Diana Leaney López Ruano

Most of my close friends have babies.  Its a thing.  The oldest of their children is nine.  The youngest less than a year.  Me?  I'm divorced and have no offspring.  Right, now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me tell you all about being a mom.  We are planning a girls trip cruise to Ensenada and I just sit in the background of the group chat waiting for my mom friends to find babysitters or sort things out with their husbands.  When asked for my opinion on dates my response is, "I don't have kids so you guys let me know what works for you and we'll do that." My schedule is wiiiiide open.  Including my nights.  I don't get woken up multiple times a night to comfort a hungry or grumpy child.  I can sleep, or stay up-  it is all on me.  (woot woot)  At my friend's kids' princess/prince birthday party I "borrowed" my niece in order to feel like I had a purpose to be there.  Her mom was there too so ...

She showed me a new cut on her already scarred,  rough,  and beat up hand. It was deep and infected.  Not because a dirty weapon ripped her flesh,  but because she always seemed to find herself too busy to stop and disinfect the gash. "I like your hands."  I said to her. She didn't listen. "If I had your hands it would mean that I know how to do things."  I said to her. She didn't listen. Instead,  she wished aloud for prettier hands,  delicate hands.  She yearned for a manicure that would dissolve the need to work her hands to the bone in order to provide for her family.  Instead, she got Bella's five-year-old five fingers adding five layers of whatever nail polish colors picked her fancy.   Pink.  Blue.  Shiny.  Purple.  More pink. One thing is certain-  my mother's multi-colored manicured hands can do anything. Her hands alter clothes.  Her hands bake and decorate cakes.  Her hands ...