These Two Boys

These two boys. They have no idea the amount of joy and love they’ve brought with them into this world.

They don’t yet know that their moms spent their childhood together. They don’t know that it all started because one of us decided to sit next to the other on the bus, as it huffed toward school that first day of kindergarten. They don’t know the number of sleepovers, Mariah Carey lip syncs, or the amount of times that we both declared an undying love for A-Rod.

They don’t know that we were there for eachother during the brutal adolescent years. Through the acne, boy crushes, heartbreaks, and poor fashion choices.

They don’t know that we were in each other’s wedding party and that we gave speeches, read poetry, and said “cheers,” to lifelong happiness. They don’t know the tears that were shed when our hearts desired to be moms so badly. Or, the sheer joy we felt when we met one another’s babes and we finally were.  They don’t know the delight that our hearts experience when we see our children talking, playing, hugging or interacting together.

But they do know that walking with a friend and splashing in puddles is pretty much the best thing ever.


Your mom is one of the kindest, most thoughtful souls I have ever met. You bring her more joy than you could possibly know. She was meant to be your mother. Her heart couldn’t have been more ready for you. And just as she has always been there for me, she will always be there for you.

She is smart, so smart. Brilliant. She’s got the best sense of humor and can effortlessly exchange banter with the best of them. 

Sometimes your mom and I go for a stretch of time without talking or seeing one another. Life just gets in the way. However, we have known each other for decades, and the bond that was made all those years ago, will always remain.

With Love,


The Mount Everest of My Childhood

Growing up, my family lived in a cul-de-sac that resided in the middle of a rather large hill. The entrance to our neighborhood was at the top of the hill and our cul-de-sac was about halfway down, off to the right. We were at a terrible spot for playing basketball, riding a bike, or playing tag. You had to know how to chase downhill after a runaway ball, apply the brakes skillfully on your bike, or run at a sideways incline to try and catch your friend.

It was terrible for driving uphill during the winter after it had snowed and the roads froze over. For many years, my parents would park their cars at the top of the hill, where you entered our neighborhood, along with the majority of the neighbors, when a big snow hit. Otherwise, good luck climbing up the hill to get out of our neighborhood.

Our entertainment for many snowy days was to look out our big front room window and watch the cars attempt to make it up the hill. After several attempts, sometimes the cars would make it. Other times, they would abandon ship and their car would be left there mid-way up the hill on the side of the road until the temperature rose.


It snowed big the day before our wedding and then froze over. On that December morning of our wedding day, the roads, trees, basically everything, was covered in icy white snow. The bridal party met that morning at my parent’s house to get ready.

Later that afternoon, we were assembled and ready to make our way to the wedding venue. However, one of my bridesmaids couldn’t get her car back up the hill to get out of our neighborhood. My mind flashed back to the snow days of my youth where I’d stare out our window watching the cars attempt the trek up. Would hers be one that would make it to the top or would it be abandoned on the side of the hill like so many others had been in the past?

My dad had spent years, I mean years, learning the best way to get a car up our snowy, frozen hill. He’d avoid it altogether if he could, but sometimes he couldn’t. I would cheer for him from our front room window hoping he’d make it up. However, I always secretly wished that he couldn’t make it and he’d have to stay home with us on our snow days. Nonetheless, he was a good negotiator with the snow and ice.  

This time, as I sat in our Highlander, which my dad had pulled over to the side of the road mid-hill, with my hair up, make-up applied, wrapped up in my white wedding dress, I was glad he was good with snow and ice. We held our breath watching my dad thrash it out with the icy road. After several attempts, he was able to get the car up the hill. Huddled in the Highlander, where we had watched with suspense, my mom, maid of honor, and myself collectively let out a breath of relief.


It seemed if you were able to make it to the last set of mailboxes towards the top of the summit, you were golden. You could make your way to the top of the hill and out of the neighborhood from there. This was the case, if you climbed up on foot as well. Which, my brother and I had to do to catch the school bus, everyday for many years. I don’t remember many, “let me drive you to the bus stop,”  offers from our parents. Typically, rain or shine, snow or ice, we hiked up our hill to our stop.

There is one walk to the bus stop in particular that I will always remember. It had been cold and snowy the past few days, then the temperature started to rise. The snow and ice had begun to melt and elementary school was back in session. This meant that my brother and I had to make our daily ascent to the bus stop. However, the melting ice and snow made for the slushiest, slipperiest climb I can ever recall. My older brother, my mountain guide, went a couple strides ahead of me.

“ Walk in my footsteps,” he said. I was bundled up from head to toe and I was starting to sweat. My glasses started to steam up as I slipped and slid with each step. It was like one of those terrible dreams, where you are walking or running but aren’t gaining any distance, you’re stuck. One step forward, two slides back.

“Wait, I can’t do it!” I screamed. Tears stung my eyes. I was ready to throw in the towel and head back home to the warmth of our couch by the front window and watch the other kids try to make it up. There was no way we’d make it up to the top of the hill in time to catch the bus.

“Yes, you can do it.” my brother encouraged. “See that last set of mailboxes at the top?” He pointed with his entire right mitten. He let out a deep breath, vapors rose into the air like a fog. “All we have to do is make it there and the bus will see us and wait for us to walk up the rest of the way.”

I squinted up at the last set of mailboxes. “Okay.” I whimpered.

“Here, take my hand,” he offered. I grabbed his mitten, or maybe he grabbed my wrist, but either way, we slowly embarked towards the top, together. I huffed and puffed with all my might. This was the Mount Everest of my childhood.

Together we clambered and scrambled up to the bus stop. I think my brother even let out a chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Finally, we made it to the last set of mailboxes. We were safe. The bus wouldn’t fly past the stop unable to see us, as we flailed our arms and shouted. I let out a sigh of relief that we’d be seen.  


It was fitting that as I ascended up our snowy, white neighborhood hill eighteen years later to marry the love of my life, while myself wrapped in white, that I let out a similar sigh of relief. The Mount Everest of my childhood had been conquered, again, and for the last time. I was moving out of my parents house, moving out of that neighborhood. Never again would I wake up and look out the bedroom window of my adolescence to see that hill covered in a blissful white blanket of snow.

As the weather begins to turn and the last of the autumn leaves fall, my mind always drifts back to that neighborhood hill of my childhood. Back then, how I hated that climb. Now, thinking about it fills me up with so much nostalgia and joy, I almost want to drive back to the bottom of my old neighborhood hill and hike back up just to relive it again.


I dedicate this post to my brother, who will forever be my mountain guide and childhood climbing companion. He’s always been there with an encouraging word, attainable goal, or chuckle, when things get tricky. Justin, may we continually reminisce over the fond childhood memories of our family and the snowy days on our Mount Everest.  


I’m Still Thankful and I Will Rejoice

I follow @motherhoodthroughletterboards on IG. They post some of the funniest and most relatable quotes from moms.  They always get a laugh or a “Yaaasss,” response out of me. But recently, one quote in particular stuck out to me. So much so, I had to tag some other moms because I knew it would strike a chord with them too. The quote was this, “You don’t always have to enjoy every moment.” After reading this letterboard, I felt such a rush of relief. “Thank God,” I exhaled to myself.

I really despise the guilt that I sometimes feel when I am not enjoying a moment with my kids and I realize it. Mostly, because I know there are some women out there who want to be mothers so badly and I was one of them several years ago. I swore that I would never take for granted the moments I got to have with my kids. I promised myself that I would never complain or grow tired of the day to day. On my knees, as tears streamed down my face, I vowed that if I ever got pregnant, I would always be grateful. However, here I am and I admit it, I have taken for granted moments. I have complained or grown weary of the daily routines, repetitions, and the constant caring for.  Complaints like, “I swear all I do is make them food all day,” or “ I can never get anything done. I just want to do _________!” cross my mind fairly often.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I’ve done a lot of reflection regarding the things I am thankful for in my life. And I realize that just because you don’t enjoy every moment of something, does not mean you aren’t grateful for that thing in your life. Just because you aren’t enjoying every moment with your kids, does not mean you aren’t grateful for them. Bottom line, you don’t have to enjoy every moment of something in order to be thankful for it. So I haven’t broken that vow of thankfulness for my kids. Because I truly am thankful for them.

I wrote a story months ago about enjoying the moments with your kids. Even the hard ones. I have since revised my thinking. You don’t need to enjoy every moment. You don’t need to enjoy changing all the poopy diapers. You don’t have to enjoy fixing every meal or have the time of your life every time you play with them. However, you should rejoice in those moments. I feel there is distinct difference here. We can rejoice and we can be thankful in the tough moments of life, but we don’t have to enjoy them.

Motherhood is made up of moments. I still believe this. We count our time in moments as mothers because they come and go quickly. When you get to enjoy that first cup of coffee in the morning before you’re a short-order cook for the better half of the a.m., that’s a moment. When your son says, ”I love you so, so, so much Mama,” in his sweet two-year old native tongue, that’s a moment that’ll melt your heart right down. When the kids play together peacefully and actually practice the language and social skills you’ve worked on with them, that’s a moment. These are good moments and they make up for the ones that are hard.

When my husband and I were trying to conceive and I was on my knees praying that vow of thankfulness, I meant it. I am thankful. I am grateful. I am a human humbled by grace to admit that I don’t always enjoy every part of motherhood. I find relief and peace in this reminder that you don’t have to. I hope you do too.


Alas, sickness has fallen upon our household this past week or so. An uninvited, nasty virus has attacked our heads, eyes, throats, and noses. It has shot down all our defenses and my will to shower. I am the only member of our family whose eyes have remained unscathed with no infection. My throat is sore, my head hurts, and my nose is stuffy.  But my eyes are clear. I’ve been washing my hands obsessively. My hands are dry, cracked and bleeding. I have a cut on my right knuckle that will not heal up because each time I make a fist or use my hand in some way, the cut splits back open. I’ve changed out pillow cases, blankets, and towels religiously. But who wants to bet a million dollars I’ll be sporting the Quasimodo look by Thanksgiving day? Am I enjoying this moment of sickness among our family? Hard no. Am I rejoicing in it? Trying. I am rejoicing in the fact that doctors are a phone call or 10 minute drive away.  I am rejoicing because I can order my groceries online. I am rejoicing in the cuddles, all-day pajamas, and movie watching. I am rejoicing that we can afford any kind of medicine we might need.  I am thankful that even though the seasons of fall and winter are always tough on us healthwise, we’ve got everything we need to help get us through. I am not enjoying the moments we’ve had this past week being sick, but I am trying to rejoice in them.

This is extremely difficult. As I am writing this, I have actually been banished to our bedroom. My husband sensed my foul mood when he came home from work and insisted that I take a break. I would have left to go to a coffee shop and write, but I just don’t feel up to it. So here I am sitting in my freshly changed bed, applying hand cream to my old lady hands, and nursing my raw throat with hot tea. A mountain of laundry is attempting to shove me off the bed, but I refuse to let it. I am going to finish writing this entry and try to rejoice in the moment. My husband said that I seem more worried that I will get the eye infection over anything else. He is right on some level. Of course I don’t want my kids to suffer or be sick. But they’ve already had it or do have it and I don’t. I really don’t want the eye thing. It just makes it that much harder to take care of everybody else. That’s the honest truth. My husband and I have to take care of everyone no matter what happens. It is very hard to rejoice when you and your family are sick.

As we head into the holiday season, I’m going to hold on to this idea of rejoicing in all circumstances. While I absolutely love the letter board quote about not having to enjoy every moment, I feel like it led me to a greater mantra (you know how I love mantras)  that’s been placed on my heart and that is simply to: rejoice. I will rejoice in the unseen work that is being done. I will rejoice in the Father who cares for us so. I will rejoice that my family is altogether. We may be sick, but we are together.


So as you reflect on what you’re thankful for, take heart. Let go of the guilt and know that you are thankful, you are grateful, you are a great mom, who enjoys the lovely, sweet, funny moments with your kids. Rejoice. Rejoice that you are so greatly needed and loved.


Rejoice in the Lord always.

I will say it again: Rejoice! – Philippians 4:4


Did Johnny Really Just Say the F-word?

So last weekend, we were pretty certain that our two-year-old son said the word, “f***.” My husband and I weren’t positive if that’s exactly what he was saying at first. He said it a few times in the car on the way to our daughter’s birthday party at The Horse Farm. We brushed it off as a possible misunderstanding of him saying something else, even though he speaks pretty clearly for his age. It could have easily been another word though like, “truck, shark, farm, or fork.” At least, that’s I what I told myself.

However, the next day, he got his foot caught in his chair at the kitchen table and clear as day, “fuck!” was proclaimed out of his sweet little mouth. My husband’s widened eyes met mine, and our jaws dropped.  There was no denying that’s what he said and it was even in the correct context. I hate to admit this, but I am fairly certain he learned this from me…

I used to never swear. I would actually get mad at my college boyfriend when he would swear. I hated it. However, I’ve noticed an uptick in swear words spewing out of my mouth since having kids. Even more so since having two kids. I mean let’s face it, raising little humans is hard. Frustrations mount up daily and if not taken care of, in my case, they volcano out in varying forms of profanity. Surprisingly, my five-year-old daughter has never sworn, not once. But my son seems to pick up on much more, he repeats everything. He is at that age where he is half parrot, half monkey.

The scene from Meet the Parents keeps playing in my mind when the little boy repeats, “ass-hole.” Great going Ben Stiller.  But it happens, I know that. I just never thought my two-year-old kid would be saying the “f word.” In a way, it’s funny, like a story you tell when your kid is older, “Do you remember when Johnny swore for the first time?”  But in another way, I feel so saddened by this.

Let’s call it a wake up call. What I say and do, my kids pick up on. Obvious right? Well, not totally obvious, apparently. I have quite a sailor mouth when I’m alone. I guess though, I am not really alone when I am home with my two kids am I? I have a feeling that they pick up on so much more than I realize… That scares the bleep out of me.

The other day, I spilt my iced caramel macchiato all over our kitchen floor. I almost cried actual tears. I was so looking forward to that latte and it was expensive! Plus now, I had to clean up another mess. So completely silly to be upset over something like that I know, but I was.  My daughter was coloring at the kitchen table when it happened and noticed how upset I was. She offered encouragement and advice. “It’s okay mom, you can make coffee here at home.” She showed empathy. “I’m sorry that happened mom and that you are sad.” For this I am extremely proud of her. At least I am doing some things right. I am also glad I didn’t throw a two-year-old tantrum in front of her. Although, believe me, I wanted to. I didn’t swear either (out loud anyway) which again, I wanted to.

There must have been a time though (Honestly, times. Probably multiple times.), where I did swear out loud and it was heard by little ears. It was digested and stored in his memory (please be short-term) only to be retrieved at a later time and shared randomly during a family car ride.

What I say and do now significantly impacts my kids. If I ever want to feel like I’m a superstar being pursued by the paparazzi, I just take a look at my kids. I’ve got a couple of A-game stalkers with stealth observation skills right at my side. They remember things I say and do. Expect when I ask them to clean up…they don’t seem to hear or remember that.

It’s okay for my kids to see me frustrated or even angry about something. This is an emotion we all experience.  But, how I handle myself in those instances is so incredibly important. Let’s just say I’m working on it.

This past week I have been more conscious about what I say in general but mostly when I’m around the kids. There was that incident where my son shoved a full-sized towel in the bathtub full of water as I was getting him out. There was also the glow stick leakage event in my daughter’s bed. Both times, in my mind I thought, “I can’t believe you shoved the f-wording towel in the bathtub and I have to use about four dry towels to clean up the wet walls and door after bathtime.”  Or, “I saw this f-wording glow stick on the chair by your bed before I went to put your brother to sleep, I knew I should have put it away.”

The positive thing was I didn’t say anything inappropriate outloud. Was I visibly upset, you bet. But I held it together. A lot of it seems to be perspective for me. Things aren’t as big of a deal as I make them out to be.

The day before last, I pulled out our little potty for John to try and peak his curiosity a bit. He started sitting on it with his clothes on, asking questions etc. He then noted there was not water inside. “Nope buddy, no water in this potty.” I walked away for a few minutes and came back to John elbow deep in the actual toilet swishing the water around with his hand.  “Oh no John! We don’t put our hands in the toilet water, yucky!” We quickly and thoroughly washed his hands. Then Hadley and I burst out laughing. I could have easily gotten upset about this, but instead I approached the situation with humor and made an effort to understand my son’s curiosity. It actually was truly hilarious to see him swirling his hand around in the bowl. Later that night, Hadley told me that was her favorite part of the day and I had to agree.

I am happy to report, John has not said the “f-word,” again since last weekend. Maybe it was just a fluke… We shall see. Whatever the case may be, my goal going forward will be to try and look at these incidents through the perspective of my kids and with a little bit of humor. Am I going to get mad sometimes, of course. But taking a step back to look at the bigger picture, will help things not to seem so terrible and knock me down a few notches on the cussing scale.



Photo credit: John Stivers

Love at First Sight and Rendered Speechless

My Dear Hadley Girl,

I remember when they laid you on my chest for the first time and your innocent eyes looked up at me. We were still in the operating room. I felt numb from the neck down. Despite the condition my body was in there on the flat, sterile operating table, I had to see you. After all, you had been growing inside my body for the last nine months. I had felt your kicks, hiccups, and heard your heartbeat. We had waited for what felt like so long to even conceive you. You were finally here. You had breathed your first breath and cried your first tears.  So I lifted my heavy head as much as I could and strained my neck to keep my eyes fixated on you. It was all I could do to whisper, “Hi.”

“Hi, baby girl. Hi, Hadley. It’s me, mama. Hi.” I whispered over and over again. It was love at first sight and I was rendered speechless. Truly.


My first day back at work after being home with you for 4 months, was one of the hardest days of my life. I remember I rushed home that afternoon, dropped my bags in the entryway, quickly washed my hands, and reached out for you. I put you to my breast and you drank yourself to sleep. I could finally breathe. My heart shifted back into place.  My shoulders melted down and my body sunk into that living room couch.

That couch was the place where I daydreamed what you might look like before you were born, as I felt you sharpen your kickboxing skills inside my uterus. That couch was the place where we had spent hours when you were a newborn, nursing, napping, and cuddling. There on the couch, was where you and I had slowly started to learn about one another. Together, we cried, smiled, giggled and cooed amongst the pillows and cushions. That couch was home and my heart was there with you. My heart is always there with you.


Tomorrow, it’s your birthday and you are five years old. Looking back at all the pictures and videos of you on my phone, I feel like I hardly remember that baby. You have changed so much and I get the pure joy of seeing you everyday, but fail to realize how much you are indeed growing. You’re taller. You’re braver. You’re cleverer and funnier. You grow more complex and are filled with intricate detail only the Father could have designed. I don’t always know what you need or what you are thinking now. You can choose to hold your feelings inside or burst out with emotion. Sometimes when I look at you, I can still see your baby face, especially when you are sleeping.

You love to play. This sounds silly, of course a 5-year-old loves to play. But really, you love it. One weekend, your dad and I decided we wanted to spend some special time with you, just the three of us. We asked you what you wanted to do or if there was anywhere you wanted to go, and you requested, “I want to come home and play Legos. I want to build dinosaur cages  with you mommy and daddy. “ At the end of last school year before summer began, your preschool teacher asked you what you were looking forward to most for summer and you said, “I just want to stay at home and play and do nothing all day.” Horses, My Little Ponies, Calico Critters, doctor or veterinarian, restaurant, and dress-up or imaginary play, are just a few of your favorites. That doesn’t even include cars, trains, dinosaurs, or drawing pictures for your favorite people.

You thrive on meaningful time spent with the people that you love. You are not afraid to say hello to new people or ask someone to play.

Witnessing you make it all the way across the monkey bars for the first time all by yourself was unimaginable joy. I couldn’t help but cheer loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. You mastered riding your bike on two wheels this past year too. You tackle a new goal with fierceness, but it has to be when you are ready and not a moment sooner.

You’re the type of girl who loves to run until you’re breathless, kick the ball as hard as you can, and lay on the ground just to gaze up at the sky. Your heart and mind are filled with wonder. You jump up and down with excitement for so many things. It’s as if you are about to take flight among the birds in the sky. You’d probably love that.

Spaghetti without the spaghetti sauce, pizza without the pizza sauce, only the small oranges that you peel, not the big ones… and always water, never milk or juice. You know what you like and what you don’t.

We sometimes don’t get along. You get upset easily. You stomp to your room, slam the door, yell, throw toys, and just want to be left alone. Minutes later, you want your blankies and are typically ready to hug it out and debrief. You can be moody, picky, and kind of bossy. But you are also thoughtful, helpful, eager, and creative. You’re a friend when it counts and show empathy for others. I am so proud of the girl you are growing up to be.


We have a newer couch now that we got a couple years ago. We needed a sleeker one to fit a smaller space. But it is still the place where we talk, snuggle and get to know one another. Now, it has crumbs in every nook and cranny. It’s been barfed on, peed on, and spilled on. The cushions are starting to get lumpy and saggy from all the jumping, fort building, and Disney/Pixar movie watching. It’s still our place though where we cuddle when you are feeling sick or when you get hurt. It’s the place where we read stories, tell jokes, or don’t have to say anything at all. It’s the first place you go when you wake up in the morning. Armed with your stuffed animal entourage, three to four blankies, and your water bottle, you settle in at your favorite spot on the couch. At each morning’s first sight, your bed head hair, rosy cheeks, and sleepy smile greet me and I’m in love. I manage to utter a, “Good morning,”  as I’m rendered speechless still.

Love you H. Happy Birthday!

Love, Mom

My Fashionista

“Had, this one is pretty,” I suggest as I lay down a red dress with a pink and navy bow print down on her bed.

“Oooh, yeah that’s a good one. And it’s red!” Hadley declares. For a few more minutes my daughter and I comb through her closet and dresser drawers for all clothing items and accessories red. Tomorrow was red day at preschool and we had to look the part. I’m trying a new thing this school year where we pick out her clothes the night before rather than in the morning. So far, we are three days in and it’s working. Sure beats the frantic dig through the clean laundry pile on our bed, the quick grab of whatever is on top of the stack in her dresser drawer, or the last minute wardrobe change Hadley decides is absolutely necessary three minutes before it’s time to leave.

“I want to wear the red dress with the red skirt like this.” Hadley drapes the dress over herself and then lays the skirt on top, peeking down at the combination.  She bounces a little on her toes with excitement. The skirt is a darker crimson red and has tulle underneath for some extra volume. The dress is a bright tomato red and a thicker cotton material.

I cringed inside. That’s not going to look good. She’ll look like the Little Mermaid when she wrapped that boat sail around herself and tied it with a rope. “Oh, wow honey,” I lamented,  “Well, I don’t think that will work.”

“Yes, it will.” She insisted.

“Yeah, um, usually you don’t wear a dress and a skirt at the same time.” I matter-of-factly stated, as if I’m the expert in all things fashion. This advice coming from the mom who is braless in a pit-stained tank top with gray sweatpants. In my defense it was getting close to 7 p.m., bedtime was eminent. I have totally seen a dress and skirt worn at the same time. It sometimes works, but in this case, hard no. She’d look pretty silly.

I’ve always taken pride in how my kids dress, especially with my daughter. From the cute newborn outfits to the matching pajama sets. I love picking out her clothes or outfit for the day. Until fairly recently, I felt like Hadley was pretty nonchalant about what clothes she’d wear. She would let me pick out her clothes or just want to stay in her pajamas all day. When she started to get a little more opinionated about dressing herself, I would offer her a couple of outfit choices to pick from. Now, however, she mostly always likes to pick out her own clothes. From mismatching pajama sets, to brightly- colored clashing tops and pants, she’s always so certain about what she wants to wear.

Somehow I got this idea in my head, that if my kids aren’t dressed a certain way, or polished enough looking, that it will reflect poorly on me. That I would appear as a bad mom. I was worried about her looking silly. I was worried that I might look silly. That she wouldn’t be put together enough. That I wouldn’t be put together enough.

“Mom, that’s what I want to wear. It ‘ll look good,” she reassured me. We hung up the dress and the skirt on the dresser drawer knobs and went about our bedtime routine.

The next morning, the smell of toasted English muffin and sliced oranges filled the house. Blaze and the Monster Machines was playing in background on TV and Legos were scattered across the family room floor. “Okay Hadley timed to get dressed! Come upstairs and get ready!”  I called out, fastening my second earring.

“I’m coming!” she yelled from down below, snapping together the last few pieces of her Lego creation. I walked into her room and my eyes fell upon her red dress and skirt hanging off her dresser. Quickly, I grabbed the skirt and hung it back up in the closet. “I bet she won’t even remember the skirt,” I said to myself as I swiped the dress off the hanger.

“Here you go,” I said handing her the red dress, underwear, and leggings.

“ Mom.” she states, “You forgot the skirt.”

Dang it.

“Oh you’re right I did.” I trudged to her closet and unhooked the skirt with a sigh. I handed it to her and folded my arms, waiting to see how bad it would look. I had expected her to slip the skirt on over her dress, but she slipped it under the dress instead.

“There.” she beamed.

My heart sank. She looked beautiful. Tears stung my eyes and my heart filled with remorse. She sort of swung her hips side to side, letting the red dress effortless fall over the skirt. The skirt gave the dress some volume from underneath and it looked like they were meant to go together all along. I felt so silly. Why had I doubted her? Why had I worried so much about how she would look? Clearly, the amount of pride and joy she felt from picking out this outfit on her own was immeasurable. She had such a vision that I just couldn’t see.

“Hadley, you look beautiful!” I declared. “What a fashionista you are!”

“What’s a fashionista?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“It’s someone who can put together outfits in ways other people wouldn’t have thought of.” I explained. I went on, “Hadley, I’m sorry I doubted your red outfit choice. I didn’t think the skirt and the dress would look good together, but they do. You were right.”

“Thanks mom, “ she grinned.

When we arrived at preschool later that morning, Hadley bounded with delight toward her classroom. “Oh my what a pretty red dress!” Her teacher proclaimed as Hadley entered in through the door. Hadley stopped for a moment, glancing down to admire her own outfit. She looked back at me with a smile of pure elation.  The amount of pride I felt as I admired my daughter there at the classroom door, far surpassed the gratification that any perfectly planned outfit or carefully thought out wardrobe scheme would have provided.

I am constantly humbled by what my kids can see that I can’t. I sometimes can’t get past what other people might think. But they can. There is something carefree about my kids’ sweet spirits that I hope to glean some perspective from. I’m working on it. For now, I’ll let my little fashionista take the wheel when it comes to her own outfit choices, with some parameters from me of course. I’ll work on letting go of my own insecurities as a mom and hope to realize that how my kids appear does not make the call on whether or not I’m a good mom. It is far more important that their character and the choices that they make as individuals are what I base my success on. That is what my focus should be. Not their color coordinating skills, although, I’ll always be there to give my opinion.  I have also learned, thanks to my fashionista, that a dress and a skirt can be worn together and totally work.


Moms Poop, Too

No one ever told me, you’ll miss your pre-mom, peaceful defecations.

There were many things I was told would be hard or that I would miss after having a baby.  Like sleep, or having time to yourself, but no one ever told me that what once was such a private daily routine would turn into a not-so-private and sometimes not-so-daily (for me not-so-daily, for my kids sometimes multiple times a day) family event.

Ever since becoming a mom, poop has become a constant part of my family’s vocabulary. Before having kids, my husband and I would rarely talk about our poop regularities or issues. Now, it’s a freely given family conversation from car trips to eating at the dinner table (yeah probably not the best time, but believe me, it comes up).  My husband and I text about the kids’ poops and our own, daily. Actually everyone pretty much tells me about their poops and it’s all I can do to make sure I poop once every day.

Now as a mom of two kids under the age of five, I can poop in less than three minutes flat. My body has adapted since becoming a mom. It knows that if it needs to poop, it better happen quick.  I almost never poop alone. Usually there is at least one set of curious eyes peering down between my legs to see what mom’s poop looks like. “Mama, that one looks like a dinosaur!” Or I’m always multitasking like yelling at the kids to stop fighting, helping to tie My LIttle Pony braids, or connecting that tricky Lego piece.  Ever had your crying kid sit on your lap as you poop? I have. Breastfed while pooping? Yep.

My husband somehow still gets about twenty minutes of peace and quiet in the bathroom to poop everyday.  Me on the other hand, will see the kids are playing peacefully and try to sneak away to the hall bathroom. I sit down and begin, only to hear arguing and toys crashing three seconds later. A cry for help follows, “Mom!”

“I’m pooping! I just need to poop! Moms poop, too!” I yell back.

Weekends when my husband is home and I have to poop, are the best. I know I will get uninterrupted time to myself. Sometimes, I don’t even need to poop, I just imply that I do so I can have a few minutes of peace.

This is what is has come to.

Can I just take a moment to talk about post-birth poops? Holy mother. I’ve only ever had c-sections, so I don’t know about bowel movements after vaginal labor, but I can tell you that after my first c-section, I now understand the term,  “shitting rocks.” I thought my insides would explode and I’d have to go back to the hospital. Call it postpartum, hormonal, irrational thought, but it was so bad. I then learned that you have to keep taking your stool softeners for a while after having a baby. Yep, keep taking them.

Poop creeps it’s way into our family conversations or games daily. It has even found its way into once sweet phrases. “I love you more than the whole universe toilet poop!”

Don’t even get me started on how often we talk or tease about farts or toots.

No one ever told me I’d miss my pre-mom poops or how much poop related activities or conversations would dominate my life. And while that may be the case, no one ever told me that some of my favorite memories would be poop-related:

The first few days of my daughter’s life, when her mustard poop squirted across the room and splattered against the wall mid-change. Laughter erupted between my friend and myself as we realized that as a new mom I truly was in, “deep shit.”  

Two years later, my daughter would talk about having, “big happy poops.” She’d hide under the kitchen table in her squat position every time to poop. I’ll never forget peeking down at her under the table as she looked up a me like a disgruntled old man, “I need some space Mama. I’m pooping.”

Then, there was that time we went to the Tulip festival in Mount Vernon and it was so crowded.  My daughter was just getting over a cold but I was adamant that we had to have the “perfect,” picture of her among the tulips. But with all the wind, rain and people, we never got that perfect picture with the flowers and needed leave much earlier than I had hoped. On the way home, our two-and-a-half year old was insistent that she had to poop and she didn’t want to do it in her carseat.   We had to pull over in an abandoned parking lot so that she could squat in the back of the Highlander to poop in her diaper. As she pooped, she played with tennis balls. Giggles erupted as she bounced the balls and tossed them in air trying to catch them as they landed, all while she pooped. That’s when I got the perfect picture.

The countless number of songs, books read, and silly games we have played while one kid is on the toilet or the other is squating in his diaper, have created so many poop-related, wonderful, happy memories.

I realize how much my kids love me because they don’t even care about my stinky poop. They come in the bathroom just to have a conversation with me, show me something they are playing with, or just to make sure I’m still there.

When I think about poop dominating our lives as parents, I have come to the conclusion that it really isn’t the poop that has taken over, it’s our children. It’s these amazing, unique individuals that require care in every area imaginable– including when they poop. And they require that care at anytime of day imaginable–even during the times when I have to poop. There is a huge amount of sacrifice and vulnerability that comes along with parenting. The love that is poured into every diaper change, bathroom pow-wow, or family poop joke, is immeasurable whether we realize it or not.  I am so grateful to be the mama of my two children, even if it does mean the sacrifice of my own peaceful pooping.