Motherhood is weird to talk about. Complicated, beautiful, loaded. It’s all circumstantial, really. Love her or hate her, she’s your first and last impression. Just ask Freud. Her impact is undeniable, for better, for worse, or for your next therapy bill.
Moms were the original IT girls. You’re four years old, clomping around in size 7 ½ heels with lipstick smeared across your face, trying to be just like your idol. Her favorite songs are your favorite songs. You both sing along in the car.
Mothers, lovers, sisters, muses, friends, foes. The women who made us. Our existence is the fruit of their labor, in more ways than one.
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