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When people think the worst of you, it’s only too easy to deliver.
Imagine a well-groomed young father dropping his daughter off at kindergarten. Her face is smudged with remnants of breakfast. Her clothes are rumpled, and her hair is heavily snarled and pulled back into a crooked ponytail. And Dad forgot about her snack. Shoot. The young mothers in the drop-off circle dig in their bags for a spare package of crackers to help. Bless him. He’s trying so hard. Now, imagine it’s Mother dropping the child on the curb in such condition. Someone else has to offer up a snack for her kid, lest the poor child go hungry. Eyes roll. They’ll help, but for the sake of the
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We hold women to a different standard. And I know this better than anyone.
It doesn’t come naturally to all of us, you know. We’re not all meant to spend our lives performing puppet shows and building with blocks and coloring in books and singing nonsensical songs to entertain our offspring. That doesn’t mean I don’t love my daughter.
It was like hearing stories of something you did when you were a little kid. Everyone else remembers and tells you about it. So it becomes real to you. Not because you remember it. But because everyone else does.
