Who are you?

My son once innocently referred to the lines on my forehead as "racetracks."

If you take a moment to count them now, you'll notice there are six.

My four-year-old regularly asks if I have a baby in my belly and tells me I'm squishy.

My oldest asks why I always wear makeup.

I'm most self-conscious about my barely-there brows. Eleven years post-microblading them cause I f-ed them up as a teen, too much college-aged tanning bed use, and no upkeep or retouch of them has all led their current embarrassing, hideous state.

My nose is a tad big for my face, and I've come to realize that it makes my lips look even smaller than they already are.

I have steady bags and dark circles under my eyes, no matter how much sleep I get.

And, I do so much torture to my hair, it'll likely never look healthy.

But this is me.

Take me or leave me.

Love me or hate me.

This is me.

I've got imperfections, sure.

But there's something really freeing about putting them out there yourself or light-hearted laughing when someone else does.

I'm too old and tired, and kind of lack the time to overly-stress about how I look.

These days, I'm more focused on how I

act,

parent,

and love and care for those in my life.

Sure, on-point eyebrows would improve my face.

But, so does a smile, and those are child-induced, free, and I can get ‘em right here in my own home.

Yeah, I could needle away those lines, but then I'd look like I've lived less, and I don't want that. I'd rather my face show the years, because for each one I've had on this Earth, I am grateful.