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Watch These Undercover Mothers Catch Their Catcalling Sons In The Act (UPDATED)

When it comes to fighting street harassment, mothers know best. (UPDATED)

image via YouTube.

Odds are that we’ve all heard someone say something incredibly vulgar or hurtful or inappropriate and thought to ourselves, “You talk to your mother with that mouth?” Well, in this anti-street harassment video, that exact sentiment is taken to the next level. As The Huffington Post explains:

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A Love Letter to San Francisco

In my last month of maternity leave with you, Twyla, I’ve spent the days thinking, pushing you around in your stroller, and the nights writing this letter to you.

In my last month of maternity leave with you, Twyla, I’ve spent the days thinking, pushing you around in your stroller, and the nights writing this letter to you. I want you to know my personal history with San Francisco, with three special spots, in particular, and how they’ve shaped and influenced me. This is a love letter to you, little one, but also a love letter to this city we call home.

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We Need to Stop Saying “Babies Ruin Bodies”

Before I became pregnant, someone told me, "don't have a baby, babies ruin your body." It has been over a year since Anabel began her life. This...Before I became pregnant, someone told me, "don't have a baby, babies ruin your body."

Before I became pregnant, someone told me, "don't have a baby, babies ruin your body."

It has been over a year since Anabel began her life. This time last year she was a microscopic speck inside me, and we were announcing our pregnancy. Between then and now, I have gained and lost fifty pounds. Four months after her birth, and my body still carries proof of her existence.

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How My Mother's Writing Helped Me Cope With Her Death

While the world celebrates my writer mother's life, I'm still coming to terms with her death.


My mom and me on my second birthday

The loneliest I’ve ever felt was three nights before my mother died. Her lung cancer had accelerated from a bad cold to the worst-case scenario in just a couple of weeks, and no one had the balls yet to tell my father and me that she was definitely going to die. After a maze of maddening phone calls we finally arranged for a hospice worker to come in the morning. My father sent me back to my apartment to rest after two straight days of spoon-feeding my mother Ensure mixed with applesauce, keeping Otis Redding and the Velvet Underground in constant rotation, whispering softly that we were here, that we loved her. I spent that night with a knotted, caffeinated tummy, in and out of sleep, more hopeless than I’d ever felt in my 22 years. Barely anyone knew that my mother was dying, and nobody understood.

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