But I cried when the bus pulled away to take her kindergarten, because for the first time she was leaving me.

No, she used those hands to break horses, raise children, sell watermelons on roadside stands, climb trees, and travel. My mother used her hands to live well.

I am going to make an effort to compliment her outward appearance as much as I do her other strengths, before she’s pushed to seek society’s shallow brand of satisfaction.

 I don’t know how to teach my daughter about beauty. I’m scared to do it wrong.

“If you want to be a model,” I tell her, “be a model of character.”

Children fill our lives and our purses with so much more than we ever imagined we could carry.

I feel the same about these solo moms who orbit my life. They hold a deeper knowing that’s unspoken. I am a badass mom because of the badass moms who surround me.

So, by my own definition, is that bravery? Living my life, even though I’m afraid to.

My mom has been enshrined in my mind as a badass since I was eight years old, though I may not have used quite that vocabulary at the time.

I didn’t particularly look forward to my girls’ tween and teen years. But now that I’m camped in them, I realize something: I should have.