It’s strange how the timing on this one worked out. But the timing could not have been more perfect for me to finally have what has got to be the most bad-ass blog post title ever. Then again, I received pretty high praise from readers on the Love, Assholes, and My Grandpa one, so I guess it’s kind of a toss up.

Either way, I’ve got a zombie to tell you about and a dead father to remember.

There’s this poem I wrote years ago. If I remember correctly, it was for a creative writing course in college and the class was silent for just a moment longer than a heartbeat after I finished reading. Zombie is not meant to be a comfortable read or to create images of beauty; rather, it’s a very real and very gritty moment that many who have ever suffered from bulimia can (sadly) relate to.

Until very recently, Zombie was in a binder with old papers until I decided to do something more with it. So I transcribed it into a Word Document, hit save, and sent my words off to the editor at Voxx Poetica. My poem appeared on Voxx almost two months ago and I just now realized it had actually been published. Thank you to Voxx for a moment to connect with others who understand and the opportunity to explain the inner-workings of the head of an eating disordered teenager to those who don’t.

Because I tend to schedule my blog posts based on the incredibly scientific When I Remember to Do it method, my plan to share my Voxx publication news with you today just now happens to coincide with dead dads, the daughters of all ages who are grieving them, and the woman who is building working to build a community of solace for those who find themselves wondering where to turn. I first met my friend Mary of Mama Mary Show a few years ago at the Phoenix Bloggy Bootcamp conference and got to see her again at Blogher 10 just a few months later. I don’t remember how we started talking about it, but we connected when we shared with each other the pain of losing our fathers decades before we had expected to deal with this kind of grief.

Mary’s goal was to publish a book and start a new web site on which contributing writers could connect, share, and heal. And I’m honored to be featured as part of the official launch of the Dead Dad’s Club.

Every time someone else thinks my words worthy of their space is a day to celebrate. Every day I am brave enough to share again is a day to smile. I survived me. And I’ll never delete my my father’s phone number from my contact list.

We are at Starbucks to shop for cucumbers and what The Husband refers to as my hippie cleaning products. Or rather, we are at Target and my almost-five-year-old’s ability to walk straight up to the counter and place her tall vanilla frappuccino with Absolutely No Whip Cream Because I Don’t Like Whip Cream order with total confidence tells me two things: 1) Both Target and Starbucks should highly consider just renaming their joint venture stores to something like Starget or Tarbucks so every storefront containing liquid happiness is easily identifiable and the ones that suck can be just as easily avoided and  2) I think I turned into a yuppie.

I give my order and flash the I Just Proved My Own Point Starbucks app on the iPhone screen to pay for our drinks and start sipping my unsweetened Trenta iced green tea. Before I walk away, though, a CD cover in front of the register catches my eye. It’s the image on the cover that stops me: a woman embracing her child.

Every Mother Counts.

I pick up the CD and skim the back, making a mental note to look it up on iTunes because I lose CDs as often as I lose my mind. I see the words under organization founder Christy Turlington Burns’ photo telling me about the cause, that the $8 of every CD sold in Starbucks stores through December 31, 2012 goes directly to Every Mother Counts and their efforts to reduce global maternal mortality rates. I think about my friend, Sara, and how she would have died during childbirth had she not been in the hands of a medical team ready for even the rarest of complications.

I hand the CD to the cashier so she can scan it. We will listen to the songs on the way home. And by tomorrow we will know all of the words.

Mama? Is it Mother’s Day yet?

No baby. The calendar says it’s not for a few more days.

But I want to give you your bracelet now!

I can wait.

Please, Mama!

I crumble. The excitement is shining in her eyes as she runs to get a manilla envelope that just arrived with my name on it. The return address is her preschool. She has printed her own name in the top left corner. She might not realize it, but the envelope is part of her gift to me.

I carefully open it and gently extract a large card fashioned from construction paper and a message telling me that her heart flutters for me. I see a bracelet and her smiling face and see her pictures for me and then collapse into laughter, tears streaming down my cheeks, and hold my defiant little princess close to me. Teacher Jessica captured her personality alright. And I couldn’t be more thrilled with what has to be the most honest Mother’s Day card in the history of the universe.

And then this morning

Open it! Open it!

It could be Christmas morning judging by the level of squealiness in Buttercup’s chirpy screams. She’s been waiting for a few days now, trying to convince me to ignore the calendar and just tear into the gift my sister, her godmother, sent for me. Receiving anything at all from someone other than my child or The Husband Who Knows He is Contractually Obligated to Forget a Card but Still Be Awesome is a bit of a surprise, and it’s a nice one.

I unwrap the box, cut through tape, and lift packaging materials out to find that I’ve been sent an angel. I am instantly in love with her serenity and how it so fluidly flows throughout her form.

She’s beautiful, Mama.

I know.

I set her on my desk to watch over me as I write and we continue with our day.

About that…

My eyes dart from one blurb to another and as each one gets seared into my brain and the only cohesive thought I have is that Buttercup will never be allowed to set foot in a grocery store again for fear of psychologically damaging her in an effort to pick up a gallon of milk.

BEYONCE SHOWS OFF HER NEW MOM BODY

Beyonce shows off her New Mom Body right next to a blurb parading empty promises.  CGI, airbrushing, crash diets, and really creative camera angles will work for us Regular People, too, it seems. I’m assuming that means I should clear our the guest room for the personal macrobiotic chef and his entourage, right? Oh, but where will the nanny take care of my child while I workout with my personal trainer in my home gym for six hours a day so I can get to headline-ready shape before  filming starts on my next blockbuster?

Wait…you mean that isn’t how this is supposed to work?

LOSE 13 POUNDS IN SEVEN DAYS EATING CAKE!

There’s only one way I can think of this actually happening…and that’s how I ended up in therapy the first time.

Next?

GET A BETTER BODY! CELEBRITIES SHARE THEIR CONFIDENCE BOOSTERS!

Because focusing on inner beauty and feeling good about the reflection in the mirror no matter what the scale says is exactly how y’all got onto the big screen to begin with, right?

DROP 47 POUNDS BY MEMORIAL DAY AND WALK OFF JELLY BELLY!

Hold the fucking train, people. They mean by Memorial Day of 2013, RIGHT?

THE BRIDESMAID STAR ON LOVING WHO YOU ARE!

FINALLY! A moment of clarity! A publication willing to buck societal expectations and instead celebrate who and what we are now instead of promoting the bullshit promising us that We Too Can Lose Six Pounds in Four Days and Feel Great!

Maybe other publications will start to do the same! Maybe a new generation of young and impressionable girls won’t be subjected to the planetary version of high school hell and come out on the other side the better for it.

Maybe…Look!

Ladies Home Journal is jumping in with more insight on the subject…

WHY CAN'T WE SEE OUR REAL SELVES IN THE MIRROR?

Seriously?

I dunno…I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that could possibly have something to do with the contradictory messages about self-worth and body image and their direct correlation with the engrained importance of Other People’s Opinions in our psyche regarding how society perceives us to look? Maybe it’s the fact that our value as women is measured by today’s media using our measurements and not our achievements? No, wait! I’ve got it….

It’s because we were so busy eating cake for breakfast and losing 47 pounds by this Thursday that we totally forgot to clean the mirror, isn’t it? Silly us…

Oh that isn’t it?

WHO WANTS TO PLAY "FIND THE FAT CHICK?"

I’m being facetious, obviously. I think Melissa McCarthy is a talented actress with an adorable voice and I love her confidence. She also, in my humble opinion, happens to be gorgeous. That being said, I’m thinking product placement and the fact that the only reason I noticed the bottom rack (on multiple magazine racks, I’d like to point out)  is because I was on my knees taking photos of random magazine covers for a blog post about how those mean old magazine covers called me Fat and Unhappy. And that’s when the cashier gives me my total and tells Buttercup how beautiful she is.

“I know,” she responds with the confidence she inherited from The Husband. Then she catches herself and notices that I seem to be waiting for something. She clears her throat. “Thank you.”

And we head for home, my four-year-old already learning that society appreciates the pretty things.

So we are all in agreement that motherhood is the hardest and most rewarding job there ever will be, yes?

And are we nodding our heads in agreement that there are times when our little cherub-faced angels turn into crazed feral children on the hunt for that last nerve we are so desperately holding on to? And that it is these times that all we want is for them to run off the sugar buzz so we can make them sit still long enough in front of the T.V. for us to make a quick escape into the bathroom, lock the door, and just breathe for a minute because Me Time now means being able to pee uninterrupted?

Good.

Because then it’s bedtime and they get droopy-eyed and snuggly and there are stories and rituals like asking each other what our favorite part of the day was and then pretending to be shocked that their answer is almost always the part that they got to spend with us and they drift off into innocent dreams and we sigh, content, because every single moment is just worth it?

Motherhood is insane. It’s intense. It’s incredible. And we at 30 Second Mom want to hear from you. The one day out of the year devoted to this crazy ride we are all on is almost here and we want to showcase your favorite Mother’s Day memories in the 30 Second Mom Most Memorable Mother’s Day MoMents Contest!

Here’s how to enter:

- If you haven’t already, register for a free 30Second Mom account by visiting the website at www.30secondmom.com or downloading the iPhone or Android app and registering for an account right from the app.

- Record a 30Second video telling us about your Most Memorable Mother’s Day MoMent. Each video should be no more than 30 seconds long, which trust me, isn’t all that much time. Have fun with it! Check out my video as an example!

- Send your video via email as a .mp4 or .mov file, along with your contact information including name, email address, snail mail address, phone number & Twitter handle (if applicable) to [elisa at 30secondmom.com].

- Once your video has been posted to the 30Second Mom website, you will receive a link to share with your friends and family.

30 Second Mom contributors have put together various prize packs for those selected as winners, so please check out founder Elisa All’s blog post for more information. Good Luck! And I look forward to learning about your favorite MoMents at 30 Second Mom!

Happy Almost Mother’s Day, y’all!