Buddy's: Mom2015

Stop worrying if you’ve lost yourself. You haven’t. You’re just expanding.

So keep the messy bun. Keep the stained shorts. Keep kneeling on that rug. You aren't just "Buddy's Mom." You are his whole sky. buddy's mom2015

I remember scoffing at the time. Buddy’s mom. I had a name. I had a career. I had opinions on foreign policy and a favorite indie band. I wasn’t just an appendage to a three-foot-tall person. Stop worrying if you’ve lost yourself

I wasn’t looking for a person named Buddy. I was looking for me . So keep the messy bun

Because somewhere, buried in a folder of blurry iPhone photos and video clips of a kiddie pool, is a picture of me. I wasn't looking at the camera. My hair was in a lopsided bun. I was wearing a grey nursing tank top that had seen better days and a pair of shorts with a mysterious stain on the thigh. I was kneeling on the living room rug, putting a band-aid on a scraped knee.

One day, that boy won’t need you to put the band-aid on. He’ll do it himself. One day, he’ll stop calling you "Mommy" in public and switch to a curt "Mom." One day, you’ll miss the sticky handprints on the sliding glass door.

The file name, auto-generated by my old phone, was simply: IMG_4578_buddys_mom.jpg .