When I was 17, I worked as a nursing student in a geriatric residence.  It was delightful, for the most part.  There were many people who were very happy to have me speak with them, many who enjoyed the company of somebody, anybody.  One day, a resident grabbed my hand as I passed, so I crept back a few steps and crouched down to speak to her.

“Where is my sister?” she said, gingerly.

The burly old woman beside her piped up, “She’s dead, Ethel.”

The woman who grabbed my hand looked down into her lap.  “Oh,” she said quietly, then looked up at me as if I could tell her any different.

I took a breath in, about to tell her I was sorry when she smiled at me and said…

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Being a new mom is never easy. The fatigue, the sleepless nights, constant feedings. It’s enough to make even the most sane person go nuts. Trust me. I’m living it this very moment.

I guess I can be thankful that I don’t look like this:

Mommy’s was antiqued and then part of it was scrapped off to give her face some age…

Antiqued and then SCRAPPED off!? There’s aging gracefully then there’s SCRAPPED OFF.

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