Here’s to all the women whose lives come in segments,
who sleep in segments, are suddenly singers, nappy-changers, praise-givers, meal sorcerers,
who are mothers to their children or another’s children or their parents,
who loved kids before they had them and then had them and loved them even more (and got better at white lies),
who breastfeed, bottle feed, or forget to feed,
who try to read a book, an article, write a status, a reply and never finish,
who are glamorous one day and stinky the next three days,
who nurse pandemics at home even before this virus,
who are never ill or always ill or suffering from nursery rhymes LSS,
who try to do it all in a day and fail, and do it all over again the next day,
who wash clothes, fold them, sew them, wipe shit off, hold pee in, potty train, disinfect, drive to school, make breakfast, make faces, schedule holidays and manicures and gym and never do them,
who take a selfie and get interrupted, watch #netflix and get interrupted, go to the toilet and get interrupted,
who breathe and count to ten before yelling and still lose it,
who keep old bathing suits in the closet and believe it still fits them,
who are a boss in the office or think they are until they get home,
who step on Lego, walk to work, and run a business,
who get backaches, headaches and heartaches,
who have embraced home life, quit their jobs, but have not forgotten their dreams.
Happy International Mother’s Day!

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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

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