The Peace to my Quiet

I'm going to take you on a journey that will be both familiar and forbidden.

Intrigued? Me too.

The air is crisp. It's fall, but the early kind of fall where we can't wait for the holidays and for the first snow, and the first big rainstorm and the washing away of summertime. We anxiously dream of the first crackling fire in the fireplace and the savory taste of soup after it's simmered all day on the stove.

Okay, maybe you've opened a soup can or splurged for takeout, but the experience we're after is the same. Comfort, cozy and peaceful.

And it's just you and your husband or wife alone. No kids. On a Tuesday evening, you might spend an hour on the phone with your best friend, just talking about nothing. Or you might take a drive together, admiring the beautiful fall colors overtaking the leaves. There's quiet. There's silence. And when there's not quiet or silence, it's because you're deep in conversation about the future or current events or reminiscing of memories from the past. Everything in this journey is so savory.  Everything is so sweet, too.

On the car ride through the rambling country road, you hear the music on the radio. A thought catches your attention, and you turn to him from your spot in the passenger seat. You laugh and talk and laugh and talk and days like this, moments like this could last a lifetime and that would be just fine.

In this season of parenthood where we have young children in our homes, there is no quiet. Our silence only exists because we've learned to tune out our too-familiar Disney shows, and we sometimes mindlessly respond to the "Mama, look at this!" comments or the constant noise of what our lives have become.

We don't take hour-long afternoon telephone calls from friends because it's hard to do that.

And to my dear friends, let me tell you this - I'm sorry and I miss you and I feel terrible because every time we talk I feel like you get half of me, and it's not always the best half and it's certainly not the most present half.

And we don't take aimless drives around the countryside, just because. Our car rides are battles in conversation, where I try to share a story about my day, and it's intercepted by flying notes from the backseat. Sounds of song, sounds of questions, sounds of excitement and sounds of toddlerhood. It takes what seems like years for me to communicate an original, grown-up thought - and sometimes I forget what I was talking about altogether and find myself singing along to the Moana soundtrack.  I'm getting pretty good at that, actually.

But those sounds of interruption, they are peaceful too. They are the reminder that we are one, one family, one team, one piece of life's puzzle growing together. Things have sure changed, but they're better.  The excitement of learning something remarkable, or the soft I love yous that filter themselves through our daily noise. Those sounds bring a kind of peace to our quiet, and it's one I want to know forever and ever.

Although I miss the long talks and the quiet times from what seems like long ago, I'd give them all up in a moment. Because where we're living, right now, is beautiful. It's chaotic and ugly and messy and sometimes it's dirty and there are germs literally everywhere and my house hasn't been clean in years (or so it feels), but those messes and sounds that make up our current soundtrack, let me tell you how much I need them. So much so, that when I'm away and the room isn't thick with all of that, I feel out of place.

Forever and ever. Peace, to my quiet.

XO

I cried.

There's something that I've heard parents say about parenthood.

The days are long, but the years are short.

Just the other night, I found myself entrenched in one of the longest days I'd had in awhile. And the day itself was so sweet. We ventured outside, exploring the trails and fields on our property. We laughed at our newly acquired chickens and we watched my hard-working-husband wrench on motorcycles, preparing for an upcoming race. The leaves have been changing and falling, and they were crunchy on the ground beneath our rubber farm boots. The air was crisp outside, but inside it smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and nighttime bubble bath. The day was sweet. Oh, so sweet. And then nighttime came.

We've been deep in the Battle of Bedtime for the past few weeks. And it's quite the battle. I found myself doing our routine with the little one alone - bath time, pj's, (maybe a little television), brushing teeth, books, bedtime. And I had my eye on the clock. I was tired. I hadn't been sleeping and I was coming down with what was going to be a nasty cold. And the clock, it kept ticking. And our daughter, she wasn't having anything to do with bedtime.

We were almost there - and then it was potty time. And then we were almost there again, but she wanted yogurt. And then, water and dance parties and Daniel Tiger and more books and for goodness sake, I just couldn't. My own eyelids were heavy and my patience was short.

And, there I was. On her perfect twin bed, underneath her perfect cozy blankets, with this perfect little face looking up at me.

"Mama, Bubble Guppies!" I exhaled. I asked her to close her eyes. She replied, "No want to."

It was ten-thirty p.m. I was thinking of all of the reasons she needed to be sleeping. Brain development. Her body growing at a rapid pace. The fact that I need to sleep too. Or, this article. No pressure, right?

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to call in my reinforcements. My sick, tired body needed rest and I was at the end of my rope. It happened. As the hubs was hurriedly making his way from our shop to the house to take over, I wept. A short, brief moment of weakness. I couldn't control it. I exhaled, and I cried. It was just for a second, but it happened.

And she saw me. She saw the hot, wet tears fall from the corners of my eyes and she saw my tired hand wipe them away. And she said, "Mama sad. I get Mama a Kleenex." Off she went, wearing Hello Kitty pajamas on her body and a concerned look on her face.

I felt guilty and broken and about to stand on the number one spot on the podium for winning the worst mom award. She saw me feel defeated. She saw me break. Does she think I'm broken? Does she think it's her fault? Someone hand me my medal already.

She brought me a tissue and we snuggled until her dad arrived. He swept her up, took her outside for another breath of fresh autumn air and a look at the stars in the sky, before returning her to her bed for more books, more songs, and more snuggles. I drifted off to dreamland.

I awoke from the fog, and the guilt was heavy. And then it hit me.

Breaking is good. Breaking is real. Strength is asking for help sometimes.

I don't want our daughter to be afraid of her feelings, no matter how raw or unpredictable they may seem. I want her to own exactly who she is, and how she's feeling and sometimes that means breaking down so you can build yourself up. I want her to know that I don't have all of the answers, but between her dad and me, we will sure do our best to show her the stars in our sky every single time.

XO

I wish you'd remember.

Dear Daughter,

Some days are gone before we know it and for some reason, those are always the very best days. I try to remind myself that they are the good days. They are the days I want to remember forever. They are the days like yesterday, when we ventured to the local river spot, searching all day long to see the fish swimming below the water. The air was sweet and thick with everything that is summertime. We searched for the perfect small, flat rock to throw, in an attempt to have it skip along the glassy water top. Once, twice, three times. Maybe four.

Let's be honest. I'm terrible at that, but your dad, it's one of his many skills. I think we both watch him with the same admiration sometimes. But you and me, we kept trying and we kept laughing and we kept breathing that sweet summer air.

And then there are moments. Moments when you extend your soft, beautiful arms to give me a hug. Moments when you demand a kiss. You get the giggles or you crack a joke and moments when you say something delightful, and your words reach into my chest and grab my heart and I can feel the squeeze. Or when you drift off to sleep in my arms, but before dreamland greets you, you grab my arm and carry it over your body for a big time snuggle. Those are moments, and before they are so far in the distance, I turn to your dad to bookmark the moment, asking him to never, ever let me forget it.

I look at you, and you're enjoying everything in the truest sense. And it hits me.

You won't remember any of this.

When you're older, we'll tell you stories of these delicious times, and you'll look at us with your eyes wide, and shrug your shoulders because you were so little then and your brain was working so hard on mastering things other than memories. And I'm going to be honest. Knowing that hurts a little. These times are the best times of my life.

And then I think about the times I've been so ragged I can't function. The times where I feel frustrated and feel ugly. I think about the times that I messed up, made a mistake, and probably disappointed someone. Not all the times have been beautiful. Sometimes, the times have been super hard and I'm not sure I want you to remember them. It took a long time for me to find my footing in this new role and that time felt a grown-up kind of messy. Maybe it's a gift from the universe that you don't.

But maybe, you will remember parts of all of it. Maybe you might not be able to recall these times in conversation but they'll be ingrained in who you become. You'll remember the warm fuzzies and the love and the time we spent that connected us so strongly. And maybe it's okay if you remember seeing me struggle too. Because each time I struggled (and I know there are so many more struggles to come), I won. I overcame. I survived.

And those are the things that we need to remember together - that no matter what, we love ferociously hard and we are strong.

XO

Me

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.

2016: I'm still a badass.

It was Christmas Eve. I was standing around a crowded kitchen island, littered with wine and food and all sorts of holiday cocktails and sprinkled with sweet Christmas treats. I was surrounded by friends and family, and we were talking. Laughing. And then it turned serious for a moment.

My cousin Ben turned to me. He's older, like an older brother, really. He said to me, "You know you're a fucking badass, right?"

"Um, no. Shut up, Ben. Pass me that wine."

He laughed at me. Like he does. He continued. "You're an amazing mom. You do great work. And your writing. You're a fucking badass."

I casually sighed. And then I thought. And then I thought some more. He's right. But the self-doubt, the I wish I would haves and the I probably should haves take over so often, I don't think about the wins, the rewards, the things I'm doing right. I focus on the ways I can be better. I know that's not a bad thing, but with it being the end of the year and all, I am going to chalk it up as one grand 2016 lesson, and I wanted to share the others with all of my friends.

Lesson 1: Put on your oxygen mask first. I travel for work sometimes, and aboard every single airplane on every single airline in every single city, the flight attendant will tell you this: In the event of an emergency, put on your oxygen mask before assisting other passengers. I'm only almost year two into my life as a mom, and that idea is true every single day of my new life. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

And now, I finally get it. I can't be the best mom, or the best wife, or the best sister, or the best daughter, or the best friend that I want to be if I don't take care of myself.  I can put all of my energy into other people and projects and ideas and if I don't put myself first, everything suffers. In 2016, I learned to put on my oxygen mask first. And I think everyone is better for it. 

Lesson 2: Drink the good wine when you want to. I was wine tasting with my sister and a friend, at the most adorable family-run vineyard and winery. The sweet man behind the counter was offering generous pours, and said something to me that I'll always remember.

Good wine was meant to be shared, not saved.

He's right. You can always get more wine. And wine was meant to be shared. Moments were meant to be shared and celebrated. I know we all had our own struggles in 2016. I did too. We lost people and we mourned moments. I hate thinking that my dear Auntie Jo would have smiled at the pop of the champagne cork, from that bottle I've been saving. So now, I'm opening the good stuff on a Tuesday, just because it was a good day, or because a friend came over or because a small success happened and we want to celebrate the hell out of it. I don't know how many days we've got left, but when they're over, I want to leave an empty wine fridge and a bucket full of memories. Come over, and let's open a bottle. I can always get more wine.

Lesson 3. Breathe it all in, and let it all go. It's silly, but in the heat of the moment or in the most stressful part of your day, just take one, solid, good inhale. The kind where you can't possibly fill any more oxygen in your lungs. And then breathe out all of the bad. Breathe out the worry and the questions and the negativity and the self-doubt. Get rid of it. I think you'll thank me for that small moment of quiet and your day will be better for it.

Lesson 4:  Appreciate the accomplishment.

Let me paint a picture. It's a random weeknight in the fall. I'm cleaning up dishes from dinner and I hear a loud bang from the one and only bathroom in our house. Fearful, I run in the direction of the sound, and I find my dear sweet husband with a hammer and some other tools, disassembling the bathroom.

We've been talking about starting a bathroom remodel, turning our one big, weird bathroom into two. And I didn't realize that the project was going to begin that evening. But, I'm glad it did. I am constantly learning to roll with the plan that ever-adjusts, and after weeks of framing, and plumbing, and sheetrock and mudding and taping, and painting (my least favorite task), we were done.

I was sharing with the hubs that I was disappointed in my first-attempt drywall job. The unevenness in the application really was bothering me. I wondered how I could stand there in the new shower, looking at that imperfect wall.

And he said, "We have to be at a place where we look at those imperfections and are proud of them. They're a mark of an accomplishment. They're proof that we did something, we tried something, and it's amazing. We can't look at it wishing it were perfect. Nothing's perfect. We have to be proud of our work and our house and no, it's not perfect, but it's done. And we did it. We did it together."

Gush. Yeah, he's right. I'm proud.

So, come over for wine, and look at that drywall. I did it. I'm proud.

Lesson 5: We are all badasses. We all have that doubt. We all think we could do better. We all, regardless of age, race, status, income, educational level, whatever - we all have a fear that we're not good enough.

But we are.

I am. You are.

We are. 

We are all badasses.

Cheers to a happy, healthy new year.

XO

Meagan

I lied to our daughter.

Dear Husband,

It's been a crazy busy week. You've been away, I've been busy with work, and the upcoming holidays and doing what I can to finish up our one-becomes-two bathroom project, even though you took the drill with you.

Note to Husband: I need my own drill.

While you were away, we made messes and we cleaned up. We read stories and snuggled and we played outside in the rain. We stomped in mud puddles and we ate probably too much homemade macaroni and cheese.  While you were away, we did our own variation of a bedtime routine and after our little girl was sound asleep, I opened a nice bottle of wine and shared it with a friend. And while you were away, I lied to our daughter.

It wasn't on purpose and the words seemed to fly past my lips before I could stop them. And all of the sudden, it was done. I lied.  For the first time ever, I lied to her. And I'm certain it won't be the last.

It happened so naturally, that's the scary part. It was dusk. We were traveling down our quiet country road, and the big house on the hill was illuminated with a beautiful array of red and green and blue and white Christmas lights. She pointed out the window, and said "Mama, ooh! Mama outside!"

I smiled.

"It's Christmastime, kiddo! This time of year, people put lights on their houses so Santa can be sure to find them and deliver their presents on Christmas Eve."

What.

I know that's not true. I know there's no Santa and there's no reindeer. I know that we put lights on our houses during this time of year because it's tradition and it's pretty and it's festive and I have no idea if it has anything to do with Santa. It probably doesn't. So why? Why did I lie? Why am I letting you know that I will continue to lie to our daughter throughout the course of her childhood?

I lied because childhood is about magic and wonder.  And I want her to have that. I want her to get lost in the idea of Christmas, to unwrap presents and learn all of the songs and watch all of the movies and drink all of the hot cocoa. I lied because I want her to scan the skies for Rudolph and write letters to Santa, recounting how good of a girl she's been and I want to bake cookies and do crafts and I want all of it. I lied because I want her to anxiously fall asleep on Christmas Eve in her special Christmas pajamas, and wake us up way too early on Christmas Day, excited to see what Santa brought her. We will open presents and talk about what we're thankful for, and eat breakfast and sip coffee as we watch her just enjoy. I want her to have all of it. I want her be little and love the holidays and grow a little older and love the traditions of our family and grow a little older still, and stay in love with the magic of it all just like we are.

I will lie on Easter about the Easter Bunny. I will lie when her baby teeth wriggle loose and she carefully tucks her tooth under her pillow, waiting for the Tooth Fairy. I'll lie about all of it, because it's my job, and I take my job very seriously.

Actually, it's our job, together. We must keep her safe and healthy, sure. But we must also keep her wondering and thinking and believing fiercely. We must become children again, to believe alongside her. We will hold her tiny hand, as we survey the night sky together for Santa's sleigh.  We will bake the cookies and eat the cookies and decorate the tree with her, because it's our job. Our job is to bring the magic, continue the traditions, and help her fall in love with her own childhood. 

XO,

Me

Weathering the Storm

Fall, I have fallen for you.

I have fallen for your colors and your surprise sunny days. I love you for your unpredictability. I love you for your wild weather. Fall, you give me countless cozy evenings, curled up in my favorite chair next to a crackling fire. The rain relentlessly pounds our metal roof and the wind howls angrily through the trees and I love you for it. Storm season is upon us as autumn envelops us in her arms, I watch the news, anxious and excited, with my candles ready for the power outage and my old blankets, crocheted by my grandma, covering my toes. And the red wine is ready to occupy my evening. Storms. Storms and fall. Thanks for being you.

Disclaimer: We're lucky to live in what I selfishly consider the best place to live. The Pacific Northwest is more than beautiful. The thousands of shades of green cascade and color everything most of the year. Out here, we're full of fir trees and waterfalls and mountains and just so much beauty.  But sometimes, the skies get stormy.

Our first storm was about to hit our sleepy town, and I realized that this season of life has changed how I feel about this season. I still watch the news. I still want that bottle of red wine ready. But, I also want so much more.

I want a flashlight with fresh batteries by my bedside in case of a power outage. I want a full gallon of whole milk in the fridge, in case I can't make it to the grocery store to refill our little girl's stash. I want a generator ready to power our heating system and I also want to be sure I remember how to use it. This particular storm, I want my husband to make it home in time from his latest work trip because I don't want to be the only one here, not because I'm not certain I can handle it, because I can, but because there's something inside of me that says being alone during a big storm is a little bit scary.  I want the monstrous fir trees that tower above my house to sway just a little less, and I want our little girl safe in my bed right next to me as we sleep. I want to not worry about the what-ifs and the just-in-case moves I might need to make if a tree topples on our house and I want a full tank of gas in my car because what if, and just in case I need to make a mad dash away to safety. I also want to not worry so much about unlikely events and I want to snuggle up and just enjoy the storm. But this season, this long and beautiful season of motherhood, is worth every worry.

Our every day is eventful yet remarkably uneventful. We have breakfasts and playtime and we color and we read stories and we have dance parties. We have lunches and there are nap times and we listen to our custom Spotify channels full of modern tunes integrated with some really good old school rock and roll. We have warm bubble baths and might watch a little Daniel Tiger after dinner and then we snuggle and read one of a few dozen books, and then we send our little girl off to dreamland, with her sound machine softly singing her lullabies. After she's sleeping soundly, we might get lost in a movie or a few episodes of our current favorite TV show (Stranger Things anyone?).

This every day is lucky. The worry is lucky.

When the storms come and the lights go out, we're transported to a different time, even if just for a little while. We're taken back to a different kind of everyday, one where we're forced to ignore what's happening on social media and all of the drama outside of our own homes. We are forced to focus on what's happening on the inside, on the conversation and the cuddles and the things that we should be focusing on whether there's a storm or not.

So moms, let's pretend. Let's batten down the hatches on the regular. Let's tune out the noise and listen to the lullabies, sung not by our sound machines plugged into the walls, but by our own voices as we sing our kiddos to sleep. Let's be our own storms, and weather them together.

XO

Meagan

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

The Mathematics of Motherhood

I'm just going to put it out there. I'm a closet-math nerd. I thought I hated the subject in middle school. I rolled my eyes at the teacher and I wore out the eraser on my number two pencil pretty regularly. But then I got it. I am a problem solver. I like answers. And spreadsheets. And I actually really like number two pencils with fresh erasers. I am a math nerd.

Our lives are full of problems that need solving, and circumstances that demand answers. Friends, have I got a doozy for you.

The math problem for today is this: You have 24 hours in the day. You have one toddler, one husband, one house, one dog, two sets of in-laws, one set of parents, a daycare schedule to figure out and a whole lot of random things will pop up that need your attention. You must work your full time job, ensure everyone in the house gets a decent meal for dinner, plan the details of the next day, find some time to unwind, connect with a friend or two, and visit dreamland for a solid amount of time. Is this probable?

The answer is yes. But wait, there's something that needs a little more definition.

You have a toddler. So that one hour of grocery shopping becomes two. That thirty minutes of getting ready in the morning becomes sixty. The quick trip to the coffee shop requires double the time because you have to pack up half of your house just to get out of the house, along with a kiddo who doesn't want to leave. Your full 24 hour day doubles with need and you get zero extra hours in the day. What do you do?

You subtract. You subtract the time with your husband, you remove your unwinding time altogether, you opt for sweatpants and wine instead of happy hour with your friends, and your full time in dreamland becomes negotiable depending on what the day decided to dump on you. That's the Mathematics of Motherhood.

My 24 hours looked different when I was just me, before I was a person someone called mom. Those hours included an ample amount of sleep, gym classes, happy hours, date nights, late days at the office, early morning yoga classes, long vacations, quick getaways and spontaneous romantic times with the hubs. Yup, times have changed. I was spoiled, but I'd argue that I'm a different kind of spoiled now.

Our weekend trips aren't quick getaways. We don't just throw a bag in the car and drive. We don't lazily go for brunch and spend afternoons reading. (Let's be honest, we didn't do that anyway). But instead, a weekend trip includes planning. Hours and hours and days and days of planning. Before we leave, we grocery shop for snacks and meals because our toddler doesn't do so well lazily brunching. We pack a bag for ourselves, a bag for the kid, a bag of activities and supplies and a bag of diapers. We pack and over pack because that one thing we desperately need in the middle of the night can't be something we forgot. We cannot be spontaneous anymore. That is not part of our equation. Spontaneity is not part of the Mathematics of Motherhood.

We have spent some time down the road of weekend trips with the toddler, and I have three important things for you to remember in this season of life.

1. It's just a season. There will come a day where we are saddened by the scarce amount of planning, the lightweight reality of our bags, the empty sounds in the air.  This time is just a season, and we need to love the heck out of it and take albums full of mental pictures of the sweet, the hard, the good, the bad and the beautiful. We are doing it all, and with only 24 hours in the day.

2. Slow down. This is important for me. Let us not rush our kids to be faster, to move more quickly, to keep up with us. Let's walk at their pace. Let's learn alongside them and appreciate right next to them. Let's be children in our hearts forever.

3. Plan. A lot. Because taking care of details for a weekend outing on a Wednesday afternoon will make you feel better about leaving for a weekend outing. And with each set of plans, things will go wrong, and that's when we learn and get better. It's in the hard times that we get stronger, smarter, and it's when we step outside of our comfort zone that we can grow. So plan. A lot. But be flexible and find the lessons when things go wrong.

There's no easy answers. I write a lot about how motherhood changes our identity, and challenges us to remember our past-selves. But with how much we might miss our abilities to do absolutely everything in a packed 24 hours, we are lucky. We are lucky. And our kids, husbands, families, jobs, homes, pets and all - they are lucky too.

What does your 24 hours look like? What do you subtract to make it all work?

XO

Meagan

But I'm also a mom.

Mom.

That word holds so much power. Three little letters. One small word.

"But she's a mom."

To each of us, that statement means so many different things.

As moms, we have some things in common, though. We get up early. Sometimes we don't sleep, for days and nights and days. We put our kids first, our relationships second, and ourselves last. We do our best, every day, and we worry that our best isn't good enough. We second guess, we overthink, and we scrutinize. We juggle responsibilities, relationships and our resources. Sometimes we win, and we celebrate. Sometimes we fail, and we hide. We rely on mom-friends but we also judge them without intention. We rationalize any behavior that reflects the "us" before our role as mothers. And at the very core, we try. Maybe that's just me, but I doubt it.

All of the crazy that comes along with the these three little letters, the assumptions, the emotions, all of it - it exists after we as women suffer an identity crisis of sorts. There was a person who occupied my body before my daughter moved in, and I know she's in there somewhere. That person is me.

I want our little girl to grow up knowing both of versions me. I want her to feel the love, respect, and I want her to watch me juggle and succeed. I want her to see me as a mom who works hard every day, who respects her husband, who celebrates all of my wins and learns from the times I feel defeated. I want her to know that sometimes I sacrifice, because our family is more important than anything else out there could possibly be.

But I also want her to know who I was before I assumed this role. I want her to know that I was someone who took risks. I made mistakes. I traveled on a whim. I cared less about my bank account and more about my weekend plans. I left jobs for bad reasons. I made decisions because of the way I felt about them, not because of the impact they had on anyone else. I was selfish. I was so unapologetically selfish with the things I wanted for my life. I made less sacrifices. I had less sacrifices to make.

And then, I wanted her.

Who was I before I was her mom is an important piece of our story. It's an important piece of me. And I hope she knows that one day, too.

When we are teenagers, it's easy to forget that our parents had a past, had a life before we entered their worlds. We think they make up rules and have beliefs because they feel like it, but it's really because they have a history. They have experiences that influence what they feel is important for us, as their kids, to be protected from and to be educated about.

I think about my own mom this way. I wonder if I ran into her at a bar, both of us in our mid-twenties, if we'd hit it off. If I'd love her shade of red lipstick, or compliment her blouse. If we were friends, I wonder what kind of things we'd do, what kind of trouble we'd get into. I wonder what kind of secrets we'd tell each other. I wonder if she wondered this about her own mom.

I think about my mom-friends, too. If our past lives could talk to our new selves, what would they say? Would they tell us to have more fun? To let go of the little things? To never, ever miss another happy hour because we're just too tired and we don't want to change out of our sweatpants? Or would they congratulate us for growing up, for finding our priorities, for creating the lives we've created, for making our way through the muck that muddled our younger years and coming out the other side? Would they be proud to be us?

I think for all of us, the moral of the story is this: We're not just a mom.

Yes, we sacrifice like moms. We love so hard, like moms. We juggle like moms and we second-guess our worth like moms. We question our abilities and our decisions, like moms.  But we are also proud, like moms. We are moms. But we are so much more. We are travelers and crafters and writers and chefs and working professionals and romantic significant others. We are daredevils and party animals (when appropriate) and risk takers (sometimes) too. We are lovers and fighters and dreamers. We are exclusively just ourselves.

I am all of those things, but I'm also a mom.

XO

Meagan

Daughter, you are lucky just like me

I know I'm lucky.

I loved my childhood. Every.Single.Minute. I grew up with parents who loved and nurtured me. I had space, both physical and emotional to grow. I was given responsibilities and boundaries and respect. I had an example of a marriage between my parents that showed me the kind of partner to seek, the kind of relationship to expect and the kind of nest to build in my own adult life.

I grew up on a farm in small-town Oregon. Acres and acres of space surrounded me, along with a whole lot of family. Cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents watched me run and jump and ride my bike without training wheels for the first time and stumble, fall and get back up. I grew up encouraged to do whatever I wanted and honestly believing I could achieve great things. I grew up proud of myself. I knew of no glass ceilings, just open skies.

To my daughter, it's in these respects that our childhoods will be the same, I hope. You have space. You play on those same acres and acres of land as I did when I was your age. We gather with friends and family and I watch them watch you so carefully. You have aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who hold your hand as you try new things, and give you enough space to stumble. You're not even two, and I can see how proud you are and I love that. Some days you're barefoot and dirt covers your face and hands, and is stuck in between your toes and all I can do is smile and remember the days where I donned the same degree of mess.

Daughter, you too will know no glass ceilings. Those open skies surround and embrace you. You will grow up in a world where a woman can be president. When you grow up, you'll tell me one day, you will want to be a doctor or an astronaut or The President of The United States. And I know you'll believe that you can be any of those things, because you are confident and proud. And because that's the world you're growing up in.

I have never known a world where women don't have the right to vote, or buy land, or work outside the home, or stand up on their own two feet and celebrate their independence. I appreciate those things, of course, but I have never lived without them. I've only heard of the sacrifices it took to get there. I was born into an era where my right to vote, my choice to work and so much more were already fought for me. I know I don't make as much money as a man would in my same job. I know there's still work to do.

But I'm excited for both of us, because now you will never know a world where a woman can't run our country. Regardless of politics, it's pretty darn amazing to be a girl in our brave, new world.

You're lucky too.

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.

The Land of Mom Friends.

Sometimes I crawl out of the shallow depths of Lancaster Land and I end  up really enjoying myself. With baby, a career, a remodel underway and seemingly the world revolving around this place, it's hard to leave. And sometimes, most times, it's more fun to stay. But today, I ventured far and away from Lancaster Land with baby to the Land of Mom Friends. 

Under the beautiful shade of a wisteria canopy, the Mom Friends gathered and marinated in the welcome heat. We slowly sipped and enjoyed this wine and this wine and snuggled and smelled each others' babies. We laughed. We ate. We shared. And mostly, we were glad that we had each other as Mom Friends. 

Being a mom is frightening territory. Each day is a victory. Some days are more victorious than others. And here I am, a mere four months into being welcomed into Mom Land, feeling that I've already lived some of the biggest successes and felt the most terrible defeats. I've felt feelings I didn't know existed. I've felt elation and frustration and sometimes I've felt those things at the same time. Being welcomed into Mom Land by Mom Friends is a big deal and not one that comes lightly.

I find myself feeling thankful for a lot. The babe, of course. I lay her down and look at her peaceful face and her oh-my-gosh-so-perfect lips and I feel overwhelmed by an emotion I can't even describe, it's so high. Gush, gush.

I'm also really thankful for Mom Friends. Because...

They laugh at things like poop. Like, really really hard.
They have answers to your questions, and laugh because they had the same ones. And the questions are almost always ridiculous beyond belief.
Their arms become your arms when you need a double set.
Their challenges are your challenges and your challenges are their challenges.
They tell you that no matter what, you're totally killing this Mom thing.

Cheers, Mom Friends. It's a privilege to live in Mom Land with you. And yes, you're totally killing it.

XOXO