The men that make us who we are

Even when my parents' money belt was tighter than was comfortable, every holiday was a moment for celebration. Even  religious ones, like Easter, were celebrated despite none of us ever attending church or talking about religion. A small stuffed bunny and a card. On Valentine's Day, a small box of chocolates and a card. Cards often.

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So Mother's Day was last weekend

Within a span of eight weeks in the spring we have four birthdays, one anniversary, and Mother's day, a day which I'm told that in some places mothers get to do this thing called... re- re-lax? I think that's it. Anyway, Spring is hectic. But it means I get to buy presents. Lots of presents. Are love languages still a thing? Because I guarantee you gift giving is mine. What does that say about me?

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In Defense of Mom Jeans

We had friends over for an impromptu play date last weekend, and a friend lamented to me: "He (her husband) was giving me grief over my mom jeans. Look at where my jeans hit." She held up the hem of her shirt, revealing jeans that hit right at her hip. "Rose, are these mom jeans?"

"Please. I wear jeans that cover my belly button." Something was also said about telling him to pull his pants up.

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LifeRose Morgan
I forget things. A lot.

intention of writing Ben letters from time to time, with the hope that he would someday read them when he's older and be able to understand his mother for the person she was, both before he was born and when he was too young to form lasting memories. As we approach Ben's second birthday, I have written three of these letters. I keep forgetting he has an email address.

I keep forgetting a lot of things.

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