It was one of those kinds of days.
The kind of day where you spend what feels like half of it stuck in traffic, banging your face against the steering wheel and the other half of it bowing to the whims of a toddler in what amounts to a futile effort to keep your sanity.
It’s the kind of day where you don’t care if the person sitting in the car in front of you with the license plate from Virginia sees you crinkle your face while you try to hold back tears of frustration.
I don’t have an answer for why the other day seemed so wrong, except:
It seems obnoxiously huge, this motherhood thing.
I knew that I was supposed to celebrate being a mom on mother’s day, and as much as I couldn’t wait to seen my children’s chicken scratch on the inside of a card, and see…
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