Hey Parents: Our kids are listening.

The photo above may not mean anything to you, and that’s okay but it means literally everything to me. Let me explain.

Like so many of you, the recent pandemic has upended our normal life. Our daughter no longer goes to school or daycare. Under normal circumstances, I already work from home but have surrendered the official office space to my husband, and I’m now conducting what feels like hundreds of virtual work meetings a day from the comfort/lack of comfort of our dining room.

The scene is messy, I’ll be honest. Papers litter the countertops, cords everywhere. It all gets piled on each other at the end of the day when we convert office back to a working kitchen, and then spread back out the next day. Normalcy is gone and I’m having trouble even remembering what it feels like.

Where’s that pen? My notebook? Is this meeting on TEAMS or Zoom or WebEx? How did I get double-booked and Why is this day taking so long and How is it already almost over?

The good news is the coffee machine is now at arms reach and the fridge about ten steps away. And the other good news, yet a difficult part, is that through the kitchen I can see our five-year-old in the living room, with her ABC Mouse or PBS Kids, or with her workbooks and crayons and baby dolls trying her best to play independently while not being ignored.

A schedule hangs on the door of the fridge, signaling meal times. That, I can say for certain, is being ignored. We’re doing our best. You are too.

We’re operating in different spaces, mentally and physically all-day long until we come together at the end of muddling through the chaos, getting back to our few hours of what sort of feels like normal until we rest our heads on our pillows that night.

I know I’m not alone here. There’s comfort and uncomfortableness in that.

One evening, I was talking with a friend on the phone about potential layoffs at her company, how things were going where I work, and just life and parenting overall. Elsie, our five-year-old, hands me the note you see above. “Mommy, I wrote you a letter.”

I replied. “Thanks love. I am so proud of you with how well you wrote your name!” and was back to my conversation with my friend.

“Mom! Do you know what it says?”

No. (I mean, what does she want it to say?)

“It says - Mom, I know work is really hard right now and just tell me how I can help you.”

I melted, right there on the floor of my new office/old kitchen. It was time for a heart to heart.

First of all, I felt so proud of the empathy this little person was showing in this true and honest moment. And secondly, I felt the whip of the world right there, realizing how much of my every day she was listening to, absorbing. I felt, quite honestly, that during those hundreds of virtual meetings she was so tuned into her living-room activities that she wasn’t listening to mine.

I was wrong.

Parents, our kids are listening more than we know. They’re listening especially close right now, as their worlds have turned upside down too and they’re working to make sense of it all, just like we are. They’re listening for clues, for pieces to the puzzle, to shape their reality of life. How they shape it will inform their memories of this time, and quite possibly the actions and reactions in the future. So yes, they’re listening.

I’m not saying let’s stop talking or start hiding what’s happening in the world around us. I’m actually arguing for the opposite. I’m just hoping that the lens we view our struggles through is one of optimism, of truth, and is met with all of the things we want to instill in our children - resilience, faith, trust and hope. And of course, belief that no matter the barrier, we can get through hard things together.

All of this happened a couple of weeks ago, and just today Elsie and I were having a conversation about my pregnant belly growing bigger and bigger. I pointed it out and said “Look how big our baby is making my tummy, Elsie.” with a warm smile and a hand to my middle.

She replied, “…and your legs too, mom!”

I really wanted to roll my eyes, say something self-deprecating about the growing thickness of my thighs. I looked into her green eyes and took a breath. There’s no way I could spoil this sweet moment for her, or for myself really by doing that. And I’m so glad I pivoted from that dark space to one of light.

“Well a growing belly needs strong legs to support it, don’t you think?”

She agreed, and we went on with our day.

Parents, we can’t control everything and in fact, we can control very little. The world is moving fast and it feels like those things we can control are slipping through our fingers like sand, so fast and unmanageable. Nobody is going to swim through these uncharted waters perfectly, and so we have to give ourselves a little grace. But remember this, and I really believe it - we control the narrative. We control our reactions. And that’s a good thing because there are people watching and listening with a whole lot at stake.

XO

Meagan

Be Brave.

This one’s for me.

Because I just don’t want to forget.

We found ourselves deep in the woods, following an old trail. Through evergreen trees, just bloomed trillium flowers were signaling the arrival of springtime.

Your dad was leading the way, finding the best path forward. I trailed closely behind you, closing our pack of three. He joked we were going on a bear hunt, just like your favorite story book.

The forest was quiet. We heard our heavy breaths as we traveled uphill. We heard the crunching of branches under our feet. We heard the occasional bird sing and we watched as the sun fought its way through the treetops to shine on our shoulders. We felt the warmth.

And then I heard you.

You’re so brave, Elsie. Elsie, you’re so brave.

You were just thinking, out loud. Your inner voice apparent.

You’ve got this. You can do this all by yourself, Elsie.

Your hot pink, sparkly light-up rain boots crossed over puddles and through old ferns. My heart swelled.

You believe in yourself. When I tell you how strong you are and how brave you are, you listened. That power is part of you.

I just need to capture this moment. I need to remember forever and frankly, I need to harness that kind of power sometimes too.

We focus so much about the importance and the necessity of positive self talk. And through hearing those words flow so freely from your little body, I learned something else - you taught me something really big in that moment, deep in the woods - that hearing others be kind to themselves inspires kindness everywhere.

Days later, in the car on the way to swimming lessons, I told you that I thought you were so brave. And that if you got scared, just remember how brave you are.

Without hesitation, you replied.

I know.

Knowing you believe in yourself helps me believe in me. It helps me believe in others, and it makes me want to believe in you even more, if that would even be possible but it isn’t because girl, you’ve got this. And I’ve got your back. And I’ve got me too.

XO

Mamas, they won't need us like this always.

MOM! Mom! MOM! MAMA!

I peel my eyes open and check the clock. It’s 3:34 a.m. I take a deep inhale and slowly exhale. Some nights, in that space of time, she falls back to sleep and I do too. But I can tell by the calls that continue to come, not this time. So as sweetly as possible at 3:34 a.m., I call back to her.

Yes, Elsie? What do you need?

I knew the answer. It was always the same. It’s been the same every single time. The answer keeps me exhausted. The answer never changes.

You, mama. I need you.

Facing a battle between awake-me and still-sleeping me, not wanting awake-me to win at 3:34 a.m., I throw my legs out of bed, feet gripping the soft carpet beneath. I put one foot in front of the other, taking heavy, labored steps. I make my way around the dining room table to the entrance of her bedroom. The night-air is illuminated by the light of a pink and white unicorn nightlight. The blankets have fallen off her princess-pajamas and her eyes are bright with anticipation.

Mom, lay with me for just one minute, please?, she pleads.

And I do. Each time. I lay with her at 3:34 or at 2:41 or 1:57 in the morning for one minute or five minutes and at this point, awake-me has celebrated victory. I run my fingers through her soft blonde hair and I watch her drifting back to dreamland. She’s safe and she’s secure and she’s beautiful.

And I’m tired.

But another battle takes shape in my mind, this one between my mind right now in this moment and my heart of the future. My mind right now in this moment wants the warmth of my own bed and a three-year-old who consistently sleeps through the night. My mind right now in this moment wants equal work between me and her dad during nighttime, but during nighttime wake-ups, she only wants me. We’ve tried sharing the work, but it results in tears and bad feelings and is honestly, just a lot more work than my zombie-like walk to her bedroom some nights. Resentful, I am not. Tired, I am.

And my heart of the future longs for those words.

Mom, I need you.

Mom, lay with me for just one minute.

Because my heart of the future remembers just figments of the sweetness of her voice, and only somewhat how that hair felt exactly as my fingers made their way from front to back. I am no fortune teller, of course, but I know my heart and I have a pretty good guess that longing for those things and for those moments, it will.

To the moms and dads and aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas who share work in the village that it takes to raise our tiny children while they are tiny, I want you to remember this:

They won’t need us like this always.

So those moments for you, whatever they are - the games we play at the dinner table to encourage eating one piece of something, the fights over nap times or bath times or dinner times, too - they’re temporary. The meltdowns in the grocery store or the seasonal flu that we become the world’s best nurse during - they’re fleeting, actually. And the soft and sweet words when our babies and little ones honestly and genuinely tell us their truth - that they need us, even for just one sweet minute at 3:34 a.m., is just that - a minute, a moment. We live through it and then it’s gone.

Let’s find the joy there. Let us own the feelings of tiredness and let us figure out how to cherish those moments where we are the most exhausted. Because we’ve earned it. Joy exists and is so rich in those moments where we feel down and out, when we feel just done - when we have to rise up and reclaim our value, and let the heart of the future win, every time.

Because the heart of right now will thank us.

XOXO

Meagan

Baby, breakdown. It's all right.

Have you ever had one of those days? I mean, one of those days. Heck, it might not be a full-fledged day at all. It might just be a moment. A snapshot. A small little bit of time where everything feels heavy. And then you move forward and get past it and everything feels normal again. But that weight doesn't go unnoticed and it doesn't get lost. It stays with us, probably because the fact that they existed make all of the other days taste just a little bit sweeter.

Please be nodding your head right now so I don't feel crazy. Thanks.

My work had me on the road this year, a lot. Don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I love the chance to travel and I love the impact that I really do make. I love my team and I love the organization I work for. But this year, I was on the road a lot.

I was in a lot of hotel rooms and on a lot of airplanes and in a lot of Ubers and Lyfts and I ate alone in a lot of restaurants and was thankful for Facetime a lot, too. Because Facetime, friends, is how those of us who travel for work stay in touch with our families and blow nighttime kisses to our little ones and stay connected (and to help us be visually aware that the house hasn't caught fire in our absence).

And this means that I was tired, a lot. Often times, I will take the earliest flight out so I'm not having to leave the day before, and I take the latest flight home, sneaking in so I'm at the table for breakfast. You guys, tired. Really, really tired. Because when I am home, I feel the need to cram all I can into those days. Family dinners, birthdays, adventures, snuggles. All of it. So, tired at work and tired at home and I finally had my moment where it caught up with me.

I broke down.

I had just boarded an airplane in Dallas. I was coming from somewhere and headed somewhere else. I hadn't had a chance to use said Facetime in a few days, because of the level of busy and time differences and all of those other excuses we give ourselves. I was boarding the plane, and my phone rang. It was home. And the connection failed. And then it failed again. And I wanted it to connect so badly, that my eyes welled up with tears and I tried calling back. My hands were shaking. My breath heavy as I kept hitting the little camera button on my iPhone. Over and over again.

I took my window seat in row 6, feet up against those in first class. My phone rang again. This time it worked. It was hubs and daughter and they were laughing and rolling around on the floor of her bedroom. She was telling me stories of the day before and their adventures and the air was sprinkled with I love you mamas and a few I get to see you soon mamas and quickly I found my voice cracking and the need to hang up the phone overcame me.

I texted Joey, "Sorry, I can't right now."

The weight, you guys. I meant those two words. I really felt, I believed, that I couldn't. I couldn't be on another airplane and I couldn't stand one more night away and I couldn't miss another dinner and I couldn't look into her sweet and beautiful eyes via that stupid Facetime app one more time.  I. Just. Couldn't.

The tears were falling at this point and I was in full-fledged ugly but secret cry mode. I will admit that I was wiping my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve, equally embarrassed and disgusted in myself. Row six. Just behind first class. Two men sat to my left. One offered to stow my bag. One asked me if I had kids at home.

For the reader - if you see a woman on an airplane and she's just hung up the phone and she's crying, DO NOT ask her if she has a family. I have it on good authority that this will encourage the tears to fall harder and faster.

A little while passed. The first man looked at me, straight in the eyes with the warmest smile I'd think I'd ever seen. He said to me, "I don't know what it is. But it's life."

That.

Thank you, stranger. For the reassurance that we all have these kinds of moments. Whatever our jobs are or if we have the job of raising our kiddos full time - everyone has those days, those moments and those little bits of time where everything feels so heavy. And he was so right, it's life.

I later learned that this stranger was also a pilot traveling home to his family. During the in-flight service, the flight attendant handed me two mini bottles of Titos with my orange juice, and sweetly and quietly said: "Honey, it's on us."

I arrived home a couple days later, and that weight was gone, but not forgotten. I was welcomed by bear hugs and I brought gifts so that probably helped. We had so much to talk about and the lump in my throat came back a little. I want to live in these kinds of moments forever. With my people. On the couch. Snuggled up, my soul thick with love.

There's always going to be something. Something that challenges us, something that demands our attention in a new or different way. Something that takes us away from home longer than we want or something that forces us to act differently than we may have wanted. There's always something. And I guess that's the lesson - take that something and find a way to make that push you forward. Propel you. The hard times can be the good times. In fact, when you look back, its what we learn in the hard times that make us better in the good.

Cheers, friends. It's life.

XOXOXO

Meagan

Filling up the Tank of Positive Self-Talk

On a beautiful winter day - one where the sun crept out from behind the solemn grey clouds, warming our bodies while changing the rainsoaked ground to a glossy shade of mud - on that day, our daughter turned three.

It was a Saturday.  We spent the day as a family of three together, or to be fair, a family of three plus a dog and two cats and five chickens and an undisclosed number of motorcycles. We played. We adventured. And we celebrated. Like I said, it was beautiful.

Throughout the day, I watched her. And I thought of my hopes and dreams for her over her lifetime. Hopes I can't yet imagine and then hopes that seem so clear to me right now.

Stay steadfast in your love for everything around you.

Be hopeful for the future and thankful for your past.

Love yourself as much as I love you.

Don't let anyone break you down, ever.

I know, these are grand and ambiguous goals for me to have for her. But as we run and jump and play, I see the wonder in her eyes and I feel the genuineness of her belly-laughs. I want her to be this way forever. Full of life and wonder and so very curious and open to learning. She chases giant bubbles in the field behind our little house, catching some and missing others. She trips and she falls. She looks to me for a reaction, for affirmation. She smiles, gets back up, and keeps on playing, unphased. Her mud-soaked leggings and glistening rain boots carrying her through this brief flash of childhood.

I find myself wishing for the power to protect her for eternity, to anticipate what might knock her down and stop those moments before they show up.

But that power doesn't exist. As parents, we do the very best we can to give our little ones all of the love and all of the protection we can. And at the end of the day, our best power is in the tools we give. And the best tools are those of ensuring her Self-Talk-Tank is overflowing with positivity. It's chalk full of only everything good. 

See the positive. See the hard work. Communicate it. Recognize it. Communicate it again.

Because I think we, as parents, can own that for a while. That's something we can do. When she fails, we praise the trying. When she succeeds, we praise the hard work it took to find the success. When she falls, we celebrate getting back up. When she thinks she can't, we encourage her that she can.

See the positive. See the hard work. Communicate it. Recognize it. Communicate it again.

And at a small but mighty three-years-old, we have to know how much she's watching. She's observing. She's forming ideas about the way things work; the expectations she'll have in her lifelong relationships start here. The behavior she sees in her parents and her aunts and uncles and grandparents - those actions become her truths. And it's about the small things too, as much as it is the big things.

Does she see her dad steal a kiss in the kitchen, while I'm making dinner? Does she see him hold my hand while we snuggle in for a movie at night? Does she hear of the I love yous and the You made my day extra special sounds from her day? Are those notes of affection and kindness things she'll come to expect? I hope so. But I hope so because they are there. And they are good.  Because she also watches me catch a second glance at my body in the mirror, or touch the wrinkles on my forehead with a disapproving breath. I vow to pay attention to these moments where my own Self-Talk Tank feels empty, and force them to be full again. Because she's watching all of it.

It's my job. It's my job to love me, and love her dad and love our world because she's learning what all of that means. My hopes and dreams for her depend on this time with her.

I want her tank to be full of the good stuff. Of the love and the magic and the power of being not just a smart and fierce three-year-old girl, but of also the responses and the reactions she must pull out in the moments life throws her curve balls. In those moments where she might be led to believe she's not enough, or question her worth, I want her to easily pull from that tank and remember just how wonderful she is. At three, or at thirty.

My advice, for what it's worth: Keep your Self-Talk Tank full too. Not just for you, but for the people in your world.

XOXO

Meagan

Celebrating the victories.

The day was long.

I mean, it was one of those long days. And we were in the middle of it. There was so much to do, so much I'd already done, and the time was slipping away faster than the early spring daylight.

Over the last few months, we've tasked ourselves with more than a handful of special projects, focusing on their completion, sometimes wearily after the completion of our day jobs. After we put the little one to bed and when most people would be sinking into their sofas with a good book or the most recent binge-worthy show, we were in front of our laptops, desk lamps illuminating whatever it was we were working on at the time. The clock would tick, our eyelids would feel the gravity of the day pulling them closed, and we worked until we weren't doing these projects justice. 

The alarm clock would cheerily sing in the morning, and we'd do it all again the next day. Projects have deadlines, people.

The Climb.

It was feeling like we were climbing a mountain that we couldn't see the top of. We didn't know if there was a top, if the effort would be worth the climb. But we were climbing that mountain, damn it, because opportunities to be your creative selves (with your husband, doing stuff you both love) don't come every day. But that mountain, it was steep. Who am I kidding....it still is. And we had to climb the mountain after Elsie was in bed because if we didn't, if we prioritized time to work over time with her, well...we might miss out on a beautiful moment, or in this case, learn something about ourselves that we really needed to know.

So on this early spring day, between the breakfast battles and the bathtime bubbles, the sun made a rare appearance. "Outside, Mama, outside." For you moms-of-toddlers out there, you will feel me when I say I blame that phrase on the Bubble Guppies and now it will be stuck in your heads, too. Anyway, we put on our boots and jackets and headed outside.

"Line up, line up. Everybody line up. It's time to go outside." See, there it is.

In our particular outside, we are lucky to have a few acres of land, which my husband has manicured into a motocross track, mini bike track, and go-kart track. These activities and experiences are part of why our land is deemed Lancaster Land. Elsie and I walk the ups and downs of the track, splashing in mud puddles and weaving in and out of the tall pine trees. 

We come to one of the jumps. We walk up, slowly, hand-in-hand. She looks at me, throws her hands in the air and exclaims, "Mama, I DID IT! I DID IT, Mama."

She sure did.

I looked down at her blonde curls, her grin stretching across her two-year-old face, and the pride beaming from her body. She did it. She was proud and I was proud of her. What seems like such a usual feat, a small hurdle to me, was worth celebrating to her. She felt a victory, and together we celebrated. 

And then I started thinking as we continued on our trek up and down and around, and back again. I was reflecting on all of my work lately, my accomplishments, and the work that the hubs and I had completed. I thought about the big goals and the small wins and even the losses that stung so hard.

I thought to myself, I want to be more like my two-year-old.

I want to celebrate the small victories. I want to climb a small hill on the path to climb the big mountain and I want to feel that win. Even though the summit might be so far away that I can't even see it, I want to celebrate the victory and take a moment to just feel good about where I'm at, not focusing on where I'm going. Although the next steps and the action plans and the to-do-lists will always be charging fast at you, the immediate feel-good, pat-on-the-back celebrations need to be slowed down for.

Every day, there's a reason to stand up, throw our hands in the air, and say (even if it's just to ourselves), I did it.

XOXO

Sometimes you gotta roll with it.

I had a plan for today.

And if I'm being honest, it was a really, really good plan. It was a plan full of girlfriends and dirtbikes and road-tripping and before today's plan, I planned even more getting ready for today's plan. I premade lunch for the family to eat while I was gone. We made sure my bike was running, the oil was fresh, the air filter was clean and that my bag was packed and ready by the front door. I scheduled the coffee maker to start brewing my beautiful, thick, black wake-me-up-juice promptly at 6:30 on a SUNDAY morning, because today folks, I had a plan. It was about to get real. I had one foot out the door.

And then the night before, somewhere in-between coffee-maker programming and the wind chime alarm on my iPhone gently rattling me awake, something happened. And my dreams of a day in the dirt with some of the coolest girls I know was foiled.

It was right around midnight. I was woken by an unusual sounding cry coming out of our little girl's room.

"Mama. Mama. Help me. Mama."

Let me pause for moment, because this was preceded by the sweetest nighttime in the history of nighttimes. I know it won't convey well over words on a screen, so I won't even try. But as I closed her door after putting her down, my eyes welled up and I thought to myself, Please, never forget this moment, ever.  It stole the air from my breath for that one tiny second. I choked down a tear to find the air again.

Fast-forward back to midnight.

I called to her, to let her know I was making the short trek from our room to hers. I flipped on the light, and there it was. On her. In her hair. On her sheets. Everywhere. Dreaded vomit. I know. Gross. And my poor, scared, sick baby. Ugh. Her tummy bug from last week had returned, and we fought the nasty, evil beast for hours and hours, until she finally drifted off to dreamland. I stayed awake watching, waiting, hoping that the tummy-devil was gone for good.

My alarm went off. The coffee was brewing. I snuck out of bed and grabbed a quick shower. The hubs and I shared one of those thank the universe we have each other kind of hugs, and I started texting the girls. Today, I wasn't road-tripping, dirtbike riding, hanging out with girlfriends kind of days. Today, I was going to live that #momlife hard. Today, I was going to work and my job was the most important, best job on the planet - making sure our kiddo felt safe, comforted, and got back to being her healthy happy self soon. Today, like most days, the biggest lesson is to just roll with it.

I slipped on my most comfy jeans and oversized sweater and remembered these sweet Mom Socks that my friend Kellie had given me. If any of the days deserved a uniform like this, today would be the day.

Kellie has just started the Mom Socks line, and she was kind enough to send me a few to try on. You guys, I'm not going to tell you how cute and comfy they are (okay, they are), because what I love most about what Kellie is doing with Mom Socks is that she's supporting other moms, just like me. It's a product created for moms, by moms, and she's working create a meaningful, safe, empowering work environment for women. I am a big fan of the pay-it-forward kind of universe we can create together, and that's exactly what Kellie and her team are doing.  It's big stuff, and it's starting with cute socks.

Kellie told me that the reason she created this brand, and this line specifically, was for one reason only - to remind moms just how important they are, how important their jobs are, and how valued they really are. And if we can feel just a little bit spoiled, as moms, by having fancy, good feeling feet, then that's a big win. Gush. See, how cool is that?

I shuffled around all day in my Mom Life socks, grabbing juice, noodles, crackers, popsicles...lather, rinse, repeat.

Don't get me wrong. I'll forever be sad that I missed a fun spring ride day, but I'll never regret making a choice to be here, to be present, to be a mom to our little girl. I'm sure there was beauty at the track (I know there was because, hello, Instagram), but there was a whole lot of beauty here at home too. And the only reason I was able to experience the snuggles, the hugs and the I need you, Mama loves is because I made a choice, a choice to just roll with it.

You can find these socks online and at select (and growing) retailers.

XO

Just fake it until you make it.

I'm probably a lot like you.

I'm good at some things. I'm really good at other things. I'm not-so-good at different things, and there are things that I just shouldn't do, ever.

And then there's a bucket full of things that I want to be good, or better at. There are those things that I've put on a list to learn, to invest time in, and that list is somewhere and hasn't seen a lot of action lately. I haven't crossed anything off in years. I could tell you that I'm too busy to work on them, which might be true. I could tell you that after all, I'm just not very good at them, which also might be true. But the truest reason for the inactivity is this: I'm just not confident enough to keep trying. 

There. I said it. I'm just not confident enough.

Earlier this week, our little girl saw the hand-me-down acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room, propped up against the wall, collecting a fair amount of dust. She tip-toed over to it (that's her thing these days and no, I have no idea where it came from), and asked me to sit next to her.

"Mama, sit."

I looked at her, smiled.

"Mama, sit."

So, I sat. I picked up the guitar. I grabbed the pick too. I pretended to know what I was doing. I put the pick between my thumb and finger and began to draw out a few terrible, off key sounds. I took my left hand and slid it up and down the guitar strings, pretending to find chords. I was faking it. But, her face lit up. Her tiny fingers reached for the strings, strumming. Her eyes were wide, looking up at me. We were playing the guitar, together.

"Mama, more!"

As we made awful music and pieced together made-up songs about our day, it hit me. When it comes to parenthood, lack of confidence just won't cut it. And letting my own excuses keep me from moments like these not only hurts me, but it hurts her too. Sometimes, we just have to fake it until we make it.

I may never learn to play the guitar. My list of "maybe someday" activities and talents might never get smaller. In all honesty, it will probably get bigger as I get older. But one thing that will never find its way on my personal wish list is standing back because I'm not the best at something. When it comes to our family, our daughter, I'll do my very best to sit when she says "mama, sit."

Like I said, you are probably a lot like me. You're probably good at some things. You're probably really good at other things. You're probably not-so-good at different things. Let's not the things we're not one-hundred-percent-awesome at keep us from doing them, and doing them with the people we love. Maybe perfection isn't perfect. Maybe, just maybe, perfect, to us, is being there. Perfect is showing up, sitting down, and playing the guitar.

The Uniform

There is likely a more creative title for this post. But I don't have it. I am not thinking. My creative juices have all but dried up. I'm barely just doing. Today, I'm checking boxes and doing my best but I know it's not my best. My eyes are red, tired and itchy. My focus and attention are not strong. My body is sinking, slowly, into my chair, becoming a physical replica of whatever it is that holds me upright. Because that's the kind of support I need today. Physical keep-me-awake-and-upright support. The limited focus I have is directed to my own parental hierarchy of needs: cuddles, coffee, shower, food.

I am a zombie. Because, toddlers.

I am also a crazy person today with no recollect. I think I put the coffee pot in the refrigerator and I might have run the dishwasher twice with clean dishes. I'm wearing yesterday's' t-shirt because I slept in it and it's clean enough. I know I've asked the same questions of people more than once and I'll probably ask them tomorrow too. 

They say this is a season of life - the teething, the colds, the sleep regression, the sleepless nights. I disagree. This is one long day that has lasted approximately 73 wide-eyed hours this time around.

If you're reading this, and you have earned yourself a mom or dad badge, I know you get it. I know you've been there or you are here or you'll be here soon. We wear camouflage to get us through our interactions with the outside world during the day, but our real uniform is noticeable in the dark circles under our eyes and the foggy in our brain and that's just it. I get it. You get it. We get it.

I see you in the aisle at the grocery store, staring at the infant medicine, and I just know. I don't know you, but I want to give you a big hug because I've stood there too, worried and wondering and searching for something. We are wearing the same uniform. We are wearing the tired on our bodies, in our postures while our furrowed brows and deep concentration show only the love and the I'll do anything for my little person values that we live every single day. We may not sleep, so we watch them sleep. We worry so they don't have to. We wish to take the hurt away when they are sick and we rationalize and try to find reasons for why they might not be acting their regular selves. We internet-search until we are crazy. We are sacrificing our own (or our old) selves because we are so diligently and proudly wearing this uniform. I'm never,  ever taking it off because wearing this uniform is the best (hardest) part of my life.

One of the best parts of parenthood is the community we build with each other. It's the unspoken support from family and friends, the literal brain-sharing of coworkers, the text messages that say "Up at 2?!" and the list of emojis that follow in return, importantly including a wine glass and lots of multicolored hearts. This community we're cultivating will get us through not only our zombie days (lasting 73 hours each day) but this is the community that will share birthdays and milestones and celebrations and school pick ups and also the tough times, the illnesses, the surgeries, the scary moments, the first dates, the graduations, and all-in-all, this beautiful life.

And then at some point, it hits you. You are surviving. And you're doing your everyday activities and sure, sometimes it's hard and sometimes you pour your coffee from a pot that was placed in the refrigerator and you're too tired to care because at the end of the day, it's still coffee and sometimes you're not entirely on-point but most of the time, you're totally on point and yes, you're crushing it. You're living a double life as a regular human and an exhausted parent and most days, nobody knows because you're mastering it all.

So with that, I want you to know - moms and dads, I see you. And I like what you're wearing.

XO

Meagan

The Infant Period - What I wish I knew

Our little girl is teetering on 18 months old, and just now do I find myself emerging from the heavy fog of having a newborn, infant and the introduction to toddlerhood.

And friends, the fog was so heavy. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It was full of joy and exhaustion and sprinkled with fear and embraced by love. It was a literal smorgasbord of emotions and now that I'm here, in today's moment, watching our toddler laugh and play and run and explore and learn both the good and the not-so-good, I have a few things to share with the world. There is so much advice spilling out of just about everywhere when it comes to pregnancy, motherhood and relationships, it's overwhelming. I am not looking to give advice. Honestly, in before my entry into this new world, I didn't want advice either. What I would have liked was a friendly heads-up about a few core things. So, to my friends near and far, here is a list of a few things I wish someone would have told me before becoming a mom.

What I wish I knew:

1. It will be over before you even remember to remember. This one really got me. The hours in the first few days and months seemed to drag on. I was exhausted. Even though I was surrounded by people, I felt like it was just me and my baby, alone in the world, without a clue of what to do. I felt like I was living in those moments forever. But I didn't, and we can't. The beautiful moments go by so fast, and it's not fair because when we're in the heavy fog, it's too hard to remember those precious times alone with our newborn babies. It's not fair, but it will be over before you even remember to remember, so try really really hard to create some concrete memories before they're gone.

2. Breastfeeding is hard. I remember before our little girl arrived, thinking for awhile that it's natural and we'll know what to do and it will be easy. And then I heard some real-life stories and started scouring YouTube for instructional videos to prepare. It didn't help. Nobody told me just how hard it was going to be, how much work it would be to get a correct latch and how much pain I would be in as the baby and I figured out how to do this together. I remember waiting on hold with my advice nurse, thinking something was surely wrong with me, as I was on the verge of tears because I couldn't do it and it just hurt so bad. And then I got answers. I did it. We figured it out. But, breastfeeding is hard. And if you can't do it, or if your baby won't eat, it doesn't mean you're a bad mom, or you're unfit to parent. It just means that it's hard, and finding another way to nourish your baby just might be the perfectly right answer for you.

3. Not sleeping is hard. Before we entered into parenthood, my husband and I had plenty of late nights followed by early mornings. We enjoyed an occasional night out closing down the local dive bar, or staying up late with friends, sometimes on weeknights (gasp!) when we had to wake up early for work the next day. When people told me "you won't sleep", I thought I got it, but I didn't. I had never been so tired, that midway to the grocery store, I had to turn my car around and gohome, because I knew being behind the wheel at such a level of exhaustion was dangerous. There's a very big difference between being up all night because you want to, and being up all night because you have to care for your little baby, who may be crying, or happy, or sick, or just "up" - whatever the reason, the level of tired that follows is unlike anything I've ever known. And it's not just one night, it can be night after night after night sometimes, and you don't get to sleep in or sleep it off. You have to wake up cheery, ready to welcome the day with your baby. So far, this hasn't stopped for me. I wish you better luck.

4. Relationships get challenged. Someone should have warned me and my husband that we'll probably take our exhaustion and our frustration out on each other sometimes. That small things might manifest into bigger things and that the amount of under-my-breath commentary that I would direct/not direct at him would hit a breaking point. But it was because I was hitting a breaking point, and instead of being passive aggressive, the answer is to just ask for more help. We are superwomen, but even Batman has his Robin and we need to find the "sidekick" in all of our relationships. Friends, family, spouses - they know we need support. It's up to us to let those people in.

5. You'll become a different person with different priorities. I know, people do tell you how much things will change once you have kids. For me, things didn't really change as much as I, myself, changed. I don't prioritize the things I used to. It's clear that our family is priority one, and I'd rather stay at home on a Saturday night snuggling my baby and watching a movie with my husband. I don't even know what the cool bars are in town and that's fine with me. It's not that the world changed, but it's that I changed. And it's not a bad thing, it's an amazing and positive growth that I'm proud of.

6. Everyday tasks are hard, and you'll be late most of the time. How do I go grocery shopping with this newborn? I honestly remembering asking a friend about the logistics of grocery shopping. Should I wear her? Where does the car seat fit in the cart? What if she cries? What if she needs a diaper change? How do I do it? It was not only the grocery store, but so many other things. I am no longer punctual (see #5) and everything does take more time to prepare...and even though you spend all that time getting ready, you'll probably forget that one thing you need.

7. You've got to take time for you. Before being a mom, I didn't know that mom-guilt was a thing, but it's a real thing. Hit the gym after work? Mom-guilt will ruin your workout. Feellike grabbing a cocktail with a friend? Mom-guilt will sit at the bar next to you. Have to travel out of town for a few nights for work? Mom-guilt will wake you up in the middle of the night, so don't even think a benefit will be sleeping through the night. Mom guilt is so real. But find a way to kick it the curb. Find an hour to get a manicure or go for a walk alone, or just watch a movie or go on a date with your partner. Take time for you and your relationship. When you're on an airplane, and when the air mask drops from the overhead compartment, you have to take care of yourself first. I wish someone would have reinforced this to me...that I have to be good to myself so I can be good to my baby.

People will tell you the things you need to buy, and the books you need to read, and the classes you need to take. Do those things if they make you happy or help you feel prepared, but don't do them because you feel pressured to do them. I suppose that's my only real advice - just do you.

XO

Meagan

Ladies, our flaws are fabulous.

The line to the bathroom at the brewpub was long. It was a Saturday night. I patiently waited my turn, my eyes staring through and past the tile floor. The doors of the two bathroom stalls rotated, opening, closing as women young and old cycled through. It was my turn. I closed and locked the door behind me. I heard two of the younger women talking as they washed their hands.

"I love your jeans."

"Ugh. Seriously? I hate how my ass looks in these. I hate my ass. I can't even look at myself in the mirror."

They left the bathroom, and I took their place at the sink, feeling the hot water wash over my hands. I stared at myself in the mirror. I felt sick and furious and wasn't sure even why. But I was outraged and the intensity was growing.

That girl hates herself because she hates her body, I thought.

I didn't know who she was, and I didn't notice what she looked like when our paths crossed in the bathroom. I only heard her voice and the words she spoke were stuck with me.

I walked out of the ladies room and took my seat at the table. There was this feeling that I couldn't shake. Those girls in the bathroom? They were wrong and I hated how much they thought they were right.

I have a daughter. She's sixteen months old. I watch her toddle around our house, so proud of everything she does, so proud of her body and so proud of the way her toes wiggle and the sound her little hands make when they drum on her bare tummy. She's generous and kind, and even as we stumble into the terrible twos, she loves. It's a real kind of love. She doesn't know the harsh world that surrounds her and the pressures outside of our home. She knows confidence and reassurance and a part of my heart aches for the time when she feels forced to evaluate her worth by the shape of her body.

I know the day will come where she'll change from being a self-confident little girl. One day, she'll ask me about something she overheard the boys say at school, or a commercial she saw while watching her favorite show. She'll wonder why her own shirt was fitting too tight and she'll start spending more time in front of the mirror and comparing herself to other girls, real and fake.

The next day, I was having lunch with some girlfriends. During that lunch, one of my own pointed at her own tummy, and commented on how much she hated her body. I realized that this mentality isn't just reserved for drunk bathroom conversations, but it happens in my own circle on a random afternoon. I'm proud to be part of a strong circle of girlfriends, but even we are not immune to these pressures and these feelings. Curiously and already knowing the answer, I asked her if she would point out my physical flaws to me. I wanted to know if she would be as mean and unapologetic to her best girlfriends as she was to herself. She was appalled, and of course, the answer was no.

As women, why are we so cruel to ourselves? Why does our physical appearance hold so much value? Why can't we be proud of our bodies, not because what they look like, but for what they do for us? How do we raise daughters to respect their bodies? I'm serious, and I think it's overdue for a serious conversation. It's for us, for our daughters, our sisters, our best friends and the young women in bar bathrooms.

Our flaws are fabulous.

Really, they are. Those arms that you wish were smaller? I bet they're really good at comforting your baby in the middle of the night, or carrying in heavy bags of groceries from the car. Your legs that you wish were thinner? They probably do a fine job carrying you from Point A to Point B, and if you've ever ran a race or cycled through a spin class or hiked a trail, I bet they did pretty well at that too. Our tummies and our tushies may not be of supermodel ilk, but they are part of our bodies and they help us live our lives. They allow us to make the best memories and get us through the hardest times in our lives and we do more than take that for granted. We fall into a cycle where we loathe our very own selves.

So you wish you had bigger/smaller (fill in the blank) because that's what we "should" have? Those are the things that attract a sexual partner, so that's what drives our desires to look a certain way? Well, here's something fabulous, too. Our bodies aren't designed solely for sex. So, ladies, let's start congratulating our bodies for all of those great things that we can do with them, regardless of size or shape. And let's not just do it for ourselves. We can and should self-talk ourselves up, but let's also get body-positive with our best friends. Let's not tolerate the kind of conversational assault that has been happening around brunch tables and behind bathroom doors.

Maybe you don't live in this camp - the camp where we focus on what we wish we looked like instead of being thankful for what we have. Most days, I don't live in this camp. But there are days I do. And like me, I bet you have a friend or two who have taken a permanent residency and it's time for us to serve an eviction notice. From now on, this camp is closed.

Let's not allow our daughters hear the way we've been talking about ourselves before today, and let's stop talking that way. Wouldn't we be embarrassed if they did? Let's show them that our bodies were built to run and jump and hike and mountain bike and let's go do those things and brag about how much fun we had after we do them. After all, our hands were made to protectively hold their hands, our legs to go on long walks together, our arms to envelop them in warm hugs. Bodies were made to accomplish, not to be judged, especially by our own selves.

I know this is something that weighed heavily on my own mom's mind when she watched her two daughters grow , and as the world changes and the pressures intensify, it's only getting more important.

I know I'm not perfect. I can recall moments where I turned to my husband and wished my post-baby body bounced back a little sooner. I've gotten frustrated at those jeans that suddenly became overly snug in all the wrong places and watching both my feet and my bra size fluctuate with the seasons of life. But it's in those moments where we need to be reminded just how incredible our bodies are. We have to remind ourselves.

Let's compliment our little girls on their abilities. Let's praise them for working really hard at acquiring a new skill or demonstrating an act of kindness all on their own. Let's start associating self-worth with adding value to our communities. Because that's the kind of world I want to live in, and the kind of world I want my daughter to get to know.

XO

Meagan

An Open Letter: To New Moms on Mother's Day

Dear New Mom -

I get it. This is my second year celebrating our day alongside all of the other moms. My first Mother's Day, my daughter was only a few months old. I didn't feel like them, I thought. I didn't really deserve to be in the mom club. Sure, I had a baby, but I had nothing figured out. I didn't feel polished or put together or organized. I wasn't confident or certain, not even mildly so.

This year, I'm still not any of those things, but instead of feeling different than the other moms, like I might not measure up, I realize now that imperfections define us and leaning on each other makes us stronger. We are in a club. We learn together, we band together, and we get through things together.

Moms, let's get real. Your new job of being a mom is a messy one. You're tired. You're alone, although you're probably surrounded by people that love you and your new baby. You're unsure, you're scared, and you're tired. You're tired. I know I already mentioned that, but it's an overwhelming kind of tired, so it needs to be mentioned again. And everything you're feeling is totally normal.

Something unfair happened. Someone, somewhere made us believe that having a family is easy work and that it should just come natural to us. Moms are portrayed as always so happy, never having down moments or tough days. That our babies will always be smiley and easily nurse, and sleep through the night because we trained them early on, and that we can do it all -- work, family, shop, cook, clean, and the like and still have time to romance our husbands and stay caught up on Scandal. Yeah, right.

The reality is that all of that just isn't true. It isn't possible, New Mom. And once we can get to a place of admitting that we can't be everything to everyone, New Mom, we can slow down and focus on the one thing that we can be, ourselves, which is exactly what our family needs.

Dishes can wait. Laundry can wait. It's okay to order takeout or let your friends bring you freezer meals. That friend who said she'd come snuggle your baby while you take a hot bath? Call her. Asking for help is not admitting defeat. It's allowing someone who loves you step in and snuggle your new baby. People want to help, and we have to ask for it when we need it.

You're going to get mad at your partner. You'll get mad when they go out with their friends, and then you'll feel guilty for getting mad. You'll feel resentful that they get to take a break when you're tethered to the baby. And then you'll feel guilty for wanting to be anywhere else but being tethered to the baby. Here's my advice to you -- take a walk. Get outside. Bring the baby and breathe some fresh air. Talk to your partner. Express what you need. Enjoy a glass of wine, if that's your thing. (That is totally my thing, by the way.)

I remember those first few months, New Mom. I remember those trenches that you're fighting in. On this Mother's Day, with a new found screen to view our own moms, we appreciate them a whole lot more. When we were kids, our first memories were when we were a bit older. We don't remember those early days and months of our own lives, but our moms do. I realize my little girl won't remember the timed-hourly wake ups so I could feed her, or the mornings I woke up, my shirt soaked with my own milk. She'll have no idea about the tears I shed on my first overnight work trip, or the hours I spent researching the right crib and car seat and rocker and blanket and tub and so much more, even before she got here. She won't remember the freezer full of milk I pumped, to make sure she always had enough, or even the skill I carefully crafted of cutting every little piece of food into a safe size, still worrying that it wasn't small enough and watching her every swallow.

She won't have any idea how often I Googled things in the middle of the night. She'll always remember having teeth, but not how much I pained watching them slowly, agonizingly, pop through. She won't remember dancing in the living room to her Grandpa's favorite rock and roll songs he taught me to love, and how big my heart swelled when she took her first steps. She won't remember smiling at me for the first time, and how much that moment changed my life. She'll never know these things, until she's a mom.

You probably don't recognize your own body. Your pants fit tighter than before, if they zip at all, and you're not comfortable in your old wardrobe. You rock yoga pants and zip up hoodies and ponytails, because they are easier, and also because they are forgiving of your new body. You might find a minute to hit the gym, but you'd rather spend that minute snuggling your baby and not jogging on a treadmill, so you don't go. And then you're upset, because again, you're tethered. And the guilt sets in.

The weight of all of the emotion you're feeling is heavy. It's crushing. So much is resting on your shoulders, New Mom. And you can't explain it, you can't describe it, but it just is. And I get it. We all get it, because we're moms.

You are a superhero now, New Mom. With only your body, you created another being. Before you brought your new baby home, you probably needed eight hours of sleep. You couldn't imagine being awake at 3:00 a.m., unless you were closing down the local bar, and if that was the case, you'd sleep in until ten. You probably didn't miss meals because you forgot, and showers were probably part of your daily ritual instead of what is now a luxury.

Now, you function on little sleep. You might go a few days without a shower. You might not even remember where your favorite body wash or scented candles are, because you haven't used them in months. Your last check before you leave the house isn't in the mirror to make sure you look okay, but it's double and triple checking that you have all of the baby's supplies for the hour you might be away from home. You have a first, new full time job as a mother, a second full time job as a strategic planner, and if you're a working mom, there's that you're doing too. Not to mention your original job of being a wife, a daughter and a friend. But. you are doing it. You are doing all of it, even when you think you aren't doing it well, you are, and you should be proud. I promise, you will surprise yourself with how much of a superhero you are.

New Mom, I have a challenge for you. Because it's not just one day a year we work hard, sleep little, and love a lot. It's every day, every hour, every minute and every second. I challenge you on this Mother's Day to share your gratitude with your own mom if you can. And if that person who loved you, cared for you, worried over you isn't a "mom" at all, be sure to share your love with that person too. And for yourself, remember to take time each and every day to breathe deeply and appreciate the gift you've been given of being a mom to your new baby. It's undoubtedly the hardest job in the world, but it's so worth it.

Happy Mother's Day.