Holy Mother of Crap

Rebecca Woolf just addressed me, on Facebook, saying that she is glad I’m writing my piece for xoJane and that she’s looking forward to reading it.

How does one silent scream in like, a subtle way?
I have been reading GirlsGoneChild since Fable was born.  I devoured the archives of Archer’s early days, and have bought and given away like, seven copies of Rockabye (probably ten, let’s be honest).  Rebecca’s voice has always encouraged me to find my own, and she’s like: Kind of the Bravest, you guys?  For rull.  One of the things I love about her is that she doesn’t just share the parts of her life that look perfect with us.  It’s messy.  Sometimes, it is way super mega shitty.  Sometimes it is, dead serious, terrifying.  And also: It is All Okay.  When I freak out about #adulting, there is Becca, being all: Hey dudes, PACKING LUNCH IS THE WORST; or, EVERYONE IS AN ASSH*LE SOMETIMES INCLUDING YOUR PARTNER OR KID AND THAT IS BASICALLY HUMAN AS IS BEING CHEESED AT THEM.  Seriously.

This is extra super weird, because: I’m not a mom, y’all.  I hope to be, within the next decade, but that you know, may or may not work out for me.  But watching and reading and clicking through Rebecca’s journey as a woman, a partner, a mom — it’s hard to explain.  I’ve always been left with this sense that there’s not just one way to do this whole life thing, and maybe the way I’m doing it?  Is pretty okay.

So basically, this person I don’t know but want to have a series of lattes with who is in my brain kind of an artistic, amazing, stellar, superhero was just like: I will read this thing you’re writing.

 

Wut.  Just, Wut.

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Holy Mother of Crap

One thought on “Holy Mother of Crap

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