Y'All Chasing Empathy On Mother's Day, Or Chasing Your Own Shit?
Becky Breeder meets Dianna Died.
On Mother’s Day 2013, I was sitting at an outdoor cafe in Uptown Minneapolis with my ex-wife, and even though we honestly never really “tried that hard” to be parents ultimately, she seemed kinda sad at the time. Looking back with 11 years of clarity and heartbreak and other things, it’s kinda sorta weird, because almost none of her friends had kids at that point. (We were around 31 to 32, I think.) Anyway, I said something to her like: “By the next one, you’ll be a mom.” She wasn’t, and we got divorced in 2017. Never quite made her a mom, or the one I’m with now. Maybe someday.
My first friend — I’m old as shit by now — had a kid probably 17 years ago. Weird to consider that, as said kid is probably graduating high school soon. (I don’t actively talk to that friend these days; a lot of stuff happens in 17 years.) So, I’ve been around for almost two decades of Mother’s Days, which are cool days, but again — like any holiday — shouldn’t we celebrate moms all of the days? It’s a nice touch, though. I ain’t got nothing wrong with Mother’s Day, per se. It has backslid a little bit into another Instagram Mom Super Bowl, but only for a select few.
Alright, so as I’ve navigated two long-term relationships and now infertility,
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