Mamalode

When Skye goes to her dad’s, like she’s about to do, alone takes on a whole new meaning for me.

How was I supposed to explain death to a four-year-old, especially when the pain of that death is still so fresh in my own heart?

“Mommy, where’s your Prince Charming?”

My daughter and I will both be losing our best friends in less than 48 hours.

Just because I’m five to ten years their junior, doesn’t make me any less of a mother.

The more people who commented on my youth, and subsequently my seemingly-obvious inability to be a good mother, the more I rebelled against such asinine arguments.