"Mommy, you look as pretty as a picture", he said, his three year old arms enfolding me, as I tried to leave the house. "I don't know what I would do without you", he said, his twelve year old arms enfolding me, as I tried to decipher all the mysteries of our family's future. It's funny, with all of the books they write, the articles in magazines, the blogs by mommies, they don't touch on the period of mourning you will endure. They talk about the best rocking chairs (none of them, by the way. The kid doesn't want to rock, they want to suck on your boobs. 24/7. They don't give a shit if it is in a rocking chair, a folding chair, or an electric chair in a lightning storm. They especially don't care if it is a Pottery Barn rocker made from organic free range goose feathers. Boob- it's pretty simple.) They don't tell you how you will blink a handful of times, and that baby who was once content to just lay on your chest, with the