How An Epic Tantrum Turned Holier Than Church.

Originally posted April 23, 2014

A few months ago, my husband and I went to therapy together. After our session, we picked the kids up at our friend's house where they'd eaten dinner. We tried and failed at acting like everything was normal; we're okay fighting in a healthy way in front of them, but this was different. This wasn't for them.

When it was time for bedtime stories, the mood had clearly infected our boy, who wailed his sister on the head with a library book.

"Sorry, bud, no story for you tonight," I said, surprised by both my even tone and the sureness I felt about his consequence. I'm a believer in routine, and I question the usefulness of punishment, especially when children are tired and stressed. But that night, I knew that he and I were headed upstairs without books.

He was wailing, and I noticed how much stronger and bigger he was now than he was the last time he'd truly tantrumed. He turned his arms to soft noodles, and I couldn't hold him anymore. He slithered down to the floor. I tried to pick him up again to get him to his bedroom. He would not have it.

"Just sit down," I heard, from somewhere both far away and deep inside.

And so I sat down in the hallway, back against one wall, legs stretched out and touching the other, a human gate made of bone and blood.

He raged. I had never seen this.

My presence was calm. I was quiet. I did not try to stop him.

He writhed on the floor, screaming, "I WANT A STORY!" again and again. He filled the hall with screams and pleas, "I WANT A STORY!" until "I WANT A STORY!" suddenly became "I WANNA WATCH A SHOW!"

In that instant, I refocused my eyes on my son. I looked at him and quickly realized that he didn't seem to know what he was upset about any more.

Instead, I looked at a boy who was telling me all about how hard it is to be a person. He was telling me about all the times I'd hurt him with my lack of understanding, with my impatience, with my inability to hold the safe space for him that I'd, tonight, created.

Once I realized what was happening, things shifted. They didn't calm down yet - not at all. But I couldn't take my eyes off him. I sat up onto my knees; he'd begun pushing me, and was so strong that I could feel myself about to topple backward. I sat up, tight and centered, and welcomed his rage. He hit my legs with his flailing legs, and pushed his head straight into my belly. He tried to push me over with his still-starfish hands and I began to silently weep. Through my tears, and in an even voice (he couldn't know I was crying - this moment wasn't mine), the words I heard myself repeating were, "I know. It's so hard to be a person. I'm so proud of you. I love you. Tell me."

And he did. For many, many minutes, he raged and screamed and threw his hurt and anger out of his body and into mine.

I had never loved that child more.

Eventually, I asked him if I could rub his back, and he said yes. He flung himself across my lap. His body was exhausted, but not his voice, and he continued to wail, sometimes, "I want a story," and sometimes, "I wanna watch a show," catching himself when he said the latter, confused.

I was heaving now, still silent. I scooped him into my lap and wrapped my arms around his sweaty body. He surrendered into me. My tears fell onto his matted hair, and, nervous that he'd notice my crying and switch his focus, I started whispering a song.

So this is how the story went.
I met someone by accident.
It blew me away.
It blew me away.
It was in the darkest of my days
When you took my sorrow and you took my pain
And buried them away, you buried them away.

He quieted and grew heavy.

The weight of my own body joined the weight of his and we were together.

Still, I had never loved him more.

As I whispered, I thanked God for this child. I thanked God for this moment, for the utter gift I had just been handed. I thanked God for allowing me to be this boy's mother, for giving me such an incredibly wise, persistent, and patient teacher.

I stood up with my heavy boy. I walked three steps to my bedroom and gently nudged the door shut. I lay down, sideways across the bed, and he adjusted himself so that he was atop me, his head on my heart, his hand on my breast.

He was asleep in moments.

I followed, moments later, clean.

*E

Note: The night after this happened, this happened.

6 Things I Didn't Know I Needed To Tell You.

Originally posted March 6, 2014

Okay, so we need to talk.

There are some things I need to lay out, nice and clean-like.

Nothing's happened, no one's in a fight.  In fact, I love you more than ever.

I just need to say some things.

1).  I swear a lot.  Like, a lot.  'Exclaiming' is my most typical tone of voice.  Exclaiming and swearing are such natural bedfellows that it's nearly impossible for me not to lace conversations with curses. I'm surprisingly good at turning it off when my kids are around, and also surprisingly good at forgetting to turn it off when your kids are around.  I'm declaring that I will no longer wonder if I'm allowed to swear on my blog, on my Facebook wall, or in conversation with you.  I will attempt to adhere to reasonable social norms.  Otherwise, you are now forewarned that anything I've written could have 'language' throughout.  

In related news, thanks to this video (you should click on that link - no, you really should), my son now says, "Now you listen to me, you sick son of a bitch."  This does not upset me, but rather makes me stand a little taller while I dream of the apartment I'll have in New York someday as a result of his successful Jimmy Fallon-inspired comedy career.

2). I know whether or not I love you or could love you or will love you within five minutes of meeting you.  I probably won't say The L Word that soon, but I might.  Regardless of when I feel it, when I feel compelled to say it, imma say it.  Love should not be contained - it should be DELIVERED, directly and immediately, to those for whom it's felt.  

3). I've recently become extraordinarily grateful for my alcoholism.  I've also become kind of okay with the word 'alcoholism'.  It still makes me squirm a little.  I'll get over it.  

I'm happy to talk with you about my non-drinking.  I will not start these conversations; if you wanna talk, talk.  I will be totally transparent if I think you're sincere and if you feel like a safe person.  I will not preach to you.  And please, for the love of all that is good, do not ask me if it's okay for you to drink in my presence or in my home.  I appreciate where you're coming from with that, but, Jesus, YES.  Please be exactly who you are around me, wherever we are.  I like you better that way.

4). I am walking a spiritual path to somewhere good.  There are so many fucking roots sticking up out of the dirt on my path that I fall down constantly.  But there are also, miraculously, friends and strangers milling about who always happen to see me sitting there, all dusty or muddy.  They offer me their hands or their empathy.  Sometimes they laugh at me, sitting there like that on a root-filled path, all dirty and tired.  These people, the ones who laugh, are my favorite because they disarm me and make me laugh, too.  My son is one of the best Laughers out there.

As I discover important landmarks on my path, I'm going to tell you about them.  Please remember that the words I use to describe these landmarks DO NOT MATTER.  I haven't yet come up with a vocabulary that's settled just right.  Sometimes I pray to God, sometimes to Holiness, and sometimes to the Infinite Divine.  Sometimes I forget to pray; sometimes I pray for a sign that holiness is really present, and get one almost immediately.  

5). I've been certain of very little in my life.  But one thing I know, for absolute certain, is this: 

We all contain a piece of divinity.  Every single one of us.  It sits in our middles.  It is heavy.  It is golden.  It is the piece of us that knows everything we will ever need to know.  It is the piece of the Universe that was implanted into our DNA when the skies went boom and this gorgeous place became our home.  It has always been there, and it can not die because it is not of us - it is of the divine.  

As our lives begin to happen, depending on our circumstances, sometimes a bit of dirt gets tossed on top of our golden middles.  Sometimes it's just a touch, easy enough to sweep away with good friends and a healthy dose of self-belief.  But sometimes, it keeps piling.  Sometimes, there's so much dirt that it starts to get dense and hard.  Our middles become totally obscured.  We live, unconsciously, in darkness.  

We start to realize that something feels off - we're unfulfilled or scared or angry.  Then, right then, it is our job to dig.  We start with ourselves - we're useless to others if we haven't dug ourselves most of the way out - and then we move on to Our People.  We collect them, and we dig.  Sometimes it's slow and arduous.  Sometimes it's not.  We dig and dig and dig.  It's late-night conversations about marriage and parenting.  It's making a meal because you know they need a night off.  It's helping with the stove installation and bagging up peed-in clothes.  

And then one time we look over and notice that there's a light.  It's running straight up and down.  It's in us and it's in them.  We've dug down far enough so the light's creeping out and the light's creeping in.  There's a crack in the hard-pack.  

Golden middles deserve more than to suffocate; it is our job to unearth ourselves and each other.  

Now that is some shit that I know in my bones.

6). All I want now is to settle into real, true Peace.  I want my Peace to be raucous and loud and crowded, with alcoves in unexpected places for moments of quiet wonder.  I want it to be full of crazy tears.  I want the music inside of my Peace to make me scream with joy.

No.  That's not all I want.  I want the privilege of seeing your middle.  I want you to see mine.  I want to pick up shovels together and chat while we dig.  

I can't see anything out there that's more important, really.

Also?  I fucking love you.

*E

Why I Don't Want To Hear About How Much You Love Your Kid.

Originally posted March 13, 2014

Every time most moms I know, myself included, get ready to launch into a completely valid and necessary tirade about how hard parenting is, we begin with, "Of course I love my kids. I'd die for my kids. I love them more than anything, but..."

What the fuck?

I have never once wondered if a complaining mama really loves her kids. Not once. Because fucking obviously. It's completely undermining and invalidating to need to pad our very human need to vent with statements like that.

When I need to talk to my girls about my marriage, I get straight to the business. I don't begin with, "Please keep in mind that I love my handsome, incredible husband so much. I'm totally aware of how quickly these years of marriage will fly by, I just..." Bullshit. I get right to it, venting and then either coming up with creative solutions or just feeling bloody grateful to have someone to talk to who gets it that marriage is hard.

The same should be true for parenting. We should be able to share our war stories in all of their truthful glory. Instead, we shine them up, telling just enough of our tales of woe to feel like we're "relating" without putting ourselves in danger of being deemed the worst mother at the table.

Living with children is quite like living with wild animals. They shriek at unexpected times, refuse to adhere to reasonable expectations around sleep and personal space, and don't understand the basic tenants of I Am Not The Only Human On The Planet With Needs And Desires. Age appropriate or not, that shit's still hard.

Parenting has become a well-documented judgment minefield. Instead of judging people based solely on whether or not they wear real or fake Danskos or drink fancy enough coffee, we're subversively judging each others worst moments and level-of-love for our kids in the hopes that we win. We're making a mockery of the most pure, deep, and impenetrable form of love - maternal love - with this nonsense.

Let's set a few ground rules:

1). I will always assume that you love your kid so much that you'd throw yourself under a train if it meant that there was even a chance you could save them from harm. This is such a given that it's ridiculous that I'm even typing it. But this is where we are, so there it is. I know you love your kid. Period.

2). I will always assume that no one in the whole big world knows your kid like you do. In conjunction with this, I will also assume that any "problems" I see with your kid - loudness, sleep issues, manners, sharing - you also see, or simply aren't important to you; we all want our kid to be socially acceptable and lovely, and I'll assume you're no different. It's not up to me to coach you. In fact, if I start to do that? Go ahead and call me an asshole. I'll deserve it.

3). I will always assume that there are lots of things going on in your life, and that parenting is just one of them. It's hard to be at the top of our game when we're financially stressed, when our marriage is Gettin' Real, when we haven't slept well in six years, and when there's not enough time to both cook dinner and clean the kitchen and so our kitchen is always kind of gross. You have a lot of shit going on and I know about maybe 3% of it. I will always assume that you're truly doing the best you can. And that your best is so much more than enough.

4). I will assume that you'll extend me these very same courtesies.

I'm not trying to make incessant complaining okay. I don't want to get sucked into that shit. But we need to be able to safely talk about the hard so we can then talk about the joy. Joy comes after hard, and we need to dig out the hard to reveal its shine.

This isn't a post about the Mommy Wars or about How Much Kids Suck. Because, remember, I love my kids more than anything in the world.

This post is about the fact that we hide because we're scared.

And we're scared because raising our kids to be stellar citizens is, for most of us, the single most important thing we will ever do. We don't want to fuck it up, and anything that even suggests current, imminent, or eventual failure makes us defensive messes. And this, what we're doing, this hiding and ruminating and judging and living in fear of not being enough for them? This is what's going to fuck our kids up more than anything else.

So let's be each other's allies instead of each other's sharp-shooters, 'kay?

LOVE.
*E

An Open Letter To All The Things (Reprise)

Originally posted July 4, 2014

I accidentally re-posted this post this morning, but then realized it was a happy accident because there's BIG NEWS.

Lisabeth and David, THE SPARKLE STORY PEOPLE, found this post.  You guys, I am not even kidding.  And they loved it.  They loved it so much they linked back to it in their Sparkle Story newsletter (it's in the left sidebar) and well, this pleases me more than I can possibly say. 

My next suggestion will be for an adults-only Martin and Sylvia series whereby David gets into the nitty gritty details of the reality of Mama and Daddy's lives.  Maybe we'll hear about the time they each drank too much wine and couldn't aptly teach the children their lessons the next morning.  Or the time they got a speeding ticket and couldn't calmly navigate their way out of their frustration?   I still love the Daddy's Art Wasn't Selling angle the best.  

But they're the experts, so I'll let them decide how they want to tackle this.

Anyway, happy 4th!  Here's to independence, happily squealing children, and the imperfectly perfect moments that make our lives hum.

:::

Dear Open Letter Trend,

I know everyone's over you. But I haven't had my chance to get funny or snarky or clever or witty yet, and so I'm going to take an end-of-trend chance on you.

Let's do this.

*E

Dear Children, Aged 6 and 4 years,

Summer is nigh. Your relentless talking to us and over us and at us and around us must be curbed if we're to survive so many days in a row together. I truly do find you to be fascinating little humans, and yet I find it impossible to be interested in what you're saying when I can't even hear the inside of my own ears due to your volume. Let us all pray, together, for a cool, sunny, bug-free summer so that you might find the personal fortitude to build yourselves a small house in the backyard, where you can wile away your summer days, lazing about and screaming, happily of course, at each other.

*E

Dear Sparkle Stories,

I love you. I do. Martin and Sylvia feel like members of our family. And so I've tried to overlook how perfectly fucking perfect everything always is at their house. Mama and Daddy, with their socially-conscious/artistic dreams consistently fulfilled, Martin and Sylvia always eager to quietly and happily participate in journaling, fairy-boat making and racing, and long car rides with ne'er a hint of believable angst or discord. They love muesli, choose salad for lunch at home and bags of almonds when on the train, even though I'm sure they were standing face to face with bags of chips and bright packages of candy. Yes, Martin and Sylvia, the homeschooled children who spend their nights in their second-story loft bedroom, sound truly lovely. And because I so deeply respect your abilities, David, as a storyteller, I've made the decision to keep loving you, despite my ever-increasing feelings of parental inadequacy. And so instead of banning dear Martin and Sylvia from our home for the sake of my ego, I've come up with a few story ideas for you:

1. Martin and Sylvia: The Epic Tantrum That Started Because of A Sticker

2. Martin and Sylvia: The Time Daddy's Art Wasn't Selling

3. Martin and Sylvia: "Martin Threw His Pizza Crust At Me AND IT HURTS!"

What do you think?

*E

Dear Children, Aged 6 and 4 years (Reprise),

If you love Martin and Sylvia so much, you might consider imitating them. I know I've always encouraged you to be leaders instead of followers, but, in this instance, fuck that shit. I promise I'll buy you muesli if you want me to. You don't even need to say please (even though I know Martin and Sylvia would).

*E

Dear Everyone On Instagram Uploading Beautiful Photos Of Your Lush Vegetable Gardens,

What's with all the bragging? Cut it out. You're making the weeds and grass that are currently planted in my vegetable garden feel really shitty about themselves. It's not cool.

*E

Dear People Who Read My Writing, Comment On It, And Share It,

You are magical. I love you. I can't believe you exist. I would mouth kiss every one of you if it wouldn't make my husband mad. Every time I connect with you, it feels like fairy dust is being sprinkled all over me. And even though I try to remove my ego from my work - to remember that it's not all about me - it feels damn good having you around. Don't ever leave me or I might go crazy (ha, just [kind of] kidding).

*E

Dear Self,

First, chill out about the Sparkle Stories thing. David and Lisabeth are not telling stories at you. Also, don't forget to swim and frolic a little bit this summer. The internet will still exist in the fall, when the children go back to school. And don't pretend you're not going to miss the hell out of them when they go back, or that you're not going to cry like an infant when you bring your son to his first day of preschool - you totally are. And lastly, eat some more vegetables.

You might even consider growing them yourself.

*E

10 Ways To Feel More Like A Woman And Less Like A Mom.

Originally posted June 14, 2014

I like to get dressed. No, I need to get dressed. The Yoga Pant Mom Trend looks cozy and yes, black is always chic, but I can't get down with it. I love how it looks on you, I promise. But it just ain't me.

I discovered this four years ago when my son was a baby. I found myself putting on cute outfits, even when I wasn't planning to go anywhere. I know that lots of folks love hanging at home in their pajamas postpartum, soaking in the relaxation and lack of pretense. But I needed pretense. I needed to feel like I was a real person even though I was really a milk machine. And for me, the way I dress has always been an outward extension of who I am, even as my style has changed. And so I'd get dressed in a cute skirt and a fun, printed tee and then I'd sit around nursing until my ass fell asleep in the glider. But whatever - sleepy ass or not, I felt okay because I was dressed.

Similarly, I recently decided that it wasn't absurd or selfish to consider the idea of showering every day. I think there's a large population of folks that do that, right? I know every mom ever is not among that particular population, but I decided it was time to bridge the gap. At first, it felt like a horrible chore, the daily shower, what with all of the wetness and drying and the why-the-hell-are-the-kids-so-quiet part. But damn if it didn't feel good to realize that being clean meant I was taking care of myself. That I gasp! maybe mattered a little bit.

From there? My ball was rolling. Herewith, my list of 10 things that make me feel like a woman instead of just a mom:

1. Shaving. We covered showering up above, but, gals, don't forget about shaving. If you're a non-shaver, that's cool, you can just skip ahead. But I fall decidedly into the shaving camp, and discovering that I could take the extra five minutes in the shower to shave my legs and underarms any ol' time I was in the shower felt like discovering electricity. There doesn't need to be a party or a wedding - you can shave just because you like smooth legs. How 'bout that?

2. Eyebrow maintenance. For serious, I'd have one giant band of eyebrow if I didn't stay on top of my shit. In fact, tweezing has been the only self-care practice I've been consistent about since I was a pre-teen. If you don't own a pair of Tweezermans, RUN TO THE DRUG STORE IMMEDIATELY and buy a pair. Spend the seemingly-too-much-money. You will thank me, I promise. A clean and natural-looking brow line makes me feel neat and like I give a shit about myself. Which is a feeling I need to foster in any way possible. In addition to tweezing, I've toyed with liner (which I suck at applying) and have recently taken to "defining" my eyebrows with a pencil. I then blend in said "definition" with a special little brush, and, further, "set" my newly-fuller brows with what is essentially clear mascara. This whole process takes about 47 seconds and makes me feel way Euro. I like.

3. High-waisted skinny jeans. Holy shit, ENOUGH WITH THE LOW RISE. Jesus. I just discovered that you can even buy skinny jeans that aren't low rise and I feel like a new person. Every pair of pants I own that doesn't at least touch my hips is now in the giveaway pile. Because I'm tired of feeling like a doughy, postpartum mama four years postpartum. And because a little thing like three extra inches of jean hides SO VERY MUCH. I have an incredible pair from a J. Crew outlet store, and recently bought a pair online from American Eagle for less than $40. I've heard that H&M; also carries high rise skinnies, but every time I've checked the only available sizes look like they'd fit a three year old with extraordinarily long legs. I also happen to be of the opinion that skinnies work on all body types. Yes, even yours. Show your shit off, girl. Just do it the grown-up - instead of the middle school - way.

4. Declare a space your own. A few years ago I decided that the shit-filled mudroom off of our bathroom was going to be my studio. When I made this declaration, the ancient, cracked linoleum was covered with dirt, shoes, winter gear, and (probably) traces of lead paint. I was prepared to throw every single one of those things in the trash, vacuum, and move a writing table in. My husband, a skilled and loving man, insisted that he was going to recreate the space for me. I moaned, knowing how long it typically takes a carpenter's wife to get work done at her own house. But my studio is now so kickass and gorgeous and totally perfect that I honestly can't even remember how many months of gentle, "Sigh...like, should I just buy a desk from IKEA?"-like things I needed to say. I write in here, all of my craft/paper/treasures/secrets are in here, and HOLY SHIT YOU NEED TO PICK A SPACE AND MAKE IT YOURS. Just knowing that my studio exists makes me happy. And when I actually get to be in here, writing (like I am right now), making things, or simply moving shit around BECAUSE I CAN, I feel like a real person. There's some stellar kid art on the walls in here, yes, but it's, like, their Picasso-level shit. I try to keep the kids out of here because this space is MINE. (But now I'm editing and the kids are knocking stuff onto the floor around me and I'm trying not to flip out.) Find a closet, a corner, or a shitty mudroom and set up shop, ladies.

5. Lip color. My lips are the same color as my skin. It's weird, I know. But if I don't smack some color on there, I look dead. I've never been able to apply lipstick in a way that looks natural, and so I'm a solid believer in lip stain. It stays put, doesn't bleed, and makes my lips look like I rubbed beets on them. Which is apparently the look I'm going for. My first and favorite is from The Body Shop, and right now, because of cost and convenience, I buy some schwag from Rite Aid that totally does the trick for less than $4. Even if you've been blessed with not-dead lips, give it a shot. Lip color makes me feel - yes, you guessed it - more put together, which is clearly the thesis statement for this whole post.

6. Smile at people. I often feel wildly insecure - "What if that person doesn't like me? Why didn't he smile at me? Oh, god, I'm so annoying, everyone in here can't wait until I get outta here with my coffee." - and so I've had to train myself to be a friendly person; my insecurity can make my face shut down and cause me to look like a total bitch. To combat my Bitchy Resting Face problem (you should watch that video), I force a smile. I make myself get into it, too, and so I make my eyes smile. I try to smile at anyone with whom I make eye contact. I get scared if they don't smile back, and often worry that I look like a crazy person, nervously smiling at people all over the coffee shop. But I love it when people smile at me and say hello, and so I have to imagine that other people like it, too. It feels grown-up, all this friendliness. And it forces me to step out of my self-centered worry-brain, which is always a good thing.

7. A good bag. It doesn't need to be expensive. But it does need to function like nothing else in your life. I have two that I rotate, depending on how much crap I'm carrying around. One is a giant gray Martha Stewart for Staples bag that I love because my huge calendar, binder, and a few books can easily fit inside. It has just the right number of compartments and can hold a silly amount of stuff before I look like an over-packed mule. The other one is a colorful Baggallini that I adore. My favorite feature is the built-in-near-the-top lip balm holder. I'm addicted to Karite Lips, the most expensive lip balm in all the land, and having it right in its own little holder spot is, like the most luxurious thing ever. Having a bag that functions how you need it to is so common sense. And having a bag that's not a diaper bag is, when you can graduate, a little slice of heaven.

8. Stand up straight. Dude, my posture blows. When I see myself in photos, my hunched shoulders are the first thing I see. I work on this all the time, and yet I can't help but feel like I'm presenting my chest to the world on a D-sized silver platter when I pull my shoulders back. But whatevs - good posture immediately gives people a look of presence, class, and confidence. And I want to be all of those things. I sometimes am those things, but my posture tells a different story. Be willing to take up all of the space the Universe gave you - stand right up into it.

9. Strut a little when you walk. And not for the people watching you. In fact, none of the things on this list are for other people - they're for us and only us. When I pull my shoulders back and toss a little strut into my step, I feel awesome. I feel present. I feel like I've got my shit under control. I feel confident. A little bit of swagger isn't always a bad thing. Instead, it can be us just having the courage to be fully in ourselves.

10. Break the motherfuckin' rules, yo. See what I'm doing right here? I said this list was going to have 10 things in it and there are 11. 'Cause I'm a rule breaker. Naw, but seriously - you do not need to do things just because everyone else in your town is doing them. I know your mom told you that, and that we'll tell our kids the same thing. But there's something weird that happens when we become mothers these days (I'm certain the internet, with all of its 'facts', is to blame.) We think that everyone else has it figured out, that we're the only mother who wasn't born knowing what the hell to do when the baby comes out. And so most of us quickly adopt the rules of the people around us. And before we know it, a lot of us pop our heads out of the water, gasp, and say, "What. The. Hell. Am. I. Doing." Gasp, girl. And then decide what rules you're going to follow. And if you end up breaking the rules of those around you? Awesome! Everyone can learn by watching how other people are doing things. The world can only be served by peeps creating an outer reality that matches their true inner reality. Do that.

11. Remember that you matter. Raising our babies to be stellar, kind, loving, creative citizens of the world is, undoubtedly, a massively important and often joy-filled task. And it's probably instinctual for us to want to do and do and do for them. I know that I give a whole lot of me to my kids. But we need to step away from the idea that we need to suffer to be mothers, that pain and distress are a part of the deal. I suffered greatly, completely without knowing it, for the first few years of motherhood. Not because my kids were jerks - not at all - but because I didn't realize that the only way to remain a woman and not singularly a mother was to decide that I still mattered. My babies mattered, yes, and my husband mattered, yes, but so did I. And I forgot that. I stopped getting my hair cut and let my leg hair grow and became more and more emotionally depleted from all of the martyred giving. It's unsustainable, that. And it's also a real bummer. Instead, get dressed if you want to and take the time to straighten your hair if it makes you feel whole and good. You matter. Don't forget that shit, 'kay?

*E