![]() ![]() Mix this uncertainty with the thread of (diagnosed and undiagnosed) mental illness running through my family tree, and you have a recipe for disaster. I’ve been a mother for a decade, and the only constant I’ve found is change. Every child hits each stage in an infuriatingly different way. Every new stage is a bewildering fresh slate. My children are only 9 and 10, but though my 9-year-old skews a little younger, my 10-year-old is hurtling towards teendom at the speed of light. I miss that foolishly optimistic young mother. I thought no part of this endeavor could ever be harder. The sheer terror of not knowing what I was doing, the exhaustion that I knew what was coming but had no way to truly anticipate it…it was survival mode. When I first became a parent, I thought that nothing could be more difficult than the infant years. ![]()
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