We live on a quiet street that connects to a park where my girls and I spend tons of time. Last summer as we walked the path to the park, I saw a grandma visibly jump when she saw us emerge from the woods. What gives, I thought. This is our turf. We're not even playing Ursula and Owlette yet. Then I dropped Elle's blanket and when I stooped to pick it up, I realized I was dressed in cropped navy sweats that I had worn while painting Grace's bedroom pink, a gray nursing tank, flip flops, a scraggly top knot, and no make up (read, no eyebrows). My girls looked darling, as kids do, and it registered that I looked like a meth head who had abducted them and was making off with them through the woods, with a quick pause at the park to keep them from screaming for their real mom.
