I have three children. Three, people. I am the mother of three children. One day, I will lord over a holiday table while three of my children and their partners make small talk. Three adults that were once inside my BODY will cringe from my gaze, hoping against hope that I will not humiliate them in front of their One True Love. They will be disappointed. They will vow never to come home for the holidays again. Or maybe they will guzzle wine and rush to refill my glass because it’s fun to ridicule me when I’m drunk. The future stretches out in front of me and no matter how I look at it I cannot, just can not get used to the idea. That I have a future at all. That my future includes these children, THREE of them. This husband who I will love forever and who will always be right here. That maybe, just maybe, the worst is behind me mentally. There. I said it out loud. Please let it be true.

Yesterday, I wore salmon velour pants (please remember, all my clothes are someone else’s hand me downs. Does that make this any less gross?) to Target to buy diapers. I stopped short of the matching zippered hoodie; I’m so glad for the 80 degree weather. Later I happened to glance at the tag. They are pajamas. Over the weekend, I noticed I was wearing my hard soled bedroom slippers after I’d already got in the car, and I did not go home to change shoes. Instead, I rocked the bedroom slippers in the grocery store.

I watched my teenager put on combat boots this morning. While I was slightly jealous that she’s so cute, I also felt slightly relieved that I no longer have so many laces to tie.

Oh my god. Where did my punk rock go?