Your body is bangin’ yet you’re always wearing sweatpants, Uggs and the same plaid jacket. Your hair is messy but it’s highlighted in a cute bob. You don’t wear makeup and you have great skin. If I had know you in back in the day, homegirl, we would have gotten drunk and made out.
Have I said too much?
Do I sound like a lonely, dreamy SAHM with a crush? Trust me, mama... this isn’t that. I had my wild, girl-on-girl action days. That ship has passed. These days, I smell my husband’s armpits because he still makes me weak in the knees AND I actually still find him fascinating after seven years and two babies.
I’m not hitting on you. Don’t worry.
And I shouldn’t talk so openly about your body anyway. I’m a feminist. Your body is your own and, really, I honor your spirit even more, mama.
You stole my heart today at the preschool drop-off when you looked down at your sweet 4-year-old son and said with glistening honesty, “You’re driving me insane right now. You’re literally driving me insane.”
And then... when I thought you couldn’t possibly be any cooler, you looked at ME and said, “There isn’t enough coffee in the whole world for this day.”
You... are my spirit animal.
I think you’re so rad, girl.
And I have this feeling you don’t even realize how gorgeous you are, which makes me love you more.
This Valentine’s Day, when our 3-year-old daughters exchange cards and dollar store candies, I’m wishing I could give you something, too...
I hope you get all the coffee in the world today. And THEN some.
I hope your tall, lanky husband makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Then, I hope he surprises you and takes the kids out, leaving you blissfully alone.
I hope you eat pizza and chocolate in bed.
I hope you feel so proud of the life you have created.
I hope you look in the mirror at your tired eyes and you see just how beautiful you are.
Because I see you, mama. And you’re fucking gorgeous.