As survivors, burdens we've borne become lessons we carry and share with others. In 1989 we moved to an apartment in Washington for Will's medical training. Six months pregnant with our third child, I had our two and four-year-old boys in tow. Will was hardly home; he was on call from the hospital every other night. It was such a sweet and adventurous time for our boys who awaited the blessing of their new sibling. I smiled, adept at belying my burden. My secret knew to remain within my fissured heart by day; come nightfall, once our boys were asleep, came my time to softly weep.

How could I learn to love my children when my own mother never loved me? 

Beautiful old trees line this street, where I sit at a coffee shop and write this blog. Since the late 1800s, many have called this town home. My family is among this place’s biggest fans. We've lived in many locales over the years, but to us, this is the only place we could ever call "home."

The streets boast centuries-old houses that once saw horse-and-buggy transportation. The original wrought-iron fences are well-preserved, and the rocking chairs on the quaint porches look so inviting. While the facades of many of the homes boast re-mortared bricks and freshly painted clapboard, they evoke that "olden days” feeling.

How do you embrace the celebration of a day you wish never came to be?

The release of my memoir on April 18, 2017, is a day that was 45 years in the making. It has been part of a plan so much bigger than mine. It's a wonder that I am here to share it with you at all.

Fifty-six years ago, a huge mistake was made. The ramifications were unequivocal, and the impact threatened to inconvenience and complicate many lives for years to come. Those in charge decided it best to destroy the evidence and carry on like it never happened. But it did. I was there, right in the middle of it.

With five young kids in tow, you were always more likely to find me in the car than in the garden. The closest I came to gardening was righting the flowers I had run over when rushing to our next destination- LATE. I always wished for a middle name; perhaps that might be fitting!

My fondness for flowers did lead to one attempt...gone awry. One early fall day I had our youngest child, Nicole next to me as I planted hyacinth bulbs along our sidewalk. I was ensconced: she had other plans. Suddenly it came to my awareness that cars were routinely honking each time they passed. Thinking she was her effusive, friendly self, I assumed she was waving. As I glanced over at her, suddenly things went south- including her clothes! Nicole had taken off everything, including her socks.

Things happen. Circumstances change. People die. Babies are born. These events are part and parcel of living. It can be so soul-enriching to assimilate these happenings into our being. And sometimes we have no choice.

My friend Meredith is a nurse midwife. I know she embraces the celebration each and every time she ushers a precious new life into the world. With a full and endearing heart, she gives all she has to make the birth experience unforgettable.