So I don’t wear yoga pants and I’m loud: Be my friend Mothers!

I don’t wear yoga pants unless I am at the gym.

I arrive at my daughter’s early morning dance class in makeup and “clothes” that aren’t yoga pants or sweat-suits.

I might be totally cool with my daughter being loud in public sometimes also.

I might also join her.

That might have been me, singing broadway in a Target store, but I will never tell.

I might not love cooking, and I might just find all of reality television to be the death of me, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be my friend, mothers.

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The one gesture to keep someone from diving off the deep end

The other day I got bad news.

It was the kind of news that once I heard, instinctively, I knew my gut had been right all along.

Women’s instinct you might call it.

I kept my chin up for most of the day, but towards the nighttime, I crumbled. I feel like the past 1.5 years have been too much of an emotional roller coaster in which there are way more downs…and few ups. I’m trying to keep myself from fully giving into depression. Finding the silver lining, I have my health, etc.

The only way I know I haven’t truly succumbed is how others describe me as a happy person to be around.

Little do they know.

So when I heard my doorbell ring last night, I was thinking, “Fuck.” I was in no place to see anyone. But when I opened the door, there it was.

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