What it Means to Finally Be Called "Mmmm mmmm"

Mother's Day has always been a complicated day for me — and not for the reason most people would assume.

My mom, Winnie, is gone, and yes, that grief is real and present. But in the space between losing her and just a year ago, Mother's Day carried a different kind of ache entirely. It was the longing. The deep, persistent, almost inexplicable knowing that I was meant to be a mother — and the quiet grief of not yet being one, and maybe never having the opportunity to be one.

Since I was a little girl, I knew. It's hard to explain the certainty of it. Not a want, exactly — something closer to a vocation. A calling so fundamental to who I am that its absence felt like something missing in my chest.

From babysitting to coaching, being around kids has always lit me up. It was never something I had to talk myself into — it was just where I came alive.

For the past six years, I've poured myself into the life of a little girl who let me show up as a

"stepmother." I give this role everything I have. And I mean it. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't also make Mother's Day harder — standing in that beautiful, complicated in-between space, loving fiercely and still feeling like I was standing on the outside of something.

And then came River.

From the moment I found out you were coming, something in me began to shift. The word heal isn't dramatic enough for what your presence has done — it started even before I held you. You arrived, and the world rearranged itself. The joy, the love, the way you've already taught me things I didn't know I needed to learn — it is more profound than anything I could have prepared myself for.

Being your mama, River, has brought more joy to my life than I ever knew to imagine. Thank you for choosing me.

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Leighton — I am so lucky to bear witness to your life.

River — I am so grateful to be your mama.

Mom — I think I miss you this year more than ever. I wish you could be here to see this family we've made.

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And Candy —

Thank you for bringing Corey into this world. "Better half" does not begin to explain who this man is to me and our family. While you may not be here, it is my silent wish that you and Winnie are sitting together somewhere, sharing in the joy and love of everything we've built.