I never had to get to know my first mom. That was all done for me. I met her as a baby, and she took it from there. But 41 years later, I had to get to know my birth mom, and that process was a lot different. She didn’t have the advantage of nursing me through midnight feedings, soothing my teething gums or changing thousands of diapers. But this week I gave her a chance to kiss a big boo-boo, and I’m glad I did.
Two weeks ago, I had knee surgery. My husband, Matt, cared for me the first five days, then my birth mother, Yvonne, flew in from New York to take over. Her timing was good, because after five days with the kids, and no help from me, my husband was just pretending to be sane.




