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It's Week 21 here, and I am still here — sitting in my corner bedroom, typing away at a makeshift desk. And my children are here, too. Nope, they haven't gone anywhere. Can't you hear that howling in the background as I smile into the webcam and conduct our meeting, pretending everything is ok, and that I have smoothly embraced my new normal?

That howling, the wailing, the laughing, the shouting, the screaming — that's the soundtrack of the life of a working mother, now available for all of you to download and hear.

On one of my first assignments at a large corporation, no one could remember my name. It wasn't because they couldn't pronounce it. It wasn't because they had never met me. It wasn't because they had forgotten it. It was because everyone kept calling me by someone else's name.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." I had sat there listening on the phone to the apology she believed she had offered me at the beginning of this year. "I'm sorry you feel that way. And this situation, well, it's really not my fault. It's not his fault, and it's not her fault, either," as she had named the other players who had been involved in the situation that had transpired amongst those who I had trusted and thought were friends. And clearly, they weren't.

Earlier this year, I was speaking at an event and walked into a small auditorium which held no more than 250 seats. I gathered my notes and carefully got situated on one of the high-top chairs trying to remember what Kate Middleton would do. To cross or not cross the ankles, that was the question.

When I was growing up, there was a local furniture store that my family and I would go to. We would walk in, and one of two things would happen. First, we would be ignored and not acknowledged or helped. White families came in after us and were immediately greeted with big wide smiles. They were offered sparkling water and ushered to see the latest living room set. Or second, we would still not be greeted and would be followed around at a distance, as my younger brother and I sat on couches and explored furniture sets. I distinctly remember a white associate with a fierce brown ponytail wrinkling her nose at us, asking us to keep our hands off the couches. Meanwhile, little white children jumped on a myriad of mattresses, squealing loudly and proudly in the other section.

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