I've been lucky enough to write a bit for Mamalode magazine out of Montana for a few years now and have not only become friends with the editor and staff, but have been introduced to some amazing writers along the way. Mamalode is a magazine. A website. A movement. Our readers and writers are moms—with a smattering of dads, kids, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends. They become Mamaloders because we give them something nobody else does—the truth and each other.
The latest print issue just came out and I wrote a little piece about some of my favorite things, pairings that are meaningful to me, collaborations that are both mundane and extraordinary in our life together.
Your soft chubby thighs wrapped around my thick right hip
Red wine in a mason jar stashed in my purse at the movies
His naked body in our messy bed
Peanut butter chips in chocolate oatmeal bars in my dirty oven with one broken burner
My uterus with a baby kicking around in it
Doing the dishes with storytelling podcasts
Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers in the pockets of all my comfy jeans
Her fingers and our 1913 upright piano
My ass in those leopard print panties from Lane Bryant in the mall
Cold Junior Mints sprinkled on a bucket of buttery popcorn
Her lithe little body and cartwheels and round offs
Our garden and chicken poop
A cigarette with an old friend
Bare shoulders and sun
Your hand on my thigh
A tent and the stars
Fingers and dirt
Kisses and lips.
The latest print issue just came out and I wrote a little piece about some of my favorite things, pairings that are meaningful to me, collaborations that are both mundane and extraordinary in our life together.
Your soft chubby thighs wrapped around my thick right hip
Red wine in a mason jar stashed in my purse at the movies
His naked body in our messy bed
Peanut butter chips in chocolate oatmeal bars in my dirty oven with one broken burner
My uterus with a baby kicking around in it
Doing the dishes with storytelling podcasts
Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers in the pockets of all my comfy jeans
Her fingers and our 1913 upright piano
My ass in those leopard print panties from Lane Bryant in the mall
Cold Junior Mints sprinkled on a bucket of buttery popcorn
Her lithe little body and cartwheels and round offs
Our garden and chicken poop
A cigarette with an old friend
Bare shoulders and sun
Your hand on my thigh
A tent and the stars
Fingers and dirt
Kisses and lips.