Mama's Little Helpers
I worry for my kids. I worry for my daughters. I worry for the strangers who walk up and tell us how beautiful they are, for their little tucked-out tummies, for their thumb-sucking thumbs, for their huge blue eyes. I worry for my girls. I worry for the media that sucked me dry as a child; that used my anonymity, my funny walk, my pushed-out teeth, my I-want-to-be-so-good dreams and broke my heart--more interested in my buying power than my staying power. I worry for the children who ask me do I love them, do I love Daddy, do I love myself? Do I love myself? I answer, "sometimes," and it's not good enough. I answer, "sure," and it's not good enough. I answer, "yes," and they are satisfied, Daddy is satisfied. I worry for my daughters growing with me as their mother, pushing myself now, making those things I've always needed to do finally happen because of them, for them because they are my daughters, because they made me before I ever made them.

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