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The hunt of the Holden monster

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I wonder how old Holden will be when he’s embarrassed about me showing nakker pictures of him. Probably about the same time when he’s embarrassed that his mom kissed him in front of his friends. “Geez, mom what if they see!?,” he’ll say. Or “stay in the car mom” because he’s ashamed of my clothes or my hat – which I’m sure will be fantastic. “You’re so lame, mom” he’ll say exasperatingly – or whatever synonym is considered en vogue then. But I’ll not care. I’ll think about the times he used to cling to me when I dropped him off at school, the open-mouth kisses he used to plant on me when he was a baby, the way he used to stretch his arms out to me the way he never does to anyone else, or the days like these where he wanted nothing more than to chase us around the house and “get us.” And then I’ll stop crying and think of the nekker pictures and videos I can blackmail him with if he ever gives me any lip in front of his friends.

Ah, the glories of being a mom.

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