October 19, 2016

Running Out Of Words

This blog has been sorely neglected. I feel like with all that is (or isn't) going on.. I just do not have much to say. What can I talk about? Sometimes I sit at the keyboard, blog template open, ready to start typing. Then the baby cries. Or my husband asks me something. Or I start pondering WTF am I doing with my life at 37.....

And then I lose all train of thought.

What can I talk about?

I can talk about being lonely yet not alone. How I do not have a network of friends close to me anymore because I am at a different point in my life :age, marital status, kids.... it's changed everything. My sorority sisters, the ones I am close with, a re busy. My best friends live out of state. It is tough.  Is there a new mommy group that isn't bourgie in Atlanta? That just likes to go out to eat at regular ass spots and walks in the park with strollers? Something like that...

I can talk about how I love my husband but we are disconnected. Just ships passing in the night because of schedules.. because of commitments.. work.. the baby.. Just drained of energy. We went out alone for the first time in MONTHS last week and didn't know how to act. I can't tell you the last time we went to the movies. We haven't held hands or kissed deeply for a long period of times. Pecks in passing. Hugs late at night before bed... just as the baby is finally sleeping. We haven't had any of the "rip the clothes off before we make it upstairs"sex in ages....I feel like I am totally settled into middle age. This could be called "Sexy-less and the Married Belle".

I can talk about my baby. But I don"t wanna be that mom.  That mom who drones on and on about their child and every mundane thing they do. I can talk about her growth and progress. How she's just changing everyday but how I am hard on myself that she isn't where she totally needs to be. How I feel like she may be hindered by not being on target and in a professional daycare with a curriculum or with a full time PT. How my MIL doesn't listen to me sometimes or questions me and it irks my nerves.... but I am still grateful for her. How she is so cute. How i am so protective. Yet how I feel like half the time I do not know what I am doing.

I can talk about how I miss my mother. Sometimes I call out for her at night. Sometimes I still dial her number expecting her to call.  That I realize my MIL can never be my mother.. she'll never do things I would think my mother would do .. not even for my baby.. and I need my mother. There is just no substitute. I need her guidance. I need to ask her how she did this with so much on her plate. I need her recipes. Her smell. Her laugh. Her slender fingers touching my hands.

I can talk about how I've zoned out. How work is mundane. How school is at a standstill because I just honestly have lost the passion for getting my PhD. I have no idea where the topic is going or what to do with it... Im almost 40 and feel like I have no direction in my life. Nothing sparks my interest. Nothing makes me excited or passionate. Not even my blogs or IG I've stared. Nothing. And I am too old to be without direction. Most of all.. I feel like I've made mistakes that are now coming back to haunt me... My ideal job would be a writer: I would write poetry.. novels.. but I can't eat off of that solely. Right now I got a mortgage...and life is passing me by.

I can talk about how spiritually I feel lost. I need a home. Somewhere. Maybe not even a Christian home.. like a church home.. but somewhere....

I can talk about how I feel like  Frumpy Mommy.. Middle aged wreck who just throws on clothes and keeps it moving during the week. I put on makeup in a rush but I don't have time to get extra cute all the time. I don't feel sexy. Or pretty. I just feel like I am existing. I haven't had my hair done in two months.. maybe three and it is in terrible shape. So much so I am ready to just shave it off. My body is this flat, mass of what it used to be. It looks deflated after child birth. I can't explain it....

I can talk about this perpetual feeling of not being satisfied. Of not knowing how to get satisfaction or even where the looming feeling arises from.

I can talk about not feeling like I want to talk at all. Like i'd rather have silence on a daily basis.

Damn. I guess I did have a lot to talk about.

September 29, 2016

All Falls Down: A Mom Of a Preemie Reflects

Last weekend, I was finally able to cash in on the spa gift certificate my husband gave me for Valentine's Day. Yes, I realize it is damn near Halloween.... but I've been quite busy with adjusting to a new baby and my job. And just trying to wrap my mind out around life.

We had an nice brunch at the Katz's -style deli here in Atlanta, laughing and talking like old times over bagles, lox  and "smear".... Old times plus a giggling little one who would coo and laugh. And had the waitresses wrapped around her finger. She is very well behaved in public and just likes to observe her new surroundings.

My massage was an hour and a half. In the time, my husband decided he'd take the baby for a little walk around the shopping center in her stroller and maybe pick up a few things from the market. As he did that, I settled into the comfy chair of the Spa. I was called back rather quickly and I received an amazing deep tissue massage and aromatherapy. It was heaven. And much needed. I felt re-energized.

After the message, my little family was waiting for me.My husband was holding my now dozing baby girl. The spa concierges had commented how sweet and quiet she was. And how beautiful she was. I smiled. Most moms think their baby is the most gorgeous thing in the world. It is only natural.

While at the spa, my husband ran into a former employee of his. She was with her partner and they too had just had a relaxing massage. I exchanged pleasantries and she had to peek her head into the stroller to see the baby. By now, my daughter was drifting off and wasn't really here for much interaction. The woman wiggled Gogo's toes... but she was over it. LOL. That's just her personality.

Fast forward to yesterday, we are on our ride home and my husband gets a call. He takes it via his Bluetooth so that he can talk hands free. The call comes through our car speakers. It is another former employee of his, who wanted to chat. The coworker goes on to say... "Yes, "Spa Girl" (for anonymity sake) told me she saw the baby. When I asked how the baby was... She goes "Oh.. not well.... I mean.. She didn't even respond to me when I touched her toes and was playing with her". I sat silent and looked over at my husband who had a look of shock and puzzlement on his face. He quickly said "She was asleep! She's fine". The coworker goes"Oh I am sure she was... Spa Girl is crazy anyway".. and continued talking about something else.

At first I was silent. And then I was furious. I was visibly shaking and my husband saw and grabbed my hand. Once he ended his call I lost it! I cried so hard.. This woman spoke about my child as if she was defective. To insinuate that she was not well..... that is how vicious rumors start...

It all came crashing down hard on me.

This stranger.. who only has seen my child in photos... she has no idea what my baby is going through. How I see her struggle to do things.  I already feel this guilt everyday regarding her progress and why she isn't meeting all her milestones. I compare her to other kids her actual age and I cry and it hurts. So for someone to make up a lie like she's gravely ill (and the girl has never even had a cold!) makes me violent! This is why I'm very hesitant to upload a pic or take her out on public. I don't need this type of agitation. People assuming she is younger because of her size. People wanting to speculate and scrutinize.  People like this bitch that had no clue....NO CLUE the extent of what I felt or went through.

I had my daughter 10 weeks early via c-section on Jay 26. It was traumatic and while I felt relieved, I mostly felt like a failure. I couldn't hold on to her inside for just a little while longer. She needed to get bigger. She needed to get stronger. She needed to know I was strong and sacrificing so much for her. I know logically it wasn't my fault but I felt that pain inside. And now a stranger bitch of a woman was seemingly pointing out that failure...because she presumed something was wrong with a sleepy baby.

The tears I felt were not only anger but also guilt. Guilt that my body failed and didn't allowed her to develop. Guilty I had some abnormal placenta that didn't feed her enough.And because of that guilt.. I often lied about her age to avoid the questions of her  being premature which isn't something to be ashamed of.  In the aftermath, it seemed I was surrounded by pregnant friends or fairly new mothers. More than 5 or 6 of them. I'd hear my pregnant friends complain endlessly about things I hadn't experienced (or had) and under my breath I wanted to just call them"ungrateful."  You're normal. Your baby is fine. Mine is not.  My baby is behind. My body failed. Your pregnancies are going rather smoothly. Mine did not. You won't spend a day in the NICU (God willing) and I have lost count of the sleep and hours I missed from either pumping around the clock or going to see baby in the early morning. I still wake up in the middle of the night to make sure she is breathing.. and sometimes I catch her with eyes open and wide, gummy smile. That's when I can relax...

The tears I cried in the car had been building up for weeks. It took that once incident to make me snap. To make me realize that postpartum depression doesn't end as quickly as some folks think. And mothers of preemies are especially prone to spells of deep depression due to the trauma we've experienced via birth. And due to the ongoing things we may have to deal with regarding our small babies.

My husband, God bless his sweet soul, asked if I wanted him to pull over. He asked if I wanted to get a drink or walk around. He asked if I was OK. After all the tears, I told him I was fine. And we proceeded home.

I opened my garage door and waiting for me was my daughter. My sister-in-law was over to visit and she was at the top of the steps holding her and enthusastically saying "There's mummy!!" And all I saw was little feet kicking, and a big gummy grin... 

And I forgot about some speculating, troll bitch.
And I forgot about my short-comings
And I forgot about my tears
And I forgot about being so hard on myself.

And I remember how perfect my daughter is....perfectly imperfect

And I forgave myself.

And all was right.

September 21, 2016

King Cotton: Musings On Our Second Anniversary

We've been married 2 years today.....

(Photo by Made you Look Photo, Atlanta)

The traditional second wedding anniversary gift is cotton.

For someone black, that may be a bit of a difficult gift to give


Something that black bodies toiled, sweated over, were beaten and bloodied over ... sold and auctioned and ripped from families over... financed universities..... all in the name of King Cotton. Black hands that picked in sweltering heat. Not measured for their humanity but by the pound. All while we wore burlap sacks and rags. This same cotton, sent up North to be made into pretty things for Missy and Massa.... to celebrate their weddings. And we couldn't celebrate ours.


Today cotton is grown here and elsewhere... sent to China, Bangladesh and etc to be made into all kinds of things. Even traditional wedding gifts. 2000 thread count sheets of Egyptian cotton. Cotton handkerchiefs that wipe tears.

King Cotton.

Often times tied in a noose around our necks as we hang as strange fruit.

So today, I give cotton to my husband. In honor of us. In honor of the ancestors whose marriages and unions paved the way for us who weren't given the common decency to wed legally. They say "cotton is the fabric of our lives". That is an understatement for someone black. Cotton is in our DNA. Under our nails. Embedded between our dermis and epidermis. Entwined in our naps and kinks. Flowing in our blood are the buds that pricked tiny hands as young as 5 in the fields.

White. Fluffy. Soft. Angry. Pain-Staking, payment-free Work. Much like Marriage.


2 Years. On our anniversary.

 Symbolically celebrated with cotton.

A sobering reminder

June 30, 2016

The Black Panther Mom

You have "tiger" moms.

Stage Moms.

Hipster, Granola Moms

Helicopter parents.

Queen Bee  PTA B*TCH Moms.

I don't really have a desire to be any of those moms.

I've decided to create a new category for myself.
(Listen,.. I know Black Panther is a dude. But he's my fav LOL).

The Black Panther Mom

It's probably not what you think it is. And honestly, I am working on the definition myself. But I am clear about what it is not. It is not any of what I listed above. And it most certainly is rooted in cultural depth. We aren't talking HOTEP-ness Erykah Badu levels of Granola crunchy. Just a rootedness (thank you Toni Morrison)  in Diasporic appreciation.

A black panther mom is vigilant about protecting her young. She wants them to be strong, nurturing and independent but also kind, compassionate and considerate. She wants them to be appreciative of people who are different. And most of all, an appreciation of self, of culture and of the value of their lives in a society that tells them otherwise.

The black panther mom sees to this by starting early with self love and awareness. From the books we read...to the food we eat... to the music we dance to in the living room., the child of a black panther mom knows that these are subtle rights of passage for any black child. But we also know that society may not value those things that we find near and dear and may use them as cultural cash crops.

The black panther mom tells her kids  to let people know.."move or you will be moved".   I want her to learn how to be a badass on her own terms without cowering to others.

I just want my Gogo to be strong. And fearless. And have a mother that shows her that being a black woman is a lot of things. Most of all it is not the stereotypes out there about us. I want to be the type of Black Panther Mom that respects my child's gifts and individuality yet raise them with a firm but loving hand. I want to break away from slave mentality and physical abuse as a way to discipline... I want to encourage achievement not only for herself but for her people. Because she not only represents the best of US (her father and I) but the best of US (black people of the Diaspora).

I could go on and on. But as I work on being a Black Panther Mom... I know it's a lot less "superhero" than it is super-human.  I want the humanity to be on full display as a mom. I want people to say "Wow, Gogo.. your mom is cool. She talks to you. She keeps it real".

... I guess in essence. ,I just want to me like my own black Panther mom.. who was all those things and more.

God knows I'd like to try

June 6, 2016

The Root of Who I Am

Roots, the landmark 1977 miniseries based on the work of Alex Haley, was remade in a modern and edgy way via the Will Packer produced 4-night series which aired starting Memorial Day. Like most African-Americans, I hold Roots near and dear to my heart. I connected with the stories of Kunta, Kizzy and Chicken George..... and I was really skeptical that a remake was going to be good.

I was so wrong.

Not only was it gut-wrenching, it was well researched and visually stunning. The team of historians integrated and interwove elements of culture, music, food and art into not only the scenes involving the Mandinka, but were also careful to show the ways in which the Middle Passage didn't destroy our cultural ties. I was moved. Some things were hard to watch but so necessary. And I totally scoffed at the idea that some black people were "tired of all these slave movies". I never hear Jewish complain about the Holocaust movies... or Vets complain about war movies..... We can never forget our history no matter how much THEY want us to. And as Silla (played beautifully by the handsome Derek Luke) reminded us... "The shame is not ours". No, we shouldn't be ashamed of slavery. And while that isn't the totality of black experience in America, it has profoundly shaped the black experience of those of African descent.

My husband and I sat there,watching, and holding our daughter with tears in our eyes... wanting to know more about our people.... and our history. We did, however, take a first step as an anniversary present to ourselves.

Last year for our first anniversary, my husband and I decided to give the traditional gift of "paper" . Our interpretation of that was an AncestryDNA kit. I was pregnant at the time and I wanted to know my history and ancestry before the baby came. My husband and I were both excited, thinking about what we would impart to our little one. She is a mix of the American South and the Caribbean. We couldn't imagine what it would say...

It took almost 10 weeks to receive the results. By that time, I had given birth to our little girl and I thought that this would be the missing piece to the puzzle.

My DNA results were as follows:

The ethnic results made all the sense in the world. I was mostly C'ote d'Ivorian/Ghanaian, a crucial slave trading area of the time. Despite what my father wanted to attest to, I was clearly NOT Native American (as are most African-Americans....) and a lot of European (that was a given due to the nature of slavery). On my face and in my DNA told the story of the Middle Passage. My big almond eyes could be attributed to the 2% Asian in my DNA as well as the West African. I was excited. I had something to tell my daughter about her matrilineal line (because as a woman, that is all my DNA could tell me) and her father (whose DNA produced more European than African results actually, with Nigerian being the main country represented) could piece together her paternal lineage. Although I was disappointed that I was not able to pinpoint the exact tribe I was from, I felt like this was a start.

As I look at my daughter who is the perfect mix of my husband and myself, I am reminded that my roots matter. OUR experience as people.. as stolen African cargo matter. The fabric and fiber of my DNA and my existence matter to her, even if it doesn't matter to a society who systematically wants to kill and destroy black people, especially black women.

I hope someday to travel to Accra with my family. To see the slave castles and to see the Kente cloth prints...eat some real jollof....to see my people..to see home.

For those who haven't seen it, the new version of Roots is available on Demand and via Amazon Prime.

AncestryDNA kits are also available via Amazon Prime at $99 each, 

For Tribal matches, visit African Ancestry's website.

March 28, 2016

The (Unnecessarily Stupid) Gender Game

When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I didn't want to know the gender. I was adamant. So was my husband. We wanted to be surprised. For us, it was simple: I didn't want to pigeonhole my kid into a gender specific way of being from birth. Baby R would be a baby. Period. Knowing the sex isn't what concerned us most.  Because my pregnancy was so difficult, all I cared about was if the kid was going to be healthy. 

But we had no idea how folks were so obsessed with finding out. They didn't understand why we didn't care.  They wanted to know what names we picked out even though we told them we had names for both boys and girls (aka unisex names). Why wasn't the room going to be pink or blue? Why did I not want pink at all?(for the record, I hate pink!) They didn't wanna buy us gifts (even though we had a comprehensive registry that was gender neutral and full of good basic items) unless they knew the gender. It was frustrating. 

Look, a baby is a baby. Onsies all function the same regardless of color. As do pampers. As do books. I just didn't want to be inundated with one color clothing (again.. I hate pink). or gender specific toys. What if he wanted to be a ballerina? What if she liked construction blocks? Who gives a fuck! 

But then.. After my chromosomal testing, the nurse blurts out "So you're having a girl! Wait.. Did you want to know??"  I was fuming inside! NO! I didn't want to know!😡🙄but we kept the information to ourselves. We let people guess. We let them think they were right either way. But we wouldn't tell. Even our family didn't know (but they were ok and wanted to be surprised).  Most folks respected that and others thought it was some sort of mortal sin. I didn't wanna hear the jokes or the comments about gender. The whole "dad get your shotgun or he's going to be a lady killer." It's tiring. And lame. And sets up a gender dichotomy that is harmful. It sets up expectations of sexual behavior. As as a black person, I am tired of us being wrapped up in our sexuality. 

So needless to say, when SHE was born early I was heartbroken that people knew her gender. Folks were like "well since we know the gender I can get you something PINK! Or "girly". I still didn't want that.  They asked if they HAD to stick to the registry (which again, was full of basic needs!) Folks told my husband crass jokes that involved gender stereotypes. One relative even commented on her "keeping her legs closed" when she saw her "fresh out the womb" photo. Uhm.. She was hours old! Minutes even! How on earth is that appropriate???

What I dreamed most happened though. The day of her shower came, and what did we get?: all pink everything. Bows and dresses and such. I wanted to hurl. While I appreciated gifts, we really wanted folks to stick to the gender neutral items we listed and the basics.  But people wanted to do what they wanted to do, going so far as to say that it "wasn't fair to THEM" to have to stick to neutral things. It wasn't about them! It was about our kid. And when they found out it was a girl, folks quickly were like "now you have to try for a boy" as if having this miracle of a girl just wasn't enough. 

I know it seems silly. But I want to raise an empowered human being, regardless of gender. She'll have trucks and dolls. She'll play football and princess warrior. My husband is already talking about taking her to her first WWE match. She can do all of those things. And if I had a boy, it would have been the same way. 

Focusing on gender sends the wrong message, that what's between your legs is more valuable than what's in your brain.  That boys are more "important" than girls and that girls are such a hassle. I look forced to the type of person my daughter grows up to be. It's not about her gender. It's about her heart.

She's wonderful. Period.  

March 14, 2016

The Conjure Woman: A Lesson in Black Girl Magic

My friend from grad school asked a simple question:

"Seriously... How the hell did our mamas do it all?" 

I sat and pondered the question. I thought about it. As I typed, I thought of my own mother. 

I wrote back:

Sis.. I don't know. My mama has been gone from this earth 7 months. Even in her last days she sat in her wheelchair and cooked, baked cakes and such. When I was younger, she worked 3 jobs despite having lupus. The short answer: black women are superhuman and extraordinary. And here I am.. Working, a newlywed, trying to get a Phd and feel like I'm going to fall apart. I don't feel like I'm made from the same stuff
My mama was. But somehow we get through it... We have to. We are deep down made from the same stuff. Just have to channel it... Conjure it.

Even after I wrote that response, I had to sit with it for a while. Conjure it?  Can I conjure it? Do I even believe what I wrote?

Months after my response... I am still waiting fro an answer. Here I am.. one year and a day after the death  of my mother...a new mom to a NICU preemie, working full time...trying not to use up all my leave because America's maternity leave sucks. trying to get back on track with  my PhD because well.. spring semester was a total wash after my comps.. because I had the baby so early...... and still trying to balance being who I am with being a (fairly) newlywed.

Am I meant to be a conjure woman?  Is Black Girl Magic just endowed within me? How can I tap into it?

I do not think that being a black woman means to be superwoman all the time. But it is about having balance and being unapologetic. It is about not only doing it all.. and doing it well.. but doing it however you want.. when you want.. on your own time schedule.. and with your own about of "give a damn" about it. You conjure up the authority to deem what's important to you.

Yes, black women are made of earth and steel and gold and clouds and sound and fury.... and somehow we make magic our of nothing. We are doing the world's work with none of the recognition... with a heavy boot of double-oppression on our necks. Whether we be single mothers or single professionals.. or married professionals or married work-at-home-mothers (because Stay at HOME isnt the thing really... you are indeed working)... we are making it happen.

I guess I say all of this to say.. I don't have all the answers. I'm still trying to figure out out.

But I am sure I will pull out my willpower and fortitude from my deep, ancestral place..

.. and just work it the F*** out!

March 11, 2016

Sex and the Sippy Cup

 *vacuums this blog*

Hello you all! Howdy! How are ya?

I think when we last left off on this journey,way back in October 2015, I was talking about how happy I was but yet I wasn't willing to share EVERYTHING that could be attributed to this happiness. I know.. from a blogger's aspect this is probably death to a blog. But hell, as long as I own this domain name... it's going to be going. And evolving. (Even if I am not sharing everything)

Speaking of evolving... I can at least share this. This blog started as a way to express the trials and tribulations as a divorcee' trying to navigate single life in the Deep South's largest metropolis. Since then, I've dated..been hurt... loved again....gotten engaged... gotten married... bought a home... started a Phd program..passed my comprehensive exams... and now

I had a baby <3

(pictured: HubbyDude and GoGo having K-care time )

Yes, I had a child. It was the one thing I had doubts that I would ever do in my life. Not because I couldn't have children (although my chances at one time appeared slim to none) but because I didn't think I'd have a partner I'd want to share that with. I had resolved that by the age of 40.. if I was unmarried, I'd just adopt, strap the baby to my back, and travel the world. Move to London, and a bunch of other stuff... but all of that changed. And I am ok with that.

I had a difficult pregnancy. I was told by this wretched fetal maternal med doctor with no bedside manners (the doctor they send all high risk mothers to) that my child would probably be stillborn. But.. the devil is a liar and sometimes has MD at the end of their names. I believed in God and we had a team of people praying for us. At 36 years old, this was absolutely maddening. I went through so many emotions. I was too old. This was bad timing. I am defective (because of the news I got about  my daughter not growing properly in my womb). I had talked to several of my friends who had preemies and who were also around my same age... supporting me 

But God....

My daughter (who for the purpose of this blog we will call GoGo) was born almost 10 weeks early. Doctors told me I wasn't going to make it to term.. so I expected to delivery early. But not THAT ear.

Little one was. 1 lb. 12 oz. and could fit in the palm of my husband's hand. Frightening. I had been put on bed rest twice during this pregnancy. The first time was New Year's Eve.... The second time was on my husband's 35th birthday. Needless to say, all the plans we had got cancelled, including his 90s themed birthday party (Bummer). I was in hospital about 4 days when a rush of nurses and my OB entered my room at 12 midnight, yelling "MRS R! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WE have to deliver the baby!" Her heart rate had dropped and I was preparing for an emergency c-section. I had to wake my sleeping husband (who was home trying to prepare for work the next day) who rushed to the hospital in 15 minutes. At first, he was confused, thinking the baby would come later in the day. When I called back and said "NO DEAR! the baby is coming in the next HOUR" he got the picture. As he was on the way, I sent a text and said "Today is the day you meet your daughter" (Note: We found out the sex a while ago.. but I'll save that for another blog) By the time they rolled me out to the delivery room, my husband was standing there.. with a big old grin on his face....and I was nervous. I was shaking as they prepped me for the spinal... and as I became numb...my husband was holding my hand... and less than an hour later.. the neonatologist was bringing over my baby... who was pink and wrinkled like a piglet...and after asking what we were going to name her...whisked away to the NICU. I do not remember much after that...except waking up and seeing my Father strolling down the hallway as I was in recovery and eager to see and hear about his grand baby. He was thrilled....

And I was scared but relieved she was alive. My baby was hooked up to wires and was so tiny. When I finally got to see her the next day, I was a pool of tears next to her isolette, looking at her breathing very hard. But the neonatologist and the NICU team were fabulous, reassuring me that because she was breathing on her own, that was a VERY good sign... One day I cried.. and a chaplain came up to me. She didn't say a word.. simply took my hand and began to pray. I told her "I am not crying because I am sad. I am crying because I have joy. She is proof that God is able". The chaplain squeezed my hand, said a few words and walked away.

But as the weeks have progressed... so too has my GoGo. She filled out, becoming even more beautiful. She began to breath on her own and gained weight. She learned to feed from a bottle and is slowly learning to breastfeed. She's still in the NICU but we are counting down the weeks until she is home. Her shower (held after I delivered) has happened... we've decorated her nursery and gotten all the necessary supplies. Other than a manual on parenting (lol), we are prepared as much as we can be.

And trust me, the fact that I lost my mother last year only to become a mother this year... was not lost on me. My mother, prior to her death, had declared that I would have a baby next year. She was off by just a little bit.... but I am sure she had everything to do with this child. I am in tune with the fact that I had a daughter and not a son. I feel like it's just a continuation of my relationship with my own mother.... and yes, my daughter even looks like her too. It's scary! But beautiful...

Beyond anything I am grateful. I also think this journey into marriage and now motherhood has inspired a new focus of this blog. I hope you all will be along for the ride.

I am sure it'll be an adventure...


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