God, bless the girls that get it.

I mean it. There is a special place in heaven for you. Should my vote count for anything, (but don't count on it, get a plan B!) I will vouch for you. I will call in every favor I have with every righteous person I know who's vote will count. If that doesn't work I will find someone to hold the back door to heaven open to sneak you in. I will find a way for you to make it.

Because you get it.

God, bless the girls that get it!

One of the things they get is that Mother's Day sucks. No offense, mom.

A sort of emotional countdown begins two weeks before Mother's Day. And they understand that this consuming, overwhelming emotional rollercoaster begins. And you try not to think about it, but you have to.

You have to because you have to shop for the best, most appropriate gift. Not just for the woman who made you, but for the woman who made you a mother. And thinking about her (a lot) makes you cry (a lot), and you cry (a lot) anyway because you're hormonally deranged (a lot). And you think (a lot) about how cool it is that you're a mom. But then you wonder (a lot) if you'll be one again. And up and down, and around and around you go. And it makes you tired, and it makes you cry. And it makes you not want to blog.

But the girls that get it, get that.