While the two things are mutually exclusive, I can’t help find humor in my pregnant wife debating anti-abortionists on Facebook.

Make no mistake, mothers,
you’re doing great.
You’re better than you think.
So try not to get yourself down
Because what you’re doing isn’t easy
but you’re the best person for the job.

And, um, that ass!
Those boobies!

I remember her,
when we were very little,
walking so fast,
my sister and I
struggling
to keep up,
in those high heels,
clicking on the sidewalk,
not waiting for traffic lights,
leaving us far behind,
trying to catch up.

She could dance
in high heels,
even The Charleston.

Who was there when I, at three years old and with an aversion to baths, ran naked in the front yard wearing only a Smokey the Bear hat? All while the mentally disabled man across the street laughed at her, pregnant with my sister?

My mom.

There once was a young woman who dreamed of the day she could become a mother. Holly was beautiful, full of life and laughter and of an easy temperament. In the late 1970s, she was like dandelion seeds blowing everywhere in the wind. Whimsical and free.