
I celebrated my 34th birthday this weekend. A year ago, I was becoming a mom for the first time, something I thought would never happen. Not because I didn’t think I could handle it. But more because I didn’t think it was my “thing.” I was never the little girl pushing a baby stroller with her dolly in it. And I never went gaga for kids the way my friends did. When I hit my twenties and realized I didn’t coo at every passing infant the way other mommy-hopefuls did, I figured that wasn’t my path and I was OK with that. Combined with my hopes for a successful career, a love of tattoos, incurable wanderlust, and a mouth that curses a little too often, I was hardly anything close to the definition of motherhood. But then I met Lucy.
