Sandy Jorgenson

Two years ago, I had a two-year-old daughter who’d never met her grandfather.

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Death, we know because it’s drilled into us from an early age, is a natural part of life.

I didn’t start out as a particularly easygoing person.

But what can be said for the day upon which I am no longer enough? I dread that day.

Griping about adulting is a fun thing that we like to do, I know.

Whoever is responsible for coining the term “terrible twos” and leaving the entirety of the threes out of the equation is sitting at the very top of my sh*t list. Because a little warning would’ve been nice.

I know motherhood is hard. Especially new motherhood — those early days are a fog of tears, confusion, and helplessness. But I also know that yearning for something you can’t have, particularly with regard to children, is a feeling far worse. I’ve lived through the pain of childbirth, of a 3rd-degree tear, two related surgeries and a year of recovery, of postpartum depression, of miscarriage and of infertility and my god; I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if it meant a chance to… Well, to do it all over again.

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