I'm not quite sure when or how I was virtually introduced to Susan. I met up with her friend (and now mine) Marty on my long drive from Philadelphia to Atlanta and she told me that they were both from Mississippi.
"And you read my blog?" I asked, which at the time was not full of high praise for the Southern state.
I joked that Susan was probably the best and smartest thing to ever come out of that state.
A few years ago I wrote a post about my boobs (shocking, I know) whining about their post-partum state.
Little did I know how they'd be after a couple more kids.
And amidst the virtual nods of agreement, there was a comment from Susan.
"At least you have breasts," she said.
Admittedly, I was completely taken aback. She was right; I was lucky to even have breasts to complain about.
I know she wasn't feeling well but Susan came out to my DC book signing a couple of years ago, at a pole dancing studio of all places.
We spun and fell. She watched and laughed.
We all did.
I don't think it's possible to live every minute being reminded that we are lucky to have what we have, because we are human, after all. I believe it's fair to have those moments of self-pity and hopelessness because it's in those moments that we get the opportunity to rise up. Overcome.
We wouldn't be able to look at ourselves and say "I'm lucky to be standing here with my floppy post partum belly and uneven breasts."
To see our children, our lives and say "This life is hard. And redundant. And exhausting. But thank God I have it."
To know Susan is a gift that makes me want to live more admirably, with a grateful, inquisitive spirit, as a parent. And a person.
I'm not perfect.
I still sometimes complain about my uneven boobs.
But then I toss them over my shoulder and go on my merry way.
Love to you and your family, Susan.