If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you know that 2015 was the year of the sippy cups, the year of the endless puffs snack, and the year my son—my little "Buddy"—was three years old. Three is a magic, chaotic age. It’s the year they stop being toddlers and start becoming little people. It’s the year of the "why" phase, the tantrum in the grocery store checkout line, and the first time they say "I love you" without being prompted.
Because somewhere, buried in a folder of blurry iPhone photos and video clips of a kiddie pool, is a picture of me. I wasn't looking at the camera. My hair was in a lopsided bun. I was wearing a grey nursing tank top that had seen better days and a pair of shorts with a mysterious stain on the thigh. I was kneeling on the living room rug, putting a band-aid on a scraped knee. buddy's mom2015
Do you ever have a random search term pop into your head late at night, one that feels like a key to a forgotten lock? That happened to me last week. I found myself typing a strange string of words into an old hard drive search bar: If you’ve been following this blog for a
With so much love, The 2023 You If you have a photo from 2015 (or any year) where you felt invisible, tired, or just labeled as "X's mom" or "Y's dad," dig it up. Look at it again. You aren't looking at a faded parent. You’re looking at a superhero in yoga pants. It’s the year of the "why" phase, the
Finding “Buddy’s Mom 2015”: A Glimpse Back at a Snapshot of Love