I’m looking at you, momma. I see you smiling that plastered-on smile to make everyone around you think you’re alright.
That you’ve got it all together.
That you’re feeling all “tight-and-right” about your momming skills.
If you’re set up to get my emails you got yourself a gander into the peculiar world of my fear-dreams earlier this week, you lucky devil, you.
(By the way, I’m currently accepting dream interpretations, AND if you aren’t subscribed, but you’re looking for something juicy to sit back with a bag of popcorn and watch play out like a kid at a carnie sideshow, click here and you’ll get the stuff I only share to people I trust with such oddities.)
You might have read this worried-mom post that I shared earlier this week about my son.
It’s a different post than what I usually share - the less-funny and more worrisome side of parenting than most of my posts - and I questioned whether I should share it for a few reasons:
By sharing it, am I exploiting my son?