I wrestled with the decision to become a parent. Way back in the late 70s I read a book named “A Baby? Maybe.” Half of the book was devoted to the cons of parenthood, the other half the pros. For a year or two, I decided to be child-free. Then I changed my mind.

I’m so glad I did. My kids enrich my life exponentially.

I’ve been a parent for nearly thirty-seven years. In 1980, when my first was born, I would have been surprised to learn I’d still be actively parenting decades later.

My kids call on two occasions: When they are joyful and when they aren’t. I know I do just fine as a mother on the “Yay I’m thrilled” phone calls. It’s the sad calls that test my ability.

I want to be the person that makes it all better. When they were little, that was easy. A band-aid, a hug and kiss and perhaps a cookie mollified them.

Now cookies don’t get the job done. I’m glad I was in therapy for a hundred years. Sometimes I manage to fake being a therapist. That seems to go well. But it’s a slippery slope. Often I misstep.

Maybe this mom needs a band-aid, a hug and kiss, and perhaps a (gluten-free) cookie.