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No matter how much I love my little girl (who is about to turn two), those days are tough. Like, really tough. Usually funny in retrospect, but, at the time, not so much.

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This thing we say. It feels so disingenuous. Why even say it anymore?

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I was sipping a long-awaited martini at a cocktail party over the holidays, almost feeling like an adult again after a long day with my two little ones, when a giant Prada bag bumped my arm spilling my drink.

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Oh, the poor, exhausted stay-at-home mother: her yoga pants constantly covered in little people’s various body fluids and her dreams of backpacking across Europe flushed down the toilet with her cell phone (courtesy of her toddler).

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Now, I know what you’re thinking: These women weren’t real feminists. But part of the reason I rejected the label was because I realize just how many women I vehemently disagreed with were sharing it with me.

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I am supposed to see myself in that proverbial image of the woman in the slim skirt suit with the briefcase in one hand, the martini glass in the other, a baby cradled in her arm, and an exasperated look on her face.