If we didn’t want to escape we’d have no art, no music, no stories, and a lot less creation. And whether my escape is a Netflix marathon, a bath, a book, an album, or a night in a hotel room - it is valid and is part of living a healthy life. It’s not necessarily a symptom of a problem.
I tried to move the cover. I took it off and put it back on. Eventually I begged this inanimate object to just please stop. Then I gave up, ripped it off of the tub and flung it. I got out, wrapped a towel around myself and sobbed
That never stops. Our kids are going to keep taking what they need from us - time, attention, energy, patience - and they can either take from our overflow or from our bones. You have to put enough in that you have enough for you AND for them. It’s the impossible math of motherhood.
The more I think about it the more confused I am by that question. We pretend that we’re asking what job they would like to hold, but we’re not. We are - all of us - so steeped in capitalism that we cannot separate the person from the production. And this programming begins before preschool.
I’m 39 and thinking about my 40’s. I’ve been excited about being 40 for a long, long time. 40 seems to be when black women bloom, when we stop taking everyone’s shit and go full on auntie and I cannot wait. I want that. Being able to say, “Look child, I am 40 damn years old”, feels like permission from the universe, God, and my ancestors to be fully, wholly ME.
Excuse me but who in the hell pours from a cup? Are there no pitchers where you come from??? Do you not have gallons of milk or juice? Do you not have coffee or tea pots?
I mean, have you ever actually tried to pour from a cup?!? That shit is impossible to do without spilling everywhere.
