For my job, I go to many unusual places. But this was the most unusual I had been in. On this day, we were in a strip club.

I’ve never been in one before, but this didn’t look anything like the ones in the movies. Aside from the naked women in every direction, this place actually looked like a sports bar. Big screens showing baseball and sports scores, brightly lit, some people were eating dinner. But there was no way to ignore all the naked women.

The first woman who really caught my eye—she wasn’t at all what I expected. I was looking at her rear and it was soft. And when I looked at her back and the rest of her body, I saw love handles and jiggly thighs and a not-so-great tattoo. But the guy she was giving her attention to—he was happy. Very, very happy.

There were girls in there with big boobs, small boobs, fake boobs, round stomachs, small butts, big butts, no butts…no two girls looked remotely like the others. And all of these men were very, very happy.

Now we could say it was because the guys were drunk, or because all the women were NAKED, but what I couldn’t help but think about was—not one of the them looked like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. And the guys were happy.

I’m not a skinny girl. I’ve struggled with my weight my whole life. My adult life is filled with insecurity about whether men will find me attractive. I always thought that if the guy liked me and my personality enough, then he wouldn’t mind the body.

But there I was, staring at more naked bodies than I had ever seen, and I realized that there was room for all of us.

So I got home and started to get ready for bed. And I saw myself in the mirror and stared. Boobs—nice size, but no one would have to guess real or fake with me (life, age and breastfeeding took care of that), but they are still pretty good. Stomach—rounder than I’d like. Never had much of a tummy before my son was born. Always had hips and thighs, but the tummy is new.

And of course, on me, what no one in the strip club had—a surgical scar across my lower abdomen. The one that has allowed the doctors to go in me three times and the one from which my beautiful son emerged from my body. The indelible line that life has left on my body, just as smiles and laughter have left the lines next to my eyes.

So I looked at myself and thought, “I’m not 20. I would not get hired as a stripper, as if that was something I’d be contemplating anyway. But I’m attractive. Not to everyone…but if I was dancing in that bar, someone would want to look at me.”

So I guess there’s room for all of us. We don’t need to look like Demi Moore in Striptease to turn a guy on. We just need to be naked.

Editor’s note: Sabrina’s new show “Devious Maids” will be airing on Lifetime Sundays at 10 PM starting on June 23. Be sure to check it out!

I’m convinced that Mother’s Day is a set up. It’s kind of like how Lucy scams Charlie Brown into going for one more punt with the football. Even though she’s pulled the ball away a thousand times before, she convinces him—no, he WANTS to believe—that THIS time things will be different. Putting all reservations aside, he sets his focus on the prize and charges the ball like a Heisman trophy winner, only to be smacked back to reality after Lucy snatches it away yet again, and he falls to the ground.

Apparently Charlie Brown and I are kindred spirits.

I keep believing that THIS year things will be different. I told my husband exactly what I want for Mother’s Day. Clearly I won’t be disappointed. Right? My kids are getting older and their teachers have explained how important it is to be nice to mommy on her special day so this year will be different, right?

Not so much.

I think it starts with those damned Hallmark commercials. We get sucked in by the images of beautiful, well-rested Stepford look-alikes embracing their gorgeously well-behaved children after a day of complete pampering. In the glow of maternal appreciation (and a full spa day), a mother rests easy knowing that her children and her partner acknowledge and adore her for the crazy hard work she puts in for them on the other 364 days each year. But today, it’s all about her. She is a queen on her throne, and they her willing and utterly devoted servants.

Have I mentioned that I hate Hallmark commercials?

Yes, Mother’s Day is a wonderful sentiment, but I have come to believe that it simply sets everyone up for failure. Most moms never quite get the attention and adoration that they dream of on the other 364 days each year. Husbands and partners are often blindsided by the flashes of anger or sheer rage they get from mom when they ask her what’s for dinner on that second Sunday in May. And kids are either so young that they act like complete assholes at dinner when there are no chicken nuggets on the menu or, in the teen years, act like complete assholes because they would rather do anything than spend a full day with their mother—much less tell them how much they are appreciated.

And for the precious few of you to whom this does not apply—congratulations! The BadAssMama is in awe of your accomplishment, and dreams of being like you when she grows up. But for now, keep your happiness to yourself or I just might punch you in the face.

In my on-going quest for Mother-of-the-Year, I propose a new rule for Mother’s Day 2014. A full day with no children. And more wine…

In Tuesday’s post, I shared with you how I struggled to come to terms with the true sacrifices of motherhood. My determination to stock-up on baby supplies during my first pregnancy proved how ill-equipped I was for the job at hand. I went from underprepared to over-controlling and exhausted by the time my children were toddlers, trying to overcompensate for my lack of mothering know-how.

For the first six years of their lives, I orbited around my children like a planet encircling the sun, and believed that I was mothering. Since I devoted zero time to myself, fashion was out of the question. I re-wore my husband’s t-shirts, cringed when a pair of pants at a superstore cost more than nine dollars, and extended the life of my mascara by adding a few drops of water into the brittle, dried out tube. I declared war if my husband interrupted bedtime, and in bed, passed out asleep without so much as a tender word to the man who once made my heart swoon.

By year seven, and maybe by the grace of God, I discovered the sales rack in the women’s section in a department store and slowly shed the guilt I’d feel anytime I purchased something nice, just for me. I learned to throw away makeup that had cracked and leaked, and relinquished my dependence on my children’s long left behind baby combs, investing instead in an actual hair brush. As I slowly allowed myself to also be a priority, I learned to let go of my frenetic need to keep the children on a timeline and the dinner on the table at exactly five, in exchange for happiness in our home, for all of us.

My husband took my by the elbows one afternoon, when our children were eight and nine, and said to me, “You’ve changed. You are more beautiful now than when we first met.” I knew he meant: “Thank you for finally cleaning up a bit, and letting go of the drill instructor routine.” What I discovered in the process was my ability to be a better mother by taking better care of myself. In the more relaxed atmosphere of our home, our oldest son discovered a passion for the guitar, and developed an impressive dry sense of humor. Our youngest channeled his boisterous energy into a set of acoustic drums that pissed off the neighbors but made me proud of his determination. My relationship with my husband stopped resembling a mother and her child and felt more like a true partnership, two people committed to one another’s happiness. I took solo trips to visit girlfriends I’d lost contact with and he rediscovered his love of sports and nature. This new idea of motherhood transitioned away from desperately clinging to schedules and Love and Logic manuals, into a symbiotic relationship of harmony and happiness. I couldn’t keep them from the occasional scar, so instead – I allowed myself to be there and bandage the wounds.

Things were perfectly imperfect. As I learned to let go and appreciate the moments we still had with our children, I also realized how quickly time had slipped from our hands. It was as if I blinked and in one moment, my children were teenagers, with pubescent beards and cracking vocal tracts. These kids, these young men, would rather text their friends than watch a movie with me, would rather roll their eyes than accept my advice, and dream about the day when they get to move away and start their own lives. There was guilt to be had, since I’d wasted the earliest years dictating the rules and forgot to hold on the sound of chipmunk voices that said “thinger” instead of finger, or “Valentimes” instead of Valentines. Where were those sweet children I’d once born?

Today, while driving my sons to school, I saw my youngest, now thirteen, in the rearview mirror, singing along to a song by Bruno Mars, while staring out the window. He has traces of acne across the bridge of his nose, styles his hair with gel and wears contacts instead of glasses. I struggled to hold in the overwhelming sob I knew would explode the minute they left the car. For most of their lives, I believed it was me who raised them, but seeing their faces, listening to their voices, I know – without question, they raised me, in the most literal sense of the word. I am far above the human being I once was, elevated from the bowels of thinking that diapers and shampoo had anything to do with mothering, and grateful, so immensely grateful that I have the opportunity to be a part of their constantly changing lives.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I wonder how many of you moms out there have witnessed your own growth alongside your children’s. How has motherhood transformed you? What crazy notions did you once have about your role as “Mom?” I can’t wait to read your responses. Happy Mother’s Day ladies, it’s quite the journey – isn’t it?

For part 1 of the story, click here

In the course of trying to write this blog, I have organized my files, cleaned out my daughters’ closet, gone running twice in one day, found myself online signing up for a new cleansing diet (which is supposed to save me from cancer, wrinkles and menopause) and watching a documentary that has been sitting on my desk for a month.

Sup wit dat? Guess?

Well, I’m writing about Mother’s Day and that is a short skip and a jump to… my Mother.

As I write I look down at my hands on the computer; my veins are huge, just like my Mother’s hands. I remember when I was young I would press down on her veins to stop the blood, then release and watch the vein fill up. I thought it was just how her hands were made, but of course, it was because she was older …just as I am now. With every passing year I become more and more like my Mother and that is complicated. I feel the allure and the alarm of being like my Mother. But let me investigate the particulars:

1. My Mother had 8 children and lost her shit on a regular basis. 
- I have 2 children and lose my shit almost daily.

2. My Mother had 1 husband and 2 serious boyfriends (not simultaneously).
- I have 1 serious husband, and have had about 5 not so serious boyfriends (I feel the need to defend my low number of boyfriends… but I don’t know how).

3. When my Mother got crazy angry she would rage and break things, sometimes over her children’s heads.
- When I get crazy angry, I have broken blenders, wine glasses, chairs, and remote controls – but never against anyone’s head… yet.

4. When my Mother would dance “shuffle off to Buffalo” she’d laugh so hard she would wet her pants.
- When I dance the theme song of Footloose I could use a Depends.

5. My mother’s favorite place to be was in bed with a cup of tea reading the New York Times.
- My favorite place to be is in bed with a cup of tea reading with my daughters asleep next to me.

6. My Mother dealt with her internal lake of existential despair with religion (she called in Soul Shopping) and by running away.
- I deal with my existential despair by running and by keeping so wildly busy I don’t have time to look inside.

7. My mother kept people around whom she didn’t like, in the hopes that one of them would change.
- I keep people around until I don’t like them, then I run away knowing I will never change.

8. My mother thought she was the center of the universe.
- I am pretty sure I am not the center of the universe, but I wish I were.

9. My Mother’s unspoken rule of law was: If you are not with me you are against me, and if you are against me… watch out!
- My unspoken rule of law is: If you are not with me… I don’t blame you.

10. My Mother loved to laugh and could play and be silly until the day she died.
- One of my favorite things is finding a kindred spirit, playing and laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

So, I am shockingly like my mother. And now that she is gone, my only sane choice is to celebrate the differences and examine the similarities. What else can one do? Whether our mothers live next door, across the continent, or in my case have died, to some extent they will always inhabit us. I love the ways I am like my Mother and I wish she were here with me, for a laugh and a “Shuffle off to Buffalo” on Mother’s Day.

Love,

Flicka

*Editor’s Note: Felicitations is a monthly letter from Felicity Huffman that premieres in our Newsletter before being published on the site. Be sure to sign up for our newsletter for other exclusives, updates, and giveaways from WhatTheFlicka.com.

Sixteen years ago, somewhere around this time of the year, I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. I was too young to be a mother, and my fantasies of motherhood were proof of that naiveté. I’d promised my husband, who at the time was my steady boyfriend, that I would dutifully stock up on packages of Huggies and Tear Free shampoo, which, in my world, meant we’d have everything we needed to raise a child. I knew nothing about being a mother.

Eight months after I peed on a stick in the grocery store a block away from my grandmother’s house, saw two pink lines and celebrated by eating a foot long veggie Subway sandwich, I gave birth to our oldest son, who might strangle me in my sleep if I share his name. The birthing process, the pièce de résistance of my painfully swollen pregnancy, was a shadowy night of pain and triumph spent mostly alone, until the nurse informed me eleven hours later that a head, his human head, was crowning. My husband, by then my fiancé, was serving his first tour in Japan with the Marine Corps, and had no clue I’d gone into induced labor. I called my dad and grandmother, who were celebrating their pending familial promotions over icy vodka with twists of lime, to come, quickly. They arrived in time to each hold one of my bearded, formless knees while staring at my son’s primordial exit from my body and entrance into life as a singular being. It was disturbingly beautiful.

That is the moment I was viewed as a mother by the world at large. I had believed myself to be one that day in the Kroger toilet stall while staring at the EPT stick, but now I had more than two pink lines and a grotesque body to prove my title. I had a child who looked a little like me, smelled like risen dough and warm milk, and would one day mouth the words, “Mom.”

The magic of my imagined foray into motherhood withered after two days, when I came home from the hospital, infant in tow, to an empty studio apartment where every whimper and meconium-laced diaper was now my responsibility. There were no more helpful nurses, and not enough barf clothes to save my shoulder from ruin. Sure, I had dozens of packs of diapers and countless bottles of golden baby shampoo, but they could not save either of us. Motherhood was not what I had expected.

Yet, somewhere between the agonizing sleepless nights and shared tub water with floating baby poo, I discovered a tiny shard of what motherhood could be. It started with his skin, perfect, smooth, and golden, with neither a mark nor a blemish. I would stare at his skin with deep fascination, admiring its smoothness and creamy color, and then fret at the thought that one day, his faultless body would carry scars from wounds I couldn’t spare him.

Then, he smiled. Somewhere around the second month, when his pediatrician swore it was only gas bubbles escaping his rosy lips, I saw my son’s brown eyes crinkle in the corners and his healthy red gums emerge. In that moment, I questioned if I had ever truly loved another person before, because I knew that for this child, I would easily give my life to ensure his would continue. Motherhood was not what I had expected, it was so much more than I could have hoped for.

My husband and I married before our son turned a year old, then soon after we welcomed our next son into the world. Years passed and lessons were learned. I knew to register the soundlessness of an inquisitive toddler with loud alarms inside my head, an easy trick once you find your son rolling on the bedroom floor covered in thick, tacky diaper cream, laughing at the tickle against his slick skin. I discovered that reruns of annoying costumed television characters could jar my nerves but also kept my children occupied long enough for me to fold the laundry and make dinner. I learned that a scraped knee hurt more if I said, “Oh no, are you okay?” rather than, “Get up, you’re fine.” I developed what I believed were perfected routines, devoting every second of my waking life to being the best, most dutiful mother I could, regardless of my own peace of mind. In my desire to protect my children and give them the best life possible – I forgot that I was a person with needs, too. I was so blinded by motherhood, that I didn’t see how miserable I had made my family in the process.

How did it change? Stay tuned for part two on Thursday!