I hope my kid remembers all my f-bombs.
Honestly, you don’t hear that alot– but I hope she does.
Sure, I hope she doesn’t inherit the language of a sailor, but I hope she knows nothing about being a mom came organically to me.
I hope she remembers that even though I was a mediocre baker and rarely made a balanced meal show up for dinner, I still put on bombshell-level living room dance parties on the regular.
I hope she remembers that even though I said NO to 679 treats on the daily for LITERAL years, that I still went to every target in driving distance looking for the outfit she wanted for her birthday party.
I hope she remembers that following every unhinged conversation we had, and through every disagreement, it closed with hugs and open-ended-love.
I hope she knows her mom tried to find balance in a world that offers little of that.
I hope she knows that when we arrive to a scene incapable of balance, to a world that seems almost designed for chaos…
That we all still deserve a little grace.
When she does arrive, I hope she faces it with integrity, sass and poise.
And when she does…
I really hope she thinks: “I got it from my Mama.”