I wanted it. So naturally, I was telling myself, “Oh! I want it!” But in the moment before our hostess, Tracy pulled a name, I adjusted and told myself, “I am going to get that angel.”
Kono Naturals, though, is local for me, and I’d already had a chance to try their product. I found out too, that they were available for purchase in some local shops, which is how I prefer to shop. Not that I don’t shop online, but when I can I like to support local and have face-to-face interaction. So I ran to one of the co-ops nearby and picked up my own bottle of citrus-flavored CBD oil to add to tea at home.
I knew this. I knew having kids would be messy.
What I didn’t expect was discovering the petrified half-eaten slices of bologna in the Lego box. What I didn’t expect more, was for this to happen on a somewhat regular basis.
I’m a big fan of coaches. Life coaches, health coaches, career coaches, yoga coaches, etc. After almost two-and-a-half years of therapy, I was tired of examining the past and at the right time, two fantastic coaches entered my life. My career coach explained to me the difference between therapy and coaching was exactly that. Therapy focuses on your past and coaching focuses on your present to future.
What I do know, is the greatest honor I can give his memory is to never forget how short life is. How fleeting our opportunities to be with people we love are. How lucky I am to have a spark of light for a husband. How lucky I am that I got to know Sam and I’m getting to know Susan better now. How lucky I am to have kids, and a mom, and a mother-in-law, and friends to drive me crazy!
There was a time when I would’ve been humiliated despite there being no one to bear witness to my tampon crisis and underwear snafu. I would’ve called myself all kinds of names synonymous with dumb. I would’ve packed it in, called it a night, kissed my $25 and girl’s night out goodbye because who wants this dumb b*tch who can’t even pull on her underwear the right way at their yoga event?
Natalie Henry-Charles is giving up on trying to fit into one checkbox and giving in to the process of motherhood.
I’m sharing my letter and the names here in hopes that if you read this and you’re going to send a letter of your own to your Congresspeople, you copy it and send it with yours. Let’s flood Congress with the humanity behind these massacres.
I could barely hear her words through the sobs, but I already knew what she was telling me. They were once my words, coming now out of her mouth. “He won’t be here for Christmas.” “My son won’t know his father.” “What am I gonna do?” I tried to answer with support and without crying.
Guest post by Arielle Haughee a double boy-mom who is busting through the forced happiness trap.