The other morning, I caught my reflection in the toaster (you know, the shiny side). I saw the grey roots I haven’t had time to dye, the crinkles around my eyes from squinting at my son’s texting abbreviations, and a smudge of peanut butter on my shoulder. At 50, you don’t brush off the peanut butter. You just accept it as part of the outfit.
Last month, we sat on the porch swing at 10 PM—a time that used to be reserved for folding laundry. The kids weren't home. The dog was asleep. And Dave looked at me and said, "I don't think I ever asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up." Mom POV Rhonda 50 Year Old With