It wasn’t a catastrophe. It wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t life threatening. But at 45, and after having another baby, every night my feet ached. They throbbed and it seemed as if I had just walked fifteen miles.
I would put them up, rub them with apricot oil, and decide that this was just the price I had to pay for being a member of the really old Mom’s club. And I would hobble to bed, smiling at how quickly being a mom had aged me, trying not to trip on binkies and wandering toys.