Muffins

I see all you moms today with your lack of crows feet and your naturally colored roots posing in your cute photo frames with your paper mache flowers hashtagging the crap out of #muffinswithmom.

Guess what. When your baby is 9 years old, no muffins for you (Soup Nazi voice).

You know what that’s called? Age discrimination. Sorry, I believe the politically correct term is “ageism”.

Why don’t we get muffins? Who decided we are too old for the muffins?

I would argue that we, the moms of middle aged kids, need the damn muffins more. Sure, our metabolisms are a little slower and we’re a little softer in the middle. And we have no figs left to give about swim lessons, potty training, microwave mac and cheese and dino nuggets.

But we are in constant mourning over our babies turning into big kids. Facebook memories are stabbing us in the hearts every morning over our coffee and Fiber One. All the more reason to feed us the damn muffins.

We may not be mama or mommy anymore, but we are still moms. And we still like the photo frames and paper mache flowers. And we would give our left arms for just one more of those precious yet somewhat humiliating “All About My Mom” surveys.

There’s so much we don’t have anymore. We don’t have small, chubby hands to hold in parking lots. We don’t have fresh Mustela baby heads to sniff. We don’t have thumbsuckers or lovies. We don’t have anyone to read stories to in the rocking chair. We don’t have toothless faces smiling at us. Gone. It’s all gone in the blink of an eye.

SO DON’T TAKE THE DAMN MUFFINS FROM OUR DRY, WRINKLED HANDS TOO.

Throw us a bone up here in the middle ages. Or a muffin. Whatever.

Actually. Screw that. We want the donuts. Why did the dads get donuts? We were the ones with the stitches (uptown or downtown). We earned the donuts. We DESERVE the donuts.

Sorry, not sorry dads.

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