It’s still dark outside.
I walk in right on time.
Well, maybe a minute early.
So that I have time to watch her sleep.
She looks just like the toddler she used to be.
Except now her bed is bigger and so is she.
Today is my son’s birthday.
His 17th one.
And for the first time ever, I’m not with him. I can't hug him more than he wants me to. I can't tell him, again, the story of his birth. And I can't bake him a birthday cake from scratch. (Oh, right, I wouldn't do that anyway.)
I’ve been thinking a lot about that post I wrote last week.
Don’t Stare At My Daughter.
I got a lot of feedback on it. Mostly women with daughters who were feeling the same way that I did.
Disgusted. Concerned. And powerless.
Okay, so I’m not fat but I’m heavier now, by almost ten pounds, than I was a year ago. And I liked my weight a year ago. Really liked it.
But now my clothes are tight.
And I know what has happened.
It started with the feet. A few years ago, my daughter started sharing my shoes. Flip flops and sandals but not my wedges. Too young for that. She got her ears pierced and she started wearing some of my earrings. And the diamond necklace I got from her father after she was born. (Only for...
Sometimes, I worry about sex. Yes, me. I know, it’s odd. Right? I mean, I’ve written about sex a lot. I’ve reviewed multitudes of sex toys. I’ve even used the term “anal” here a few times. (Gasp!) But here are two of my worries. One, I worry that I don’t put out enough. Sure, hubs...