I Knew She Was A Mom

I knew she was a mom because she wore clothes that had stains in strange places.
I specifically remember the small, sort of textured, white stain streaked like a chef’s sauce perfectly along her left shoulder blade, signifying the infant she likely had awaiting her at home.
Her long brown hair was in a disheveled ponytail, just covering the edge of what looked to be a dragon tail tattoo; a reminder of her spontaneity. Her basket dangled from her forearm. In it sat two boxes of spaghetti noodles, a container of wipes, and a carton of almond milk. She leafed casually through a copy of Women’s Health Magazine as she patiently awaited her turn in line.
Her face showed calm, relaxed almost- the quick trip to the market possibly the only break she’d get that day.
I listened as she talked to the cashier during her turn to checkout. I noticed how humorously she spoke of her three year old’s obsession for pasta based dinners; how it was going to be her second pasta meal in three days. She laughed as she joked on likely returning sooner than later for more noodles before she casually strolled out of the automatic doors and into the parking lot.
Her smile still showed as she got into her van parked neatly in the closest parking spot to the store entrance.
I knew she was a mom because she was. She wore it proudly (and probably unknowingly on the back of her blue t-shirt) and she wore it well.


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