Picture yourself in a small white house, in a pink room with white wicker furniture, lying on a bedspread covered in a signature 1990’s rose pattern. You are 7 years old. Your best friend can’t come over this weekend, you are sick of the same old toys, you’ve been staring at your ceiling fan for 20 minutes, and you are bored out of your little mind. You walk into your parents’ room and desperately proclaimed, “I. Am. So. BORED!”
Then, she looks at you. The classic Mom look, her gigantic glasses reflecting back at you with a confident smirk. She knows exactly what to say. “If you’re bored, I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” Continue reading
Isn’t it weird how we’re always in some specific phase of life that we don’t exactly acknowledge until it’s passed? That sentence felt complicated. What I mean, though, is kind of complicated. Okay, so right now, I have two kids, right? Yes. Yes, I do. I am aware of that, but because I am going through this right now, it’s hard to appreciate it. There are the little moments when Jack is sweetly talking to Juliet that I can stop and step outside of myself and see that I am so lucky. These are moments I’m sure I’ll have to remind myself of when they both get a little older and start liking each other a little less. Continue reading
My relationship with coffee has changed so much in the past few weeks. I’ve seen all these cliche mom posts about wine and coffee, but once you pop out a second kid something inside of you wants coffee 24/7. It’s just like the SNL spirit animal skit. We instinctively chop off our hair, drink a LOT of coffee and develop a taste for wine. I mean-I haven’t yet wanted wine *vodka cran girl*, but it appears to be my closest goal.
I have two kids, a minivan, and strong opinions on vaccinations. I am a 19 year old child in a 31 year old mother’s body. And it’s weird as hell. Continue reading
Oh, I’m sure other women experienced severe hanger in their first pregnancies, but not me. This second one has been different in so many ways. I also need to clarify that I, myself have experienced hanger many times without being pregnant, but this hanger is different. This hanger WAKES you up at 4:30am and forces you to mindlessly chug cinnamon apple sauce out of an old hot-chocolate-stained coffee mug. Then, you lay there and think about how you had a cheeseburger and fries at 8 o’clock last night and there is no way you should physically be this hungry right now. Continue reading
Dear Darling Little Munchkin Nugget,
I’ve been writing these blogs for over a year now and hoping that one day, you’ll read them. I figure you won’t care about them much at all until you either have a family, or I’m gone. I realized today that I’ve yet to really acknowledge my reason for writing. It’s you. I don’t want to forget these moments with you. I’ve already forgotten about thirty percent of my high school class, my friend’s house phone numbers, and how much it cost to fill my gas tank up in 2002. I don’t want to forget the person you are right now. At two years old, we have a very different relationship than we might when you are thirty, so I want to remember each relationship perfectly. Continue reading
This morning, as I was clearing the counter off, I asked Rick while picking up random items, “Is this trash?” (It’s super weird the things that AREN’T trash, so I’ve learned to ask.) Anyway, today, he says, “I always write trash on items that are trash. If it isn’t marked, it isn’t trash.” Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that this idea would be absolutely ridiculous. Choosing to write “trash” on something takes more time than throwing the trash in…the trash-but Rick is a man of his word. I watched him from the living room as he finished the last of the milk, opened the drawer, pulled out a permanent marker, and wrote “TRASH” on the milk jug, setting it back on the counter. All while complaining that it’s not easy that he has to write “trash” on all of his trash. I guess the point of this little story is to let you know that my husband is weird. Like…really weird. He’s so weird that I am in awe of the creativity required to carry out this weirdness in a hilarious manner. Continue reading
As I sit at Barnes and Noble, and watch my child and his new friend play together (and thank the book gods for the train table’s return), I realize that I’ve nearly forgotten my melancholy attitude some twenty minutes ago. Having a moment to breathe, I can step outside of myself and examine the cause of this acute depression. It’s shoes. Continue reading
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me the following personal essay. It was originally published on stigmafighters.com. She asked me to share this because sharing our stories has great power. Talking about our struggles can help heal one another, and reduce stigma. If you have overcome your childhood, this writer wants you to know, you are not alone.
Mental Illness Is My Mother by Anonymous: Continue reading
The first three months of Jack’s life were the worst three of mine. Because I was the one with the boobs and without a job, I had to wake up every 2 hours of my life. I didn’t have postpartum depression. I had postpartum exhaustion. When the nurse left me alone in my hospital room with Jack, I had a total panic attack. I didn’t know how to breastfeed, soothe, or even hold my baby. I didn’t know I was supposed to be changing him (I assumed they were doing that). I didn’t know ANYTHING. In that moment, with my husband passed out on the couch, I felt so alone. It was seriously terrifying. A week later, my mom left and it was just me and Jack, every two hours, non-stop. I remember thinking my life was over. What had we done? This was my life now. It didn’t help that every day from four to seven, Jack would scream. He just screamed his little heart out for no apparent reason. The only thing that calmed him was being swaddled so tight he couldn’t budge and walked around the house briskly. So, when I wasn’t sleeping, I was either nursing or bouncing around the house singing “You Are My Sunshine” in the happiest voice a walking dead person could muster. Continue reading
Just driving by the Hawkinsville Opera House hits me hard with sweet nostalgia. Whether attending events or participating in them, The Opera House provided me with something I will always cherish: a genuine love for the arts. Backstage or stage center, putting on a show was one of the most fulfilling activities of my entire life. Hearing the audience laugh during a funny part of The Music Man or give a standing ovation after a great show gave me (the girl with one line in the entire show) a sincere feeling of accomplishment. Even a small part was important because a town scene could only be perceived as so with multiple bodies. Each one doing its own job. You wipe windows. You hold a basket. You talk to your friend like you’re gossiping. All the pieces came together. The curtains went up and down when they should. The lighting crew knew exactly when Ms. Marion would be walking out. Beautiful sets were built and positioned appropriately. It was a well-oiled machine. Not one person wasn’t important for its success. Continue reading