondering how I got there. Did I fall asleep here? I have no recollection. I remember going about the wondrous parts of my day, daydreaming of fairies and little people, and then a slow closing of my eyes lulling me to sleep. I would walk out of my room and see my parents go about their day as if nothing happened. Once I stirred from my sleep and saw my father carrying me. It wasn’t giants or magical beings. All along it was him.
Today I looked at my daughter dreaming on the couch. She’s 19 now, nearing 20. I wish I could still magically whisk her away, carry her in my arms and lay her down to slumber. She would wake up and ask, How did I get here? I will look at her and laugh. Those days are behind us now.
I watched her carefully rouse from her sleep, get up, and slowly walk back to her room.
Today I woke up and I was still on the couch. There was no magic now, no secret role to play.
How did we get here?
