Stop worrying if you’ve lost yourself. You haven’t. You’re just expanding.
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. buddy's mom2015
Dear 2015 Me,
If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you know that 2015 was the year of the sippy cups, the year of the endless puffs snack, and the year my son—my little "Buddy"—was three years old. Three is a magic, chaotic age. It’s the year they stop being toddlers and start becoming little people. It’s the year of the "why" phase, the tantrum in the grocery store checkout line, and the first time they say "I love you" without being prompted. Stop worrying if you’ve lost yourself
The file name, auto-generated by my old phone, was simply: IMG_4578_buddys_mom.jpg . Because somewhere, buried in a folder of blurry
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.