It's just fat

Can we talk about boobs for a second.

No, really.  Just for a second, draw your attention away from her eyes (why yes, they are a lovely shade of brown) and force your eyes upon her cleavage.  I know it's hard, but do it for posterity or whatever.

Two balls of fat.  That's it.  I don't even know what they're there for.

That's not true.  I try hard to maintain constant honesty, and I just lied right there.  I actually know exactly why those two balls of fat are placed on the front of the female human.

Free drinks.

And warnings rather than tickets.

And distraction from actual conversations.

Other than that, though, no real purpose.

So what's the big freakin deal?  

I posted a pic of myself on Facebook looking like a beached whale.  No kidding.  I had just finished my second sixty day round of the torture known as Insanity, and I took a quick picture of my revelry.

No makeup, sweaty, hair a mess, in an oversized workout top, sports bra & pants.

Absolutely nothing appealing about the photograph.

But apparently I was looking at it wrong because, according to the numerous texts I received, my boobs were hanging out.

My grown up, mama of three, not nearly as glorious as they once were, smooshed into a sports bra boobs.  

First of all, they are attached by muscle, nerves and skin.  I cannot remove them.  These boobs are here to stay - though I imagine their southern journey will someday place them somewhere in the vicinity of my shins.

Second, why is it such a big deal?  If my love handles and larger than life thighs can be whispered about, why must my more northern fat regions be exalted on high?

I want to understand.

That's another lie.  I really don't care to understand.

Though, if you have a reasonable answer, I'd love to hear it.

If you're a good one, they're listening... And I found proof.

A pretty remarkable thing happened - happened three times, actually.  Someone made me a mother.  Not someone really, three daughters made me a mother.

Am I a good one?  Eh, on a good day, I'd say I'm averaging a 60% chance they won't ever work a pole or release a video shaking what their - well, what I - gave them.  On a forGod'sakejustputonacleanshirtbrushthetoptwolayersofslimefromyourteethandlet'sgo day, I'd say that average drops a few points.  But, hey, I'm trying.

The thing about daughters though, at least the thing I've worried about most lately is:  are they paying any attention?  When they see me keeping a house clean and safe, do they store that in their cluttered minds for the day when they finally (?) stop shoving Pandora's spare closet under their beds?  When I stress how important school is, can they hear me over the monotonous drone of the pretty definitely future dropout teen mom besties?  And when, at the end of a particularly trying day, we still snuggle for an extra minute and read that last book one more time; will they remember that I love them regardless of the attitudes and angst?

I guess there's no way to know but to wait.

Except, I got to see what is at the end of the road when a truly superb mother rests with her daughter.

A mother who also wondered if her baby girl was hearing her at all.

Guess what:  if you do it right, they're listening.

They're watching you mop those floors, and they will stay up late to do it when you can't.

They're standing in your bathroom doorway rolling their eyes, but they will lotion your head while waiting for your hair to grow back.

Yes, you are driving them crazy, but they will keep your wig fabulous and make sure your meds are taken on time.  They will drop everything to wear your shoes and hold your hand - if you're a good one.

If you're the kind of mother that inspires the kind of selfless devotion that brings a remarkable daughter to your side, there are certain undeniable truths to be found.  Number one being this:  you did it right.

They are definitely listening.

Goodbye

Goodbye is brutal.

It's looking at every breath you have left and knowing their eyes will never fall on yours again.

It's marking off a destination, a haven or a hole, that you called your own on the only map you have to use.

And, whether it's a choice or a misfortune, goodbye changes the shape of your step.

Goodbye is honest.

It's letting go because of every reason you can't deny and every excuse you are blinded by.

It's accepting the power you wield or the complete impotence you despise.

Sometimes, saying goodbye is the most truth you can carry with you out the door.

Goodbye is a gift.

Not every love knows how deep it runs and the weight of honor isn't felt on the shoulders of everyone who earns it.

Not everyone gets to see the hole before they're chest deep; and, being able to take a deep breath first gives you a better chance at making it to the other side.

On the hardest of days, the last goodbyes are the ones you unwrap slowly.  Savor the flavor of their voice as the last honor they give to you.

Goodbye is brave.

And, whether quiet or deafening, in a crowd or the privacy of a warm kitchen table, challenged or broken, goodbye is impossibly beautiful.