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Bills are due, things are broken, and I am tired. The competition of the cutest photos, the competition of the grandest gestures. My child deserves the most as well. My stomach is sick and my eyes are sore. I work, he works, and we have provided. The bills are paid and this is what we have left. Our child deserves the most as well. They had their child a bounce house, a chocolate foundation, perfectly placed and timed photos.

He is turning seven this year. The different types of parties, the overwhelming themed balloons, napkins, and wrapping paper. Everything must be perfect or I'll be lesser of that mother. Will the cycle ever end?

Wake up, go to work, do the errands, come home to clean, cook, and manage the household. Wash the kids, do the homework, and remember to brush my own hair. Will the frenzy towards death ever slow? Will my child remember the effort we put in?

Balanced the books and we can afford to throw the party and get that special gift. This child is the light of our lives and deserves the very best. I bared the child and did the work. Kept them alive yet another year, and yet we celebrate them. I put in more work to make them feel special, where is my party. I need the celebration of keeping a human alive another year.

I picked the best decorations, the favorite characters, and the exact gift I know will light the face. I am exhausted. I love my exhaustion when it looks me into my eyes and says, "I love you, Mommy." All the worry and frustration melts away to the end of the sentence. Happy Birthday my child.

August 04, 2019 18:53

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RBE | We made a writing app for you (photo) | 2023-02

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