Moms writing their way through an ever-shrinking pool of time and attention. We write for our sanity, and yours. Welcome.
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But I want her for me. I want all of them for me. I find myself greedier and greedier for my kids’ childhoods as it becomes clearer and clearer just how little of them remain. I want to eat them up.
But this isn’t a story about things lost. Youth. Running. Identity. Or, at least, it’s not only a story about that. It’s about the inevitable morphing one does in big and small ways. It’s about what that morphing takes, no matter how old we get
Maybe—and this unfortunately means accepting that past me was a snobby bitch—maybe being a Dance Mom has changed me. For good.
I made a discovery on one of those relentless January days: two of my houseplants had flowered.