Have you ever had a child tell you he wishes you were his parent?
If you haven’t, let me tell you what it feels like.
It feels like the floor beneath you just gave out, and there’s nothing to hold on to.
It feels like the sun in the sky suddenly disappeared and you’re not sure if it will ever return.
It feels like you don’t have enough tears to cry for the child standing in front of you with longing eyes.
“I wish you were my mom,” Jeremy* said—not once, but twice.
I wasn’t even a mother yet. I was simply a teacher who listened and loved and ran to her mentor if she didn’t know what to do—which was quite often.
But in Jeremy’s eyes, those traits were enough to qualify me as a good mom.