Bubble Wrap

At the ripe old age of 35, I am, to the medical community, of “advanced maternal age.” At my first OB appointment, my doctor warned me that I may hear the term “geriatric pregnancy” every once in a while. I think I sprouted a few gray hairs just in that one appointment.

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Me first.

Around the middle of our years in graduate school at The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology—steeped in self-reflection, therapy, and the rehashing of our personal stories—my girlfriends and I were learning all about the importance of self-care.

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Where grief and joy mingle.

I had been dating him for a few months when, while cooking dinner in his kitchen, he wrapped his arms around me and began singing a tune we could slow dance to—right there, next to the hot stove.

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