Toll House cookies are no joke. I don't think anything I've made has ever made my family happier.
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I don't think I'm capable of as much gratitude as the author. All I would be, could be, is angry. But maybe she was, too.
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I noticed the small signs, symptoms of depression, uncontrolled crying, wiping tears and general melancholy now. Too late, of course - my mother is long dead. The longer she's gone, the more I realize how alike we were.
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We make home where our people sleep. It's not where, it's how, it's the familiar scent of your little boy, sweaty after playing with friends, touching babysoft skin, the thin hair on my husband's head. Home is people, not location.
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Oh. That. Sucks.
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I thought I was a good guest, but I might actually be a horrible one. Hrm.
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I guess I can't knock the blogs anymore. Blagh. Food blogs, though. Most of them.. that's another post, ha.
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Sometimes you just need to do, for you. Something entirely superficial. New clothes, for no reason. Maybe a haircut. There are days I want this so badly for myself, want to straighten my stupid crooked front tooth I've convinced myself that I actually like, that it's a cute quirk and makes my face unique.
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We all struggle. We all eat. We all find ways to survive. And hopefully thrive.
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