There are times (in fact, let’s be honest, it’s most of the time) that I feel like it’s not reasonable to grieve who I was before I had kids, stayed home, was married, stopped working. Those are my choices. I don’t regret them. But with every choice that is made, others are left on the side of the road. You watch them fade in the distance like a kid who presses her snotty nose against the back window pane in the family chevy station wagon as she watches the circus get smaller and smaller. It was a fun day - now it’s time for home. The kid licks her cotton candy sticky fingers and thinks about her bed. I have this guilt around missing who I was or perhaps who I am - but am not being at the moment. Let me state, for the record, that I know that I am blessed. I have a husband whom I love and is an able and steady provider. I have my three boys, a house in the suburbs with an excellent school, friendly neighbors, holidays full of loved ones and antiques that have been handed down to
