Prayer for the mom without a mom

I wrote this last year, but it seemed to resonate with a lot of people, so I wanted to share it again. Love to all of you who can relate, and praying that you can find the joy again. xo Dear Lord, Mother’s Day is hard. It’s difficult to celebrate this role when the one ...

Read More

I wrote this last year, but it seemed to resonate with a lot of people, so I wanted to share it again. Love to all of you who can relate, and praying that you can find the joy again. xo


Dear Lord,

Mother’s Day is hard. It’s difficult to celebrate this role when the one who taught me the most, the one whose opinion mattered so much, isn’t here any longer.

It’s hard to think about how to be what my children need when I face this gaping hole, an absence where it still feels like my mom should be. When, even after several years, I feel lost… adrift… permanently damaged, even as I go about my days. I’m not depressed. But I miss her. I feel perpetually lonely without her.

On a day like today, all I can think about is what my mom did for me. How she—even through her criticisms—was my unconditional place. My biggest supporter and strongest cheerleader. How she saw what was bad, misguided, or just plain wrong in my actions—and didn’t hesitate to say so—because she believed I was capable of so much more. Because she thought I was so much better than that.

I wonder now—when I rebelled, did it hurt her the way my own kids hurt me?

Did she stand firm in her opinions anyway, simply because there was no other choice? Because she had to be the mom she knew I needed, rather than the one I thought I wanted?

Did she lie awake at night, wondering if she was doing right by her kids?

Did she fume all day when I yelled at her unjustly?

And even so, did she defend me, instinctively, against any and all criticisms?

Did she mourn over her inability to protect me from people who would hurt me, injure my opinion of myself, break my heart?

I’m certain she did. As a teen, I was oblivious to that. As a parent myself, I now understand her better. Lord, You gave me wonderful mom, and I’m so grateful. And You’ve blessed me with remarkable, amazing children. So why do I feel more like crying than rejoicing?

Because I fully recognize all that I lost. All that she was to me. All that a mom should be to her child. And I’m afraid I can’t live up. I’m afraid I’ve already failed irreparably. I’m afraid my kids will never understand the depths of my love for them. My desperation to shield them from all that could harm them. My unlimited hopes and aspirations for them. They may never understand how deeply I feel the things that hurt them. Or how much I believe in them.

Maybe they’ll get it when they have children of their own.

Maybe someday they’ll cling to You when they realize they don’t have control over their own kids’ lives. Maybe they’ll live in awe of a God who loves us with a Father’s love. Maybe they’ll understand that we are forever connected, whether we’re both on this earth or not. Maybe they’ll grasp the reality that parenting well involves huge risk. It involves making unpopular decisions and hard choices and knowing that we can’t fix everything. It requires being hands-off sometimes when our instincts tell us to cling tight. It consists of a love so great that it isn’t changed by circumstances, actions, achievements—or by disappointments or failures. Our hearts are forever tethered to each other.

Lord, as I write this, I feel my heart loosening. My gratitude welling up. My sadness is still there but not bringing me down… instead, it’s lifting up my head, directing my sight towards You. Because I do have reasons to celebrate. Reasons so much greater than flowers and gifts or the perfect card.

I have You. And I had her (and will always have her, even if she’s not here). And I have my kids.

And I do have joy… in spite of the sadness. But on this day, with Your help, I will let joy prevail. Thank You, Lord.

Amen.

#HonorAllMoms—and May prayer prompt calendar

Today’s post is written by Sarah Philpott, an online friend of mine who posted here once before. When I held a prayer prompt calendar contest, Sarah approached me about designing a calendar for the month of May to recognize all the women for whom Mother’s Day brings sadness rather than the expected joy. I was completely ...

Read More

Today’s post is written by Sarah Philpott, an online friend of mine who posted here once before. When I held a prayer prompt calendar contest, Sarah approached me about designing a calendar for the month of May to recognize all the women for whom Mother’s Day brings sadness rather than the expected joy. I was completely on board, because after I lost my own mom, I’d had a similar experience. I’d rather cry and go off on my own than “celebrate” on that day—even though I have three kids who I love with all my heart. Sometimes the pain overshadows the joy. And sometimes, people aren’t in a position to feel joy because the reminder of their loss is too great.

I’ll stop talking now so you can hear from Sarah, but don’t forget to download the prayer prompt calendar here or on her website.


Mother’s Day was celebrated in a big way where I grew up. As a child, I’d sit alongside my family in the slick wooden pew and gaze at the fetching flower arrangements crowding the floor of our sanctuary.  Roses, peonies, and spring blooms sat ready to be awarded to the ladies of my small Southern Baptist church.

Ms. Nita, smartly dressed in a pastel dress and a Sunday-go-to-church hat, always seemed to be in charge of the program. After we sang from the hymnal, the kids were beckoned to retrieve a bundle of roses from a basket and encouraged to hand the blooms to beaming mothers, grandmothers, and aunts. After the hugs ended, Ms. Nita took to the center stage and said, “Would all Mothers please stand?”

My mother and grandmother would rise and stand amongst the females of my community. It was like a battalion of matriarchs. Then, the ceremony of awards began. We’d quickly find out who was the oldest mom, who was the youngest mom, and who was the mom with the most children. This tradition of honoring mothers is still one of my fondest memories of my childhood.

But it wasn’t until I was an adult, sitting in church on Mother’s Day fresh from the heartache of my first miscarriage, that I realized how many women actually had hurting hearts on Mother’s Day.

I sat recollecting my childhood and recalled how at my old church the mother with the most living children was awarded one of the biggest and most beautiful bouquets.  The congregation always erupted in applause for this dear soul who had her hands full.

But now, with a babe in Heaven and one in the church nursery, it struck me as an odd banner of honor. I realized that beneath smiles many women silently mourn on Mother’s Day. I instantly thought of my mother-in-law. She has five children. But only three are living. Jesse died at the age of two and Lauren at the age of twenty. Then I thought of my mother. She has three children. But only two of us are living. A gravestone in the church cemetery only marks one tiny soul, who was stillborn. Then the face of a friend, who wanted nothing more to be a mother, came to mind.  Infertility had robbed her of the chance of becoming a mother and finances had prevented her from adopting. She too hurt on this special day. It made me realize that these sweet women—and those just like them who had endured the death of their own children or a dream that never came true, were women who also deserved an extra special bouquet.

My grief opened my eyes to the invisible grief that many women bear on Mother’s Day. We often forget these brave women, don’t we?

But we shouldn’t.

Mother’s Day is still one of my favorite days of the year, and it should be celebrated with unbridled jubilation, breakfast in bed, and homemade cards.

And I love how, at Ms. Nita’s gentle encouragement, my childhood church always collectively gave a big applause to mothers.  Mothers should receive a standing ovation.

But we should expand our celebration of Mother’s Day by showering love and support to all mothers—including those who view Mother’s Day as a stark reminder of what doesn’t exist. Each year, in the United States alone, 1 in 160 deliveries end in stillbirth, 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage, 3,500 babies under the age of 1 die, and 1 in 8 couples experience infertility. Let’s stand in solidarity as individuals and as the church to #HonorAllMoms this Mother’s Day.

Let’s also set aside the month of May to pray and encourage all sorts of women—those who have a baby to hold in their arms, those who do not; those who wanted to be a mom but never got to be, and those who were placed into that role by circumstance; children who have lost their moms and moms who have lost their children.

I think Ms. Nita would want all these special women to have a beautiful bloom.

“After women, flowers are the most lovely thing God has given the world.” Christian Dior


SARAH PHILPOTT, PhD lives in Tennessee on a sprawling cattle farm where she raises her two mischievous children (and one little baby!) and is farmwife to her high-school sweetheart. An award-winning writer, Sarah has contributed to academic books, scholarly journals, and outlets such as the Huffington Post. Her book, Loved Baby: 31 Devotions for Helping you Grieve and Cherish Your Child After Pregnancy Loss, will be published in October 2017 by Broadstreet Publishing. Sarah is a lover of coffee (black), rocking chairs, the outdoors, and Hemingway. Visit allamericanmom.net where she writes about life on the farm and cherishing life in joy and sorrow.

 

Prayer for the mom without a mom

Dear Lord, Mother’s Day is hard. It’s difficult to celebrate this role when the one who taught me the most, the one whose opinion mattered so much, isn’t here any longer. It’s hard to think about how to be what my children need when I face this gaping hole, an absence where it still feels ...

Read More

Dear Lord,

Mother’s Day is hard. It’s difficult to celebrate this role when the one who taught me the most, the one whose opinion mattered so much, isn’t here any longer.

It’s hard to think about how to be what my children need when I face this gaping hole, an absence where it still feels like my mom should be. When, even after several years, I feel lost… adrift… permanently damaged, even as I go about my days. I’m not depressed. But I miss her. I feel perpetually lonely without her.

On a day like today, all I can think about is what my mom did for me. How she—even through her criticisms—was my unconditional place. My biggest supporter and strongest cheerleader. How she saw what was bad, misguided, or just plain wrong in my actions—and didn’t hesitate to say so—because she believed I was capable of so much more. Because she thought I was so much better than that.

I wonder now—when I rebelled, did it hurt her the way my own kids hurt me?

Did she stand firm in her opinions anyway, simply because there was no other choice? Because she had to be the mom she knew I needed, rather than the one I thought I wanted?

Did she lie awake at night, wondering if she was doing right by her kids?

Did she fume all day when I yelled at her unjustly?

And even so, did she defend me, instinctively, against any and all criticisms?

Did she mourn over her inability to protect me from people who would hurt me, injure my opinion of myself, break my heart?

I’m certain she did. As a teen, I was oblivious to that. As a parent myself, I now understand her better. Lord, You gave me wonderful mom, and I’m so grateful. And You’ve blessed me with remarkable, amazing children. So why do I feel more like crying than rejoicing?

Because I fully recognize all that I lost. All that she was to me. All that a mom should be to her child. And I’m afraid I can’t live up. I’m afraid I’ve already failed irreparably. I’m afraid my kids will never understand the depths of my love for them. My desperation to shield them from all that could harm them. My unlimited hopes and aspirations for them. They may never understand how deeply I feel the things that hurt them. Or how much I believe in them.

Maybe they’ll get it when they have children of their own.

Maybe someday they’ll cling to You when they realize they don’t have control over their own kids’ lives. Maybe they’ll live in awe of a God who loves us with a Father’s love. Maybe they’ll understand that we are forever connected, whether we’re both on this earth or not. Maybe they’ll grasp the reality that parenting well involves huge risk. It involves making unpopular decisions and hard choices and knowing that we can’t fix everything. It requires being hands-off sometimes when our instincts tell us to cling tight. It consists of a love so great that it isn’t changed by circumstances, actions, achievements—or by disappointments or failures. Our hearts are forever tethered to each other.

Lord, as I write this, I feel my heart loosening. My gratitude welling up. My sadness is still there but not bringing me down… instead, it’s lifting up my head, directing my sight towards You. Because I do have reasons to celebrate. Reasons so much greater than flowers and gifts or the perfect card.

I have You. And I had her (and will always have her, even if she’s not here). And I have my kids.

And I do have joy… in spite of the sadness. But on this day, with Your help, I will let joy prevail. Thank You, Lord.

Amen.

A Mother’s Day letter to my kids

Dear Katie, Anna and Bobby, As you know, I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. I want you to tell me you love me only if you really love me, not because some greeting card company says to. I want a hug from you (even you, Anna) only if you want to hug me. I ...

Read More

Dear Katie, Anna and Bobby,

As you know, I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. I want you to tell me you love me only if you really love me, not because some greeting card company says to. I want a hug from you (even you, Anna) only if you want to hug me. I don’t like the expectations that come with a holiday like this one—moms are supposed to get a day off, so I end up resenting anything I have to do. You end up feeling like you have to do certain things that you don’t necessarily want to do, and in my mind, the whole thing falls apart then. Besides, I don’t care for breakfast in bed. (Because crumbs.) I want you to know, though, that all you’ve done in past years matters because it shows that you want to make the day special for me, and I appreciate that. But I like the impromptu gestures more, so I hereby release you of all expectations for this and all future Mother’s Days. (Christmas, though, is still a great time to get me gifts. Oh, and birthdays. You’re only released from this one particular holiday.)

But you already know the biggest reason I’m not a fan of this day. Because it reminds me that Gran isn’t here anymore, and that breaks my heart. I know you miss her, too. But if I have learned anything from losing her, it’s this: You need to know how very much you matter, how very much you are worth, even if someday I am not here to tell you in person. She did that for me. She knew me and understood me like no one else. And I want to do the same thing for you.

So, without further ado, and because there’s no word limit in the blogosphere, here are some random things you need to know.

You are amazing. Each and every one of you. You’re all my favorite, but in different ways.

Katie, everyone says you’re my mini-me. And you are. But I have to remind myself over and over (and over and over) that you’re not me. You won’t do the same things I did, and if you do, you’ll handle them differently. That’s OK. It’s better than OK: it’s exactly how it should be. I want you to be you—because you are something special. I know you’re still finding your way, figuring out how to navigate your migraines and school and life, and it’s not easy. But I will always be here, believing you’re able to figure this out (and hoping I can help). Believing that you will triumph— because you will. Because you are smart and beautiful and able. And loved. So very loved.

Anna, we all talk about the way your father is wrapped around your little finger. That is absolutely true. But here’s what you need to know: I adore you, too. In some ways, you and I are very different, as are your dad and I. I don’t always understand the thought process you and he will follow. But I always love you. And I really, really like you, too. You’re funny and vivacious and generous and enthusiastic and kind. You have so much fun doing creative, thoughtful things for people (me included). You make me laugh, and I love the things that delight you (even when they happen to be furry felines that make me sneeze). You’re amazing. And you always make me proud. Always.

Bobby, although you are a stinky boy, I adore you. Your sweaty socks make me grimace, but I love that you will sit on the couch with your feet propped in my lap. (Don’t worry, your friends don’t read my blog so you don’t have to be embarrassed.) I love your sarcasm and sense of humor. I love setting up the perfect opportunity for you to make a funny comment. I love listening to you sing and play music—there’s nothing I’d rather have playing in the background. It never gets old. (Except to your sisters.) I want you to always have confidence in yourself—but reach outside yourself and think about other people, too. You have always kind of been the focus, around here—the first boy, the last child. But as you go out into the world, you won’t always be the center of everything you do, and I think that may be a hard lesson. But you have to know, it won’t mean you’re not amazing. Because you really are. I’ve seen glimpses of who you are becoming, and I can’t wait to see the man you grow into.

To all of you, I am sorry for all the things I forget. I know there are so many, but ironically enough, I can’t remember what they are. Please don’t think it means I don’t listen. I do. My brain just malfunctions on a regular basis. It’s tired. It’s overloaded. It needs an update. Maybe I have a virus or faulty hardware. But I do care.

Thank you for talking to me about the things that matter to you. Even when I can’t fix it, I love that you want me to. Even when you don’t follow my advice, I love that you asked.

I may like—and even love—the person you are dating. But no one will ever be good enough for you. I’ll point out all kinds of things I want you to consider, but in the end, I trust you to make a smart choice. Whoever you marry—if you marry—there will be struggles and issues. Money, insecurities, different opinions, worries about your children. All I want—all I hope and pray for—is that you will find someone who is good for you. Someone who pushes you to be the best you possible, yet loves you long before you fully become yourself. Someone who believes marriage is about for better and for worse, and holds your hand tight, whatever you’re facing. Because if you can face it together, you can come through it.

I love the gifts you give me. My favorites are the ones that you buy spontaneously. Not because of the money you spend (usually money I gave you to start with), but because they show that you know me. I love to get just the right thing for someone. And I love you for knowing what I will love.

I love your quirky senses of humor and the things that make you laugh. I love to just be with you because you’re all fun and interesting and affectionate (well, one of you isn’t a big hugger). But most of all? I love the way that you all want God to be in your lives.

I love that you love the people at our church, that you’ve found a place where you belong, that you’re enveloped by hugs every time you walk in the doors, and that when you’ve been away you run to see the people you’ve missed. As much as I love that you love our church, though, as you become adults, I want you to find your own way, find your own place, one that fits you and nourishes you and pushes you to always go deeper in your relationship with the Lord. I want you to ask the hard questions and wrestle with your understanding. I want you to search because when you do, you will find God. And it will be better, and deeper, and more sustaining than you ever imagined it could be. I love that in your hard times you lean on God and you’re drawn back to the church. I don’t want or expect you to find the same faith I have. I want you to find your own. I want you to come to understand, each of you, that God loves you as individuals. That He will go to great lengths for you. That we’re all part of one bigger church, and there’s something to be learned anywhere you go.

I want you to walk through your lives with your heads held high, with the confidence that you are adored, absolutely and completely, that you have a place in this world and that you will find it and grow into the fullness God has waiting for you.

I want you to know that I may complain, and I may be busy, but that I will do anything I can for you. And that sometimes, that means I won’t be able to help. Because sometimes it’s time for you to figure it out yourself.

And sometimes it’s time to let God show you something new.

I want you to know that I may claim not to be much of a kid person, but that you have made my life so much better, so much fuller, than I ever imagined it could be.

I want you to know I’m sorry for all of my failings. But my lack—in ability and focus and wisdom and tact—has nothing to do with the amount of love I have for you.

And I want you to know, more than anything else, that I am here for you. That even when I’m no longer breathing, my love is knit within you. It’s foundational to who you are, and even when I’m gone, that will remain. You will always have me loving you, whether you like it or not. Whether you’re easy to love at that moment, or not. Whether you’re sitting on the other end of the couch or traveling on the other side of the world. You don’t have to earn it. It’s simply a given. I can’t help myself. You’re such a part of me. And I love you.

Happy(?) Mother’s Day

I used to think Mother’s Day was a holiday for everyone. After all, we all have (or had) moms. Easy enough. When I saw that people were sad, I assumed they just weren’t focusing on the good things. Sure, I thought, my friend’s mom isn’t here with us anymore, but she can still celebrate. She ...

Read More

shutterstock_113690857I used to think Mother’s Day was a holiday for everyone. After all, we all have (or had) moms. Easy enough. When I saw that people were sad, I assumed they just weren’t focusing on the good things. Sure, I thought, my friend’s mom isn’t here with us anymore, but she can still celebrate. She has memories. Why wouldn’t she want to be a part of this heartwarming, happy day?

Oh, how I did not get it.

And oh, how much I hate that I do now.

It’s funny — this wasn’t a big holiday for us. I’d get Mom a card. Maybe a gift, if I happened to think of something. We didn’t always get together. I guess once I had kids of my own, it became more about being with them and allowing them to celebrate.

But now, as I face my third Mother’s Day without my mom, I’m faltering again.

I don’t know how to celebrate my mom without falling into the abyss of missing her.

I don’t know how to let my kids celebrate me without feeling an extreme lack — a sharp jab into my side, an ice pick puncture with each thought — because my own mom’s not here anymore. And because I worry that maybe I’m not enough for my kids. That I can’t give them everything they need. That I can’t be all that they want. Or, worse, maybe they don’t want what I have to offer.

And I know I’m not alone. There are women who mourn today, feeling the loss of a child they barely knew or a little life they’ve never been able to grow. Women who are acutely aware of the missing other half — the one they haven’t met or the one they’ve lost, the one who would or did transform her from half of a couple into (possibly) a parent. Women who feel that they must be unworthy, because they didn’t have a mom who evoked these pastel-colored, flowery memories. Or because their kids don’t feel that way about them.

So how do we get through this day? How do we address the hodgepodge of disparate emotions all around? How do we know who needs a silly smile reflected back at them and who needs a quiet, wordless embrace?

We don’t.

So just walk gently today. Don’t assume everyone feels happy. Be free with kind touches, genuine smiles, words of affection. Give thanks for what you have, and ask God to fill the empty places left behind by loss.

Notice, as the moms are honored, the woman still sitting on the church pew, sad because she can’t stand up among the other women. Watch faces for the person who can’t maintain a smile when the heartwarming poems are read, because maybe they’re lonely or hurting or can’t figure out how to forgive the mother who damaged them. Pay attention to someone who’s spending the day alone, and consider inviting them along. If everyone around you seems happy and content, by all means, join in the celebration, and lift your voice in gratitude to God.

But if you’re the one who’s hurting, know you’re not alone. Allow God to turn your feelings upside down (because, really, His upside-down-ness is one of my favorite things about Him). We don’t have to hide from sadness or feelings of inadequacy. We don’t have to pretend to be happy if we’re not. We just have to open ourselves up to the One who can heal, the One who will comfort, the One who makes the broken places whole again. He’s the One who can see past the facades. He’s the One with the eternal perspective. He celebrates with us, grieves with us. He nurtures us, forms us, rejoices in us. He never gives up. He stays close and He never lets go.

But the really amazing thing? His arms are large enough to do more than just hold you and me. As He wraps around you today, remember that He is also holding close our moms, our grandmothers, our aunts and sisters and friends and babies, encircling us all in the same embrace. He reaches beyond space and time, outside of the bounds of this physical world into the radiating light of heaven, and holds us all tight. Gathers us in together. Bridges the impossible gaps between us and those we long to see again. We may not be able to see it, but He’s there. She’s there (whoever you’ve lost and are thinking of on this day), right there with you. God’s embrace doesn’t falter or fail. Because she’s with Him, and we’re with Him, we are all, somehow, together again.

And because of this, in His phenomenal way, God transforms this day, which could easily be filled with sorrow and regret and mourning — into something different. Something better. Something more. Something that, even if it may not make you want to buy a Hallmark card, is worth experiencing. Worthy of gratitude. Filled with healing. Bursting with light.

Because of this unfathomable grace, He makes it possible for  me to say to you, with all love and sincerity and compassion and hope and tenderness, that today, I will celebrate.

Happy Mother’s Day. May you find in this day — in Him — all that you need. Amen.

 

Happy Mother’s Day (or proof that I have issues)

Let me donate blood. Get a mammogram. A root canal. Fill out a 30-page tax form. Anything but this. Anything but celebrate Mother’s Day.  It’s supposed to be a happy day. Never mind that I’m happy to be a mother, because every sentimental thought about mothers is like an ice pick jabbing me in the side. You ...

Read More

Let me donate blood. Get a mammogram. A root canal. Fill out a 30-page tax form. Anything but this. Anything but celebrate Mother’s Day. 

Mom and me picnic

It’s supposed to be a happy day. Never mind that I’m happy to be a mother, because every sentimental thought about mothers is like an ice pick jabbing me in the side. You don’t have a mom. You don’t have a mom. You don’t have a mom anymore. The day becomes not about who I am, but what I don’t have.

It’s supposed to be a pampered day. But I’m the kind of person that would rather not be celebrated just because Hallmark said today is the day you should do this. I appreciate the thought, I really do, but either they genuinely love me or they don’t. If they don’t, let’s not spend the day pretending. And if they do, why don’t they show it all year long? To me, the holiday simply sets up expectations that inevitably lead to disappointment. I’m not grateful enough, or my kids aren’t sincere enough. Either way, someone is disappointed. And on Mother’s Day, you’re supposed to want to spend time with your kids. What I’d really like is a break — not from them, but from responsibility. I look around at the other moms and their kids, skipping along with baskets of daffodils and giddy expressions, and I feel like I’m not enough. As though I’ve failed at this task of mothering because I don’t love it enough, don’t do it well enough.

It’s supposed to be a relaxing day. In spite of my kids’ good intentions, I am able to see through the day, over and over, how necessary I am, because even on Mother’s Day I’m needed to find a lost pair of shoes or figure out why the printer isn’t working or help decide on a topic for the paper that’s due tomorrow. I want to be necessary for my kids. I want to be the rock my mom was to me, the one person that, no matter how much she disagreed with how I spent my time or money, delighted in me.

And again, the sharp pain in my side, in my chest, in my heart. I don’t have a mom anymore.

Celebrate her anyway, some of you will say. Talk to her like she’s here. But she’s not. She’s really not. And I can’t celebrate her value and worth without an equal share of grief for what I’ve lost. I was lucky to have her. She was amazing, probably more so than I ever realized. And although she knew I loved her, I don’t think even I knew how much I loved her until she wasn’t there anymore.

And these thoughts — guess what? —  lead to more feelings of failure. If I were a better mom, I wouldn’t let these things get me down. If I were a better mom, I’d be able to forget myself and let my kids celebrate me.

Immature, maybe. Irrational, probably. And still.

The thing is, I’m not a better mom. I’m just me, a woman trying to find my own way, lost without the one person who knows just how to be the mom I wish I could be to my kids. Feeling my way through each day, trying to be what my kids need me to be, trying to accept that my style of mothering doesn’t look like anyone else’s, hoping not to fail my kids even as I try to do all the other things I feel called to do. Knowing even as I make decisions day by day that they are not always ones Mom would have agreed with. Knowing she wasn’t perfect, either, and that nobody could get under my skin the way she did. Knowing that, no matter how much I fight it and try to shove down my anger, it’s all there because she was, in fact, such a stinkin’ good mom.

This website and its content are copyright of Kelly O'Dell Stanley  | © Kelly O'Dell Stanley 2017. All rights reserved.

Site design by 801red

Error: Please enter a valid email address

Error: Invalid email

Error: Please enter your first name

Error: Please enter your last name

Error: Please enter a username

Error: Please enter a password

Error: Please confirm your password

Error: Password and password confirmation do not match