The Hardest Thing
The other day Owlet fell asleep in my arms while nursing. I held her until my arms grew numb, then gently woke her to preserve sacred bedtime.
“What is the hardest thing?” asked Owlet, drowsy and rosy-cheeked from the unexpected nap.
“Huh?” I asked, as sleep-blurry toddler speech can sometimes sound like one thing and mean another. “Did you say, ‘what is the hardest thing?'”
“Yes.” And she waited expectantly.
Death. Losing a child. Losing a parent, or a spouse. Violence. War. Illness and poverty. I am big on no-bullshit, age-appropriate honesty with kids, but it took a stumbling heartbeat for me to flip from mourner to mother.
I knelt, centering myself in her rich hazel eyes. “Not being with someone you love. That’s the hardest thing.”
And it really pretty much is.
Word Winding 
Yes, yes it is. As always, so well said, my friend.
Wow, I hope I’m as quick on my feet when I’m faced with a question like that!
I know, right? I was like, “is this seriously what you are asking? Um, ok…”