Yesterday. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
It started off on the right foot — I colored my gray hairs (I blame my children) at Gleam. I noshed on some cookies and cream-flavored ice cream at Whip and Dip (their handmade ice cream makes life worth living). I was able to cyber stalk Kendall Jenner and Justin Bieber (yes, I think I’m 19 years old) on Instagram for a solid 35 minutes (like a psychotic psycho).
Then the phone rang. And shit got real.
The husband reported my 5-year-old son’s leg was broken in a freak golf cart accident. The feelings of hearing such bad news for any mother go something like this: Fear, panic, veiled stoicism (to get them through them through the trauma), followed by a profound sense sadness. Because when someone you love is down and out, you can’t help but channel that same energy.
Twenty-four hours later and I’m still in the sadness phase because the poor fella has a full leg cast on relegating him to the couch and Sponge Bob Square Pants for the next 4 weeks. He can only hobble on his crutches rendering him feeling frustrated and annoyed.
But then there was an aha! moment this morning. As I cradled him to take him to the bathroom, I felt this overwhelming sense of complete love. He was clinging on to me for dear life and the sentiment felt much like the way a mother feels toward a newborn: A complete sense of unconditional love and this weird out-of-body feeling that I created this little life and it depends on me 110 percent.
And that, my friends, is the best feeling in the world. Things are looking up for us, you see?