When I hear a child’s cry from the play area where the kids of the apartment gather every evening, I sit up, alert, and listen, my Mommy heart pounding. Is that my son’s voice?
When I make out that it isn’t him, it is not a rush of relief that washes over me – it is a rush of terror. My Mommy heart begins to pound harder: Did my son do something to him to make him cry?
I listen keenly to the wailing voice complain to anyone who is willing to listen. R threw the ball at me and it hit my head…here, right here…
R did. Not my son.
The flood of relief finally makes its appearance.
To feel this some one has to become a true mom, not all…