Tamarah Rockwood

"Impostor Syndrome is the unwanted caboose on the train of motherhood. It is the trailing thoughts that give you the absurd ideas that you are a fraud."

I couldn’t listen to another puerile sales pitch in someone’s living room, promising the moon and then selling you something that “tastes just like sugar.” (It doesn’t. Not even sort of.)

You are being a dick if you intentionally create drama in a friendly conversation. You argue about everything from politics, to career choices, to shoe choices, to the quality of people around you to the quality of the pizza you ordered. No one cares about your opinions regarding pepperoncinis on pizza.

Was I hungry? Was it low blood sugar? Were my feet falling off? Was I crazy? Was I dying?

My brain seems to have stopped functioning at its full capacity, and I am simply going through the motions of loading the car and unloading the car at this point. Kids? Check. Purse? Check. Shoes? Check. Towels? Purely optional. Sunblock? Check.

"Who puts folded shirts on top of your closet shelf? I can hardly reach the hangers, alone. Honestly, people."

I worry about the food I give them. I worry about the clothes we have for them. I stress over the amount of time I spend with them . . . or don’t spend with them. When is it enough, and when is it overpowering?