An Ode To Mommas Who Haven’t Killed Their Babies Yet

Maybe every day should be Mother’s Day

You must be something else. Your stretch marks, the only evidence of gratitude from a tiny human begging for your milk, for your affection, for your 2:00 a.m. mindfulness to change a diaper.

And the same tiny human will grow and tell you they hate you and you’re dumb while they drain your bank account.

Here’s to you, oh noblewoman, stretched out in yoga pants and the one clean shirt with no spit-up stain.

You are a hero to the masses sitting in the pickup line for an hour just to ask your offspring how their day was and, at best, get an eye-roll in return.

You deserve a stiff drink. You deserve a turn around the ballroom in some overpriced designer gown.

You, Queen of Domestication, deserve a man who is okay with you sipping wine at tuck-in time and figuring out on his own where a clean work shirt might be.

A man who is willing to carry his fair share of things and yours.

A man prepared to gently approach a woman at the end of a frayed rope battling a teenage daughter who sneaks out with a guy five years older and a son who forgets to do his homework every single night.

A man who will come to the rescue of this woman, helping her put down the want to run away from it all, to scream into a pitch-black night, to slip into her minivan and drive to the local bar and drink away all the woman she once swore she would never be.

A man to cradle her as one might a soldier shot down in the jungle and with little more than a kiss to the forehead, tell her Thank You.