On Fridays over here a group of people who love to throw caution to the wind and just write gather to share what five minutes buys them. Just five minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Your words. This shared feast.

If you have five minutes, we have a writing challenge <—click to tweet this!

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? Facebook chimed in last night and overwhelmingly voted for a prompt either about mothers or Mother’s Day. This was one of the suggestions and I love that it can apply to any and all, mother or not. So please give me your best five minutes on:

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Identity…

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GO

I didn’t plan to be a mother.

I didn’t want to be a mother.

For a long time I was the child that I bore deep inside. Selfish, whiney, scared of anything that wasn’t all about me.

You three? You have grown me up into a mother. Slowly most days. Fast most years. I have growing pains and stretch marks to prove it. I ache from being your mom. There’s the exhausted, feel-like-I-haven’t-slept-in-six years ache. And there’s the I-don’t-think-I-can-stand-to-clean-up-any-more-messes ache. And then there’s the I-love-you-so-much-it’s-like-someone-gut-punched-me ache.

Yea, that last one comes out of nowhere. You’re standing up in the bath with those four teeth and smudges of pizza sauce still sticking to your cheeks. Or you’re twirling around the room with your new puppy singing off key “I love you, I love you, I looovvee you Wolfie.” Or you’re so lost in your own imagination and the right hand corner of the back yard right there next to Eric’s house that you don’t hear me even the fifth time I call you in for dinner.

I love you right down to my guts.

These guts that swore they’d never end up barefoot and pregnant in some man’s kitchen.

Our amazing babysitter washed the kitchen floor today. I haven’t worn shoes in there in years. And I ran the pregnancy marathon three times. I was so wrong and so right at the same time.

Turns out there’s nothing cliche about a cliche. Unless it’s the people who use them to make other people feel small.

I have grown into this word – mother – and it fits. My favorite Budapest jeans might not any more, but the name mother? Yea, it’s all worn in just right.

STOP

{Subscribers, you can just click here to come over and play along}

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I think motherhood should come with a super hero cape and a cheerleader.
My {free} eBook The Cheerleader for Tired Moms might be the next best thing.
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