When I had my son at age 37, I figured I could give him the stability I could never give my daughter, born when I was still a teenager.
When she was born, I had an army-surplus backpack and my passport. "Poor little Gypsy baby," the nurses whispered as I left the hospital with her.
This time I had a home, a place I'd been for 10 years. I had an advanced degree, a job, a reliable car -- even a partner in parenting. I was a real grown up.
But life pulled the grown-up rug out from under us -- as life will do from time to time -- and we let go of that house, among other things. A few years later, as another life in another new city glistens on the horizon, I have to admit that my 4-year-old son knows nothing more about the stability of staying put than my daughter did.
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