Intentional Living: Part One Year End

I ended 2019 in an actual fog of gratitude and grief. The year itself hadn't been all bad, and was poised to end on a high. I was happy and content. I had survived the transition into middle school with my tween. I had just about made it through the holidays. I was ready to have that Holly Jolly Christmas I hear about on the radio. 

Two days before Christmas my beloved grandmother had a massive stroke. Catastrophic is what her doctor called it, and within hours my family and extended family was navigating a huge loss. I did my best to keep it together for my children, who honestly were more concerned with Santa finding us if we traveled on Christmas Eve. It wasn't easy and I found myself constantly repeating "grandmas dying" in my head, as if I wasn't completely drowning in that thought already. 

Those days between Christmas and New Year's, the days that most of us hibernate, were spent reflecting on my year. I spent hours on social media reading articles to jump start the year. Not because I'm of the "new year, new me" mindset, but somewhere I was hoping to find some motivation. What did I want to do with my brand new year? Who did I want to become? Everything I read didn't feel right, didn't exactly fit well. Until I stumbled upon this article about ending the year intentionally. 

It's easy to be blinded on all the folks on social media with their "New Year New Me" diets and work out regimens. The multiple posts about being your best self, building your best self, finally taking chances. I wasn't ready to "bet on me" or "do the things that scare me". I really needed to reflect and find some clarity while I was so overwhelmed with grief. It helped me examine the last year with new eyes and find some good when I was feeling so bad. 

10 Questions to end 2019 Intentionally (These questions are totally paraphrased. Please visit the article for the real deal.)

What makes this year unforgettable?

Obviously the standout was my grandmother dying at the close of 2019. Just writing it in my notebook made it so real, but also opened me up. I was able to think about other things that made the past year unforgettable. I stayed married. You can laugh all you want but every year I stay married is a victory in my book. The Husband and I have had some hard years in the last part of the decade. Closing this year and decade married was a success in my view. My girls grew and thrived. They danced more, and enjoyed themselves so much. Caitlin completed elementary school and went on to middle school. There were so many changes and then when I think about it not that many. Our trip to Disneyland was pretty amazing too, so I'll add that. 

What did I enjoy doing this year?

Going gray. Honestly letting my hair grow in it's new natural color was liberating. I've been trying to cover my gray hair consistently since I was in my 20s. I was at the point that I needed to touch up my roots every three to four weeks, I just couldn't do it anymore. I gave myself six weeks to let it grow and decide if it was the right thing for me. I spent countless hours on Instagram looking at the SilverSisters hashtag. I'll admit, it was rough at first, people asked a lot of questions, it seemed shocking for someone my age (41 by the way) to not cover their roots. Finding the right mix of shampoos and conditioners helped. After years of using boxed dyes, my hair was so damaged, it was starting to fall out. The best part of the entire thing? I wasn't hiding anymore. I was constantly preoccupied with covering my roots. Every big event, every photo taken, I worried that my roots were showing. So I gave up, and set myself free. It has been the best thing I've done for myself in years. The added perk? I get compliments on it all the time. To the point that I've been asked for my colorist's number twice!

Who/What am I grateful for?

My health. My family. My friends. I am surrounded by amazing people. I'm so grateful for them.

Biggest Win this year?

I made it. Emotionally. Financially. It seems simple, but these are two of my biggest stressors. 

What did I read/watch/listen?

Read: Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid. Summer of '69 by Elin Hilderbrand. One Day in December by Josie Silver. All excellent. Daisy Jones is written in a way that as a writer was inspiring. Summer of '69 was such a fun read and had some historical elements that I loved. Plus I'll read whatever Elin Hilderbrand writes, so... I read one day in December last January. It was the first book I read last year. It was everything you love about Holiday Rom-Coms. If you love Nancy Myers, you will love this book. 

Watch: The Handmaids Tale, which, as always, was thought provoking, infuriating, and completely engaging at the same time. Elisabeth Moss is everything. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel is so well written and incredibly funny that I'm convinced that Amy Sherman Palladino is too good for us. Plus the ensemble cast cannot be beat! Side note: I binged watched the West Wing last year. I think I was the last person on Earth my age who had never seen it. I'm not going to lie, I loved it with my whole heart. I cried almost every episode, and it made me yearn for 90s politics, and I never thought I'd say or type that!

Listen: Lizzo and Bille. There were no others. 

What impact did these read/watch/listen selections have on you? 

What is fantastic about reading, watching, and listening, is that they essentially doing the same thing, telling a story. The books I read last year inspired me to write, but also inspired me to really listen and engage in the stories being told. The shows I watched were not just entertaining but thought provoking. The Handmaids Tale remains the scariest thing on television! Lizzo showered me and my daughters in girl power. I am constantly surrounding myself with pop culture, because it's always an inspiration. 

What did I worry about the most? How did it turn out?

Money. I'm constantly worried about money. Which is funny because my husband's long running household chore is being in charge of the bills. Still, every swipe, every withdraw for "dance" incidentals, makes me sweat. It always turns out fine, but it will always give me anxiety.

Biggest Regret?

Before December 23rd, my answer would have been completely different. I would have said not submitting any of my writing. I would have said not writing and blogging more. But now, as I start 2020 it's not spending enough time with my grandma. I regret not calling her more. I regret never getting her life story down on paper. There are many regrets at this time.

What is the 1 thing I changed about myself?

As I said before, my hair. It changed me emotionally as well as physically. It helped me embrace aging. The old commercial about "growing old gracefully"? Well they didn't mention that you'd have to be graceful emotionally as well. That's been harder than the physical part.

What surprised me the most?

That 2019 closed A DECADE. Ten years. I didn't even realize it until all those "Last 90 days" posts on social media. So many incredible, heartbreaking, mind numbing, brave, ugly, happy, sad things happened in the last 10 years. I changed as a person multiple times. I became a mom of two in the last decade. I went back to work, quit, and then went back again. I became a blogger and a writer. I grew into motherhood. I grew into my marriage. I stumbled and got back up again. So much life was lived in what did not seem like ten years. 

If I could go back to January 1st, 2019 what would I suggest to myself?

Call Grandma Now. Write every day, even when it hurts. Exercise in any way, walking is still moving. Take more pictures, your Instagram is looking sad girl! Be easy on yourself, it has never been about perfection. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. 

After years of neglecting this space, I'm thankful if you found your way back and had a look around. I'm hoping to visit this space more often in the coming year. 

Busy {a four letter word}

Every time I'm asked, "How are you today?", my default answer is, "Busy".

I'm busy. My kids are busy. My husband is busy. Everyone in this household is busy.

And it's summer. Summer of all the times of the year! I have vague memories of me planning to have a no bullshit, laid back summer. We just had to make it to the end of dance season which was quite literally June 30th. Make it to June 30th and we'd have the rest of the summer to relax.The plan was to take a few dance classes, lounge by the pool, casually drop in at Starbucks, browse the aisles of Target. Summer was going to save us all and allow us to relax and be lazy...

But June 30th came and went and here we are almost July 30th and we are still busy. 

Busy has become a four letter word.

Back when I first started blogging and Pinning (what did I actually do before Pinterest? Oh yeah, laundry), I remember seeing this quote, "Stop the Glorification of Busy". I googled it a few weeks ago, and the origin of it is a little spotty, but this article seems to have quoted it first. Why are people everywhere glorifying the fact that they are busy. It feels like the biggest one-ups-manship contest on Earth. Tell someone what you are doing, they will tell you they are doing the same, but like three more things. As if that makes us super human. Are we any happier cramming every second of the day with an activity? Does it make a difference if we keep ourselves and our families so busy? Do we look better as mothers or parents if our kids are in sixteen activities over the summer? I hope not, because we have skipped so much dance this year to swim or go to the movies, I'm worried about being voted off the "island". It's like we are trained to show off just how busy we are. Look at my Instagram feed and I will tell you everything I did on any given day all before nine in the morning, in addition to a fantastic selfie. Does that make me a champion? Only when other people who follow my account tell me what a good job I'm doing. And sometimes that feels kind of gross. Look at me, I'm so awesome because I've already made three dozen cookies, folded two loads of laundry, and got my kids to school on time... Eww. I hate that person. I hate a humble brag, especially when that humble brag is me. Gross, and yet, I'll probably do it tomorrow. I'm so busy damn it, look at me!

One Wednesday near the of the school year I went and sat for my usual three hours at dance. Our longest dance day of the week. With just a few weeks to go before the end of the year, I had my PTC notebook, my Girl Scout notebook, and my planner. I was making list. Calling and emailing. Organizing the end of the year dance and practice schedule. Another mom sitting near me said, "I don't know how you do it", and I said, "I don't know either, and I don't even work".

Now looking back I have an idea of how I "do it".

The answer is simple, I "don't" do a lot of other things.

For example, in order to make sure all this years school spirit wear is ordered, my dining room table is covered in things. Crap, if you will, that needs to find homes. That may not find homes for another week. While I'm doing Girl Scout planning at my co-leader's house, the dishes in my sink continue to marinate making what can only be described as the worlds most disgusting and deadly brew of Kombucha ever. If you see me volunteering anywhere, you can bet my laundry is clean and piled like Mt. Everest on my bed, and when I go to climb into said bed, the mountain will be moved to the chair by the window that I promised would not serve as a place to pile laundry. You can bet that my bathrooms look like someone stepped on a tube of toothpaste (courtesy of the children), there are always dishes, and laundry in the dryer that gets ironed by turning it on.

So how do I do "it"?

Chaotically. Messily. By the seat of my Old Navy "mom" shorts. 

I'm not proud of the busy, but I'll admit that I would have been a few years ago. When my girls were little, busy seemed like a badge of honor. Good moms, the gold star moms, were busy. They were always on the go, kids dressed and ready, every activity under the sun, and "Busy Moms" always dressed the part. Yoga pant sweat suits, jeans and tunics, and sometimes dresses. (Dresses!) I envied those moms back then, with their perfectly packed diaper bags, yogurt melts and Cheerios at the ready. I was always the hot mess mom, only able to make it to one activity (baby gym), hair rarely combed, make up never a thought. I saw those buys moms and wondered if I'd ever be there, ever able to carry it off with such ease. Little did I know there was no ease about it. Being a busy mom is fucking hard. It takes time and effort, and a lot of messes left in the wake. 

I'm a smart enough now to understand that motherhood never stops. I'm just surprised that I'm busier now than I have ever been.  I used to think that once my kids were older, motherhood would be so much easier. Sure they can get their own breakfast and let me sleep in on weekends, but they need a taxi driver to cheer and dance, and those four birthday parties that all fall on the same Saturday of the month. It's a never ending ride, or as all the cliche quotes will tell you... It's a marathon, not a race. Insert eye roll here. Not because I don't believe it, but because I know it all too well.

Two thousand seventeen has proven to be the busiest year on record. Maybe because I'm older and care about such things. Maybe because I'm old and tired and want to cut out any and all bullshit. At this breakneck speed, my house is always in disaster mode, not sorry. There are currently dishes in my sink and clothes my the dryer. Also, not sorry. The flip side, the school spirit wear shirts are ready to go to print, my Girls Scout troop calendar and budget are done for the next year, and we pretty much have our dance schedule locked in. I'm also working more hours this summer to bank away some funds. It appears that yes, this house hold is doing "it". Just don't ask to use my bathroom when you come over. Kind of sorry.

Today was my day off. I did my best to stretch out our lazy time. We lounged around and slept and read books and of course my oldest daughter made slime, because if your kids aren't making slime at any given time are you even a mother? I've tried really hard to make sure we have those kind of days at least once a week this summer. The Netflix binge kind of days. The, let's melt our brains on bad TV and horrible food kind of days. I want my kids to relax and have some lazy fun. Summer is only like twelve weeks, the rest of the time they are over scheduled and over stimulated. I want them to find joy in staying up late and sleeping in the next day. The joy of ice cream for dinner. The joy of doing absolutely nothing. 

Because most days we are busy.

Which has become the dirtiest four letter word I know.

XOXO - Meg

Cravings {a story about new motherhood}

The Honest Co. asked me to write about my experience with baby formula. I was happy to oblige, but it felt like ancient history. Funny, when it came to writing it, I didn't have to dig to deep. Some experiences never leave you. This is my personal account, and I was not compensated in any way. My opinions do not reflect those of The Honest Co. That said, while this is my story, and my opinion, what you feed your baby is your choice. Breastfeeding didn't work out for me, and I'm okay with that now. If it works for you, bless. Now, on to the good stuff. 


All those years ago, as I was sleepwalking through my new life as a mother, I would have never imagined that I would long for middle of the night feedings. Those quiet pockets of time, where it was just me and my baby, and I was meeting her most pressing need so simply. When I was in the thick of it, the very trenches of newly anointed motherhood I didn't understand just how precious and fleeting those moments were. It didn't occur to me how quickly they would end. At the time, it felt that I would be stuck in that chaotic place forever.

Motherhood didn't begin that way, there was nothing simple about it. Feeding my first born didn't come with ease. Even in her first few hours, trying to find her latch was proving impossible. Steeled by kind words from friends, books and articles, I pressed on as we went from hospital to home. Still the latch was elusive. I tried every trick, every hack, nipple shield, and breast pump. When my milk finally came in, pumping felt like a tortuous consolation prize to motherhood, and those measly four ounces did nothing for myself esteem. We, my daughter and I, went two weeks in a constant loop of nipple shield, screaming, crying, pumping, and finally a bottle of whatever came out in the pump. I was exhausted. I was devastated. More than that, I just knew I was failing as a mother.

Today, I can look back on that period and see that this was just my first hurdle in my journey as a new mom. As devastated as I was, this was the first big decision I had to make. Not the choice or crib or car seat, not the decision to swaddle or not swaddle, it was this very simple in theory, but very difficult in reality choice that I had to make.

What to feed this child? My child.

Back then I was too worried about that the "books" said. About what my friends said. Why was the most natural thing in the world, not the most natural thing for me? Listening to remarks about formula made it feel like a dirty word. This was supposed to be a joyous time, a simple time, when feeding my child was as easy as a bottle or breast. But this decision felt loaded, one wrong move and lives would be ruined... Or would they?

I was wrong about formula, and I was wrong about breastfeeding. In a time before "mom shaming" on social media platforms, I was internally shaming myself. It took me a minute to realize that this choice was all my own. A choice I had to make for my daughter, but also a rather importance choice for me.

I didn't realize we were starving. Her sharp cries at all hours were obvious evidence. My vacant stare as I tried to get her to eat, were silent screams of my own. New motherhood is both seductive and abusive. It entices with it's simple joys, breaks you with it's monotony. What had started as a small battle in my hospital bed hours after my first born's birth, forged into an all out war at home. Why couldn't I feed this tiny person? I was so unsure and self conscious for the first time since junior high. In the back of my mind I knew the answer, but the defeat I'd have to deal with paralyzed me. How was I going to fold on this first test of motherhood? I was scared I was doing everything wrong. My daughter was starving. And we both craved something bigger than both of us. We craved peace. We craved contentment. We craved ease.

Choosing to feed my daughter formula was the first big decision I made as a mother. It wasn't an easy one to make, and I still had miles to go to find my footing as a mother. Still, it was the first step in finding confidence and the first real step in finding that peace, my daughter and I both craved. I had wasted so much time worrying about what to feed my baby, and not enough time enjoying the miracle that was my baby. It was time to enjoy and embrace this new life as a mother. It was time to discover what kind of mother I was going to be, what kind of mother I wanted to be. So breastfeeding didn't work for me. The only person who noticed was me, my daughter was too busy eating to pay any mind to where we got her food. Scoop by precious scoop, we found the peace and ease we were craving. And to my surprise it didn't feel a bit like losing or giving up, it felt exactly right in my corner of motherhood.

I catch myself these days, longing for those middle of the night feedings. Usually when I wake up to go to the gym way before the sun comes up, I feel a little tug on my heart. In those quiet moments, where the entire house is asleep, I think back to those days when it was just the two of us in a rocker. The glare of the television, the sharp burp of contentment from a perfect tiny human. Those days when a bottle and the sunrise were our only company. I miss that simple pleasure of being able to meet that one and only craving, that most important need. Meeting her needs these day is rarely simple, as she is almost ten, and everything is of dire importance.

Some mornings, when I go into her room to wake her, I find myself crawling into bed with her. Reminiscent of those days long gone, it's just the two of us, and the tiny bit of morning seeping through her mini blinds. It's quiet, just her and I, no Dad, no little sister, no distractions. I indulge that craving of a simpler time for me, and her constant craving of having mom all to herself for her. We find that peace and ease that we are still always craving from each other.

One ounce at a time.

Embracing My Mess {Life Lately} September Sixteen

via

For weeks I have been trying to embrace my mess. To love and thrive in the chaos that is my life.

In my mind, there are so many things to say, to write, to share. I'm overwhelmed at where to start.

I'll start with summer and go from there. 

I spent the summer in organized chaos. A sweet symphony of being over scheduled and overjoyed. It was a balancing act, trying to stay on top of obligations while still maintaining some spontaneity. We spent the summer dancing, literally, with both girls at the studio. School ended and recitals and competitions began. Then a full schedule of summer classes. I worked in between being at the studio with the girls and being home, but only part time which makes me incredibly happy. Part time has finally allowed me to moonlight as a sometimes working mom, bringing home "light" bacon, just enough to fund our Target addiction. We swam at my mama's pool. Sometimes all day, sometimes all night. Fresno boiled and baked us in the hot sun. Our bodies tan and sun kissed. Our ears plugged with chlorinated water and our hair tangled and crunchy. It was beautiful and glorious and exactly the kind of summer I have always wanted to give my kids.

I spent late nights with my neighbors and friends. Taking and laughing and sharing meals. Watching the Olympics and cheering for team USA and committing ourselves to insuring that one of our kids will be an Olympian one day and then we can all go and cheer USA together. Ping Pong or Women's trampoline has top billing in this house. Who needs gymnastics?

The Hubbs and I spent the summer trying to keep up with the girls and each other. Sundays spent lazily. Sometimes, most times in bed, watching movies with bad words and napping, among other things. There were no designated date nights. Just easy, lazy, summer nights, enjoying our company, our surroundings, and our shared sense of humor. There were heated political debates. We almost got a dog. We sent each other private messages on Instagram that were always inappropriate, but perfect if you know us in real life. Summer is our best season, it always has been. 

Then school started and the organized chaos just became chaos. From school to dance to home to bed. On loop like some kind of video surveillance, titled, "Insight into an over scheduled life". This year I have a fourth grader and a first grader, which is hard for me to believe. Our homework schedules include 20 minutes of reading and at least 20 spelling words a night. The first week of school was rocky at best with a new dance schedule and back to school kicking us around. Exhaustion set in, and by the first Friday, we were fried.

When I think about this school year, I can see the road ahead of me. All I can see are bumps. A rocky road filled with a schedules and obligations. Not only have I committed my daughters to a hectic dance schedule but I've also committed myself. I don't always just drop them off, on Mondays and Wednesdays I sit for 3-4 hours at a time. I'm at dance as I write this. I'm going to email it to myself and copy and paste into my blog template later. If I didn't email myself my writing, I may never write, I'd never get it down. This year I'm also on the schools PTC executive board, serving as the secretary. Which means I'm at all events early; movie night, back to school night, open house, you name it, I'll be there. I'm still a Girl Scout leader and our scout year begins this Thursday. School has been in session for a month and I'm already thinking about June.

Not really. Just a little. With every bump in the road, there will be a blessing. I know that, I have faith in that. Blessings will come when I least expect them, when I think I can't take another step. I've learned that blessings always rise from mess and chaos. Little moments that make all the bullshit matter. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I overbook my life? It's nature. I've always been an "over booker". If over scheduling my life was an Olympic sport I'd be a gold medalist. I said yes to all of those things. I have committed myself to a busy year. Don't feel sorry for me, I want to do all of those things, I wanted to do them when I signed up. But I also want to be lazy. I want to watch everything in my DVR and sleep in on Sundays. And I will. Don't worry about me. I'm lazy most days. Laundry is rarely folded, dishes pile up. Please never stop by my house unannounced because my bathroom looks like a fairy tale wasteland with Lalaloopsy dolls in the bathtub and the remains of a murdered tube of toothpaste in the sink. Towels litter the floor because that's my life. Please always give me 10 minutes to pretend I'm the kind of mom who cares when mostly I don't. Little by little, toothpaste glob by toothpaste glob, I'm embracing my mess. Even when I'm embarrassed by the towels and the Lalaloopsy dolls.

With school back in session and something that resembles a schedule falling into place,I've been trying to get back into blogging. All summer I tried. But the pull. The pull to be with my family. My friends. The pull to watch new TV shows. The pull to spend all day at the pool. The pull was greater than the pen. I missed it, I did. When I found a spare moment, mostly late at night, I did write, a little fiction, a little fact. Mostly, I left it, the keyboard, the screen, and for the first time since I started this blog it felt right. It felt okay, like a relief to be able to leave it. To surrender and say, "I'd rather go to yogurt than type on that keyboard". I used to feel so guilty when I'd skip a post. I'd be mad at the world if I couldn't make it to the screen. It would feel like I failed. But in the last year something clicked. My blog, while fun and self serving, wasn't my only identity. My page views or lack thereof no longer dictated how I felt. The comments became non existent, no matter how heartfelt or how much I bled into the post. I got more interaction on Instagram and Facebook and so I started to post little bits there, but soon that fell off too. Soon I didn't know what every single person I followed are for breakfast or lunch. I didn't watch all the Fallon or Kimmel videos that were trending. Last night I got into bed and realized I hadn't been on Instagram or Facebook all day. Something that hasn't happened since I got my first iPhone and added the appropriate apps. Really, it was the first time in years. I was surprised that I didn't miss it. I was surprised that it didn't bother me. 

This is me, currently, embracing my mess. Embracing my chaos. This is me as my patience is pushed to the absolute limit, because I am scheduled within an inch of my life. So overbooked that when I forget to buy new tights for ballet or realize that I forgot the spiral bound notebooks or HOLY SHIT WE ARE OUT OF TOILET PAPER, I lament and rant and eat chocolate. Messy happens, it's happening right now.

I never wanted to be "That Mom". The messy one. The late one. The crazy/bonkers/batshit mom. I resisted so hard that it almost killed me. Then I let go. I let all previous expectations go, and embraced the chaos.

This is me, I'm proudly, "That Mom", embracing my mess.

PS: After I emailed this to myself. Ran home to prep dinner so the Hubbs could finish it. Went back to the dance studio to get Daughter #1. We walk into the house and Daughter #1 exclaims that she forgot her lunch box at dance. I went back and got it after dinner. Because it wouldn't be a Monday without more mess.

PPS: Check out another Messy Mom on FX's Better Things. Click here for details!

Profanity over Perfection: Why FX's Better Things is Everything!

Image via Better Things Facebook Page

Better Things on FX is the perfect portrait of motherhood if your brand of motherhood includes; sarcasm, profanity, and very awkward situations. Rated MASL (mature audiences/sexual situations/language), it’s not going to be every mom’s shot of whiskey, but it is without a doubt, my cup of tea.

Better Things is a new comedy on FX about single mom Sam, and her three daughters; Max, Frankie, and Duke. Sam is a struggling, but working actress, busting her ass to get to casting calls, going over lines last minute. Sam also provides her voice to a kids cartoon, and we see her testing out her characters voice in the sound booth, only to be interrupted by a telephone call from one of her kid's teachers. Sam is a hard working mom both outside and inside the home. Her daughters all test the best of her abilities in their own ways, and Sam does her best to stay afloat. Even when she says that she is “dating her daughters”, she still finds quiet time to text a “buddy”, and enjoy some fun flashbacks, until the sexting runs cold.

Think that Better Things doesn’t sound relatable? There are three super relatable scenes from the Pilot!

The show opens with Sam and her youngest daughter Duke in the mall. Sam is sitting on a bench opposite another mom, while Duke stands beside her sobbing uncontrollably. You can see other kiddos jumping in a play area in the background, Sam is on her phone. The mom opposite Sam is just staring at her as Sam stares at her phone. Casually Sam looks up and explains to the woman that her daughter wants a pair of six dollar earrings in the store ( as she points to an unseen location). As Duke continues to cry, Sam explains that Duke doesn’t even have pierced ears, but she wants six dollar earrings, and she (Sam) is not buying them. Sam then tells the woman to go and buy them, no really go and buy my daughter these earrings… After the woman stares at her for a beat, Sam says, Well if you aren’t going to buy them then stop staring!!!

I’ve never laughed harder or related better to a scene on a television show!

In another scene with Sam and Duke, Duke begs her mommy to lay with her at bedtime. Sam is torn because she really wants to lay with her daughter but knows that if she does she will most certainly fall asleep. Sam tells Duke that she has so much work to do that she can’t fall asleep, but Duke presses harder, and finally Sam lays down next to her in her tiny bed. Sam tells Duke not to touch her with her “magic baby hands” because they will make her fall asleep, and if she falls asleep nothing will get done. The camera pans away and in the next shot we see a sleeping Duke and Sam. Sam opens her eyes, you see the realization that it’s the middle of the night, and you see the “Oh F&ck” look on Sam’s face.

Image via Facebook

I could feel Sam’s panic, and totally understood the impending doom. I too have fallen asleep with my kiddos, only to wake up at two in the morning and realize that the lunches never got made, and the spirit wear shirts are still in the wash. Also the "magic baby hands" are a real thing, I swear.

The third relatable scene was on of Sam in the car with her teenaged daughter Max. Max wants her mom to buy pot for her so that her mom can make sure it’s organic. Sam is driving and trying not to drive off the road while looking at her delusional daughter. Her daughter continues to talk with her mom about drugs and sex and it brings Sam to the edge. She finally yells, “Hide things from me! Please!”. That look on Sam’s face is so familiar because sometimes there are just things that my kid talks about that I just don’t want to know, and someday she will be a teenager and I will need her to hide things from me. Or maybe, at the very least, ease me into it very slowly.

Image via Facebook

I have no doubt that Better Things on FX will be one of my favorite TV shows this fall. To me it feels like a reality show, but for many moms Sam maybe over the top. I’m 99% sure that Sam doesn’t have a Pinterest account and her Instagram, if she has one, is filled with snaps of her kids in poor lighting, or over filtered selfies. If she has Facebook it’s most likely filled with profanity and memes that cater to the mom of a certain age and stress level. Better Things is a show that my best friend and I should have written, because while it seems over the top, it’s incredibly accurate. Even if you don’t relate to the situation in the scene, you will relate to the emotion of that scene. I laughed a lot, but I also cried. Better Things just gets me.

I think my favorite scene in the pilot was the end. We see Sam on a movie set, pulling up her Spanx and readying herself to get shit done.

Like every mom, everywhere.

Better Things is Everything.

Check out Better Things on FX, Thursdays at 10 pm!

Becoming a Better Mother

Motherhood wins are so few and far between. Everyday is a battle, hard fought, and sometimes lost. Some days are superhuman with a home cooked dinner and laundry folded and put away. Some days are a loss when the kids stay in their pajamas all day and dinner is cereal, Cheez its, and anything else packaged in the pantry.

I think my favorite thing about motherhood is that it is always changing. Every day is different when you are a mom. One day is everything you ever dreamed about, perfect kids, in clean clothes, who eat their dinners without protest. Then the next day, no one gets out of their pajamas, the only thing they will eat is Cheetos, and you realize you haven’t showered in days. Motherhood forces us to change and adapt. Motherhood forces us to put our best foot forward even when we don’t want to, even when it feels like we can’t. Motherhood allows for do overs every single day as soon as the sun comes up. The best part, because of the dynamics of motherhood, it forces us to evolve.

I’m evolving as a mother. I’m becoming a better mother, the kind of mother I always knew I could be.

A week has passed since Caitlin had dance tryouts. Last year we missed the tryout day, so all we had to do was show up to a couple of technique classes to see where she fell based on her skill level. Then she was placed on a competition team. It was easy and painless. This year, since she wanted to try out for multiple competition teams, we went to an actual audition put on by the dance studio. She was excited and understandably nervous. I told her it would be just like any other class, and to do her best. I also took the chance to explain to her that while her tap skills were at the same level as the other girls in her age group, her jazz and contemporary dance skills were not. I didn’t say this to be discouraging, I said this so that she would be prepared when she got there. She understood, she hasn’t been taking jazz or contemporary as long as the other girls, so far she has just been focused on tap.

The audition didn't last as long as it was scheduled. After auditions we found out that there would not be a competitive tap group for her age this year. We were both disappointed, understandably so, since Caitlin loves tap and is very good at it. Caitlin started to cry, and we talked a little, she said she was sad and a little mad. Her friends that were also at the audition, offered her hugs and kind words, and she dried her tears a little as we packed up to go home. I thought we were in the clear, just a little disappointment and a little sadness and minimal tears.

I was wrong.

Once we got home and Dad asked about auditions, the tears started to flow.

“Mom it was awful. I was horrible”, were her exact words.

And my helpless heart broke. Shattered really.

Caitlin told me how the jazz combo they learned was really hard and the music it was set to was really fast. She told me that she was the worst in the group and she was so embarrassed. As we talked, I reminded her that all the other girls in her age group have been taking jazz for close to five years. Caitlin took jazz twice for a total of about twelve weeks. I reminded her that tap was where she was strong, and it was unfortunate that they were not doing tap for her age group this year. She told me it was unfair, and I agreed, remembering all those times I tried out for things and didn’t make them. Caitlin kept insisting that she wasn’t going to be on any competition teams this year, and the tears continued to flow. I did my best to reassure her and offer her comfort. Then I remembered that I had been here before. I had personal experience in disappointment.

When I was twelve and thirteen I tried out for cheer. Both times I didn't make it.

I had a story to tell. I had a way to identify with my child in a way no other could. Yes. This was a moment.

I told my daughter the story of trying out for two different cheer squads and being very disappointed when I didn’t make either of them. I told her that I had dreamed of the uniforms and the cool “letterman” jacket and the pom poms. I told her about how I had my heart set on being one of the popular girls in Junior High, hanging out with the cool kids after the games, getting to wear the uniforms on Fridays. I told her I knew exactly how it felt to be in a situation when you feel like the worst, the most unprepared. I told her that I completely understood what it felt like to be embarrassed.

It sucked, for lack of a better term. No mom wants to sit there and listen to their kid think they are the worst, or that they are embarrassed. As hard as I tried, I realized that I couldn’t make her feel any better. Nothing I could say would change the way she felt about herself in this situation. What could I do to make her feel better, to take away the pain and disappointment? Suddenly my wheels were turning, there were four girls in Caitlin’s age group interested in competitive tap this year. Four wasn’t big enough for a group, but then I remembered that there were a few girls missing from tryouts. Where were they? Vacation, sick, not trying out this year? I grabbed my phone and in a moment of weakness and despair, I was ready to text the mom’s that weren’t at the auditions and see if they were interested in tap. Three more girls would make an acceptable competitive tap team. In minutes I could save the day and make everything better.

I didn’t make everything better. I didn't swoop in like a superhero and save the day. 

I stopped myself, because I realized, just as I was searching for the mothers in Facebook messenger, that I’m not always going to be able to save the day. As Caitlin gets older, I’m not going to be able to swoop in and compile a tap team, help her make a cheer squad, force the cute boy in English class to like her back. This dance audition was the first in a what may be a long line of life disappointments. I know, that sucks to type, sucks to realize. But that's life. And I don't remember all my disappointments as a kid, but I remember the ones that stung. Sometimes things sting. It's best that she learns that now. As her mother, I will always want to make it better, I will always want to fix heartbreaking and disappointing situations. That doesn’t mean I should. It doesn’t mean that I will always have that kind of power. As much as I wanted to make it all better, as much as I wanted to fix it and make all her competitive dance dreams come true. I didn’t. I stopped myself, and instead gave her the best advice I could.

Instead I explained the saying, “Everything happens for a reason”. Super cliche I know, but now that I’m a lot older, and perhaps a lot wiser, I’m a firm believer that things happen for a reason. I explained that maybe she wasn’t going to be on a competitive team this year so that she would have more time to participate in a school sport. Maybe by skipping all the hours at the dance studio, it would open up time to do other things, maybe she could join a swim club, or I could sign her up for an art class. I tried my best to explain that when things we really want don’t work out, it’s not the end of the world, even though it feels like it. Then I added for good measure, “And I know that none of this makes any sense”. Because it doesn’t when you are nine, or thirteen, or even 38 and you still haven’t made much of a career in writing.

Off track. I realize.

I remember when my mom gave me the “Everything happens for a reason” speech. It was the first time I tried out for cheer and didn’t make it. I remember I was so excited and so convinced that I was going to make that squad. I also remember being so disappointed that I cried the rest of the afternoon. She gave me the speech again when I tried out for the second squad, when that one boy in Junior High didn’t like me back, then again in High School, and then again in college. My mom has been giving me the “Everything happens for a reason” speech forever, and then somewhere around adulthood, it's meaning finally clicked.

In the end, I don’t think that Caitlin fully understands the reasons why not making a competitive dance team may not be the worst thing ever. I didn’t at her age. The speech didn’t make her feel any better about her audition. It didn’t make her feel any better about not being about to compete this year. It took her mind off of her current disappointment and heartache as I was able to share my own. It allowed me to be the kind of mother I have always hoped I’d be. The kind with sage advice and a kind word. The kind of mother that didn’t drag her own shit and anxieties into the conversations. I was the kind of mother that I had, the one who would appear to have her mothering shit together. Finally.

We are still waiting to hear if Caitlin has made any of the competitive dance teams for the upcoming year. All's not lost, we are taking all available classes over the summer, filling our days with jazz, ballet, tap, and pep. She will be on a competitive pep team in the fall, and I’m sure if that is all we do, it will be plenty. I hope that one day she can see that too. I hope that this is the first in many lessons in disappointment and heartache that we can work through, together, and that I will always be able to keep a level head and not “fix” it. Even though I will always want to fix it.

No matter how simple motherhood seems on the surface, it gets dark and messy pretty quick. There was a time when I thought the baby and toddler years were going to be the death of me. This tween stuff is just prepping me for the real life of teenagers. My girls will always be met with challenges, some of them they will win, some of them they will lose. I hope that I’m always prepared to help them through the challenges that life brings. And if not, I’ll do what I did that day after auditions; take them to Target to buy clothes and ice cream. I’m not even joking. It’s what we did. Mother-Daughter bonding at it’s finest. It’s the best thing I could teach them as a mother: Target and ice cream can fix everything...

And that’s how I know, I’m becoming a better mother.

Nine, in Mom Years.

It's hard to believe that my first baby turned nine on Sunday. Everything feels the same and everything feels different. The weather is stifling, just as it was nine years ago making it seem as if her birth occurred just a few years ago, instead of almost a decade.

Every year I brace myself for big changes, like those the first year of her life. None have ever been that drastic, none have ever felt that pressing. Until now. Now, at nine I can see we are at the cusp of what is to come. She, my beautiful, sensitive, creative, smart, and wonderful Caitlin is growing. The baby cheeks have all but disappeared. Her smile is that of a wiser older girl. Her opinions are that of a teen. She combs her own hair, paints her own nails, and recently started wearing scented lotions, purchased with her own money.Stop. Slow down. Wait for me, I silently chant as I catch a wave of warm vanilla sugar lotion on my way to the laundry room.

Here lies the secret. The surprise. The trick.Just when I thought she would never grow up. She did, she has, right before my almost forty something eyes.

In the fall I will have a fourth grader. A fourth grader who loves to dance and sing. Who will tell you her favorite apps are YouTube and music.ly. She will tell you that she needs her own Pinterest and Instagram accounts. She will sing you her current favorite song, that she perfectly choreographed. She will explain to you that her parents are mean because they still won't let her get a kindle fire, and because they won't let her watch YouTube all day. And they made her play softball this year and she hated it.

In the next breath she will show you her American doll collection. She will share her art projects from Girl Scouts, or make you a gourmet meal in the play kitchen.

Nine is right there. On the cusp. The delicate balance between little girl and teen. Sensitive enough to still sleep with her tattered bunny, strong enough to want "alone" time.

There is something so beautiful in being in between. Still full of innocence and wonder. Knowing and wanting something more worldly for yourself. These days Caitlin wants to hang out with her friends, go somewhere, do something. She is no longer content with her own environment, the little world she has built, the one that I helped her build. It's amazing to see this change in her, this want of independence, this desire to branch out. All the while with one hand stretched out to me, still touching my arm, still needing me. The cusp. The balance. It's so delicate.

Delicate and imperfect. With nine has come attitude and smart mouthed remarks. For me nine has brought on a new intolerance to attitudes and smart mouths. I still yell. She still pushes my buttons. We still take each other to the edge. But never as often. Perhaps with age we have become more sensitive to each other. Maybe we have finally found a middle ground on which to build a better foundation for the teen age years ahead. Maybe our souls can feel this and sense that there are bigger fights to come, and perhaps our souls are steadying us.

Or maybe we are finally speaking the same language.

Caitlin is nine. Wonderful and wandering nine. Finding her footing. Carving a place for herself. Changing right before my eyes. I don't remember all that much about being nine, but I'd wager that I changed in many similar ways. Nine seems like the first door into adolescence. Walk into door number nine and begin the journey into who you are. I've been watching Caitlin and listening to her talk with her friends. The juxtaposition of being not so little, but not yet big. There is still an immaturity in her voice. Which I welcome. Which I will savor for as long as it lasts. I will keep my hand outstretched to meet hers for as long as she will allow. Because just when I think she is little miss independent, I find her tangled in my bed. I find her sitting next to me on the couch. I find her needing me, if only for a moment.

Nine may be the death of me as we begin our journey into adolescence. It may make me pine for those late night feedings and sleep training I thought were so hard. Or nine may just be as lovely, chaotic, and perfectly ordinary as all the years before.

What Have I Learned as a Mother?

The end of June will mark nine years of being a mother. I'll be totally cliche and tell you that the years flew by so fast, that I blinked and suddenly I was here almost ten years later, I will go all out and tell you that time is fleeting. Sadly, when you have children, every last cliche rings true.

Motherhood did not come easily to me. Before my own children I had never changed a diaper, I had never prepared a bottle. I wasn't the teen in the neighborhood that everyone asked to babysit. Honestly I never really liked kids, hadn't even really thought about having any of my own. Still, maturity and matrimony brought on baby fever, and by my second wedding anniversary I was seven months pregnant. I read What To Expect religiously, I wrote list after list of products that I would need for baby, I listened to "wise mothers" in line at the grocery check out as they spouted off their sage advice. As my due date approached, I was ready, if only in my naive brain. The nursery was painted, the crib assembled, the bottles sterilized. I had this in the bag.

Then my daughter was born. All six pounds of her, and she scared me more than anything. She was the tiniest human I had ever seen, and she was mine. What was I going to do with her? I kept looking at her and then looking around for her actual mother to come and take her from my arms. Except I was her mother and I was totally out of my element. That first night in the hospital was rough, she cried all night, she never latched on, and in turn I was convinced that this was a bad idea. Before I knew it we were on our way home, my life forever changed.

I'd like to say that I was a quick study once I got home but I wasn't. My daughter never latched on, and after two weeks of nipple shields and supplemental feeding with a tube and a syringe, I surrendered and gave her a bottle. I counted that as failure number one. After a month of her sleeping in a swing most nights, we tried to transition her to her crib and endured three sleepless nights of screaming. Failure number two. Then as the months gave way to other milestones and experiences, I numbly went through the motions. Counting my imperfections as a mother at every turn. Nothing about motherhood was going the way I had planned. By my daughter's first birthday, I was sleeping in her full sized mattress on the floor, she still relied on a bottle for naps and bedtime, and I was still on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I missed a lot of life in that first year of motherhood. Blinded by my imperfections, I soothed myself by getting by. I made excuses on why we couldn't make play dates and mommy gym. Declined invitations to dinners out with friends. I ignored phone calls from friends and relatives, never wanting to get caught in a conversation where I would have to admit that this was not going right. That motherhood felt wrong and foreign. That I had to be the worst, most disastrous mother on the planet. All the while I missed so many important moments. I spent night feedings angry and resentful of the sleep I wasn't getting. I spent bath time counting down the minutes until I could give her a bottle and sleep myself. At the time I was never able to find the joy in any of the chaotic moments that mothers claim bring them joy. I was just angry and sad, dumbfounded that I couldn't get a grip on the life that is being a mother.

Around the time my daughter turned two, I found my happy place. I threw out my previous expectations and settled into the comfort of our imperfect life. My daughter slept in her own bed, but only after I'd lay with her while she fell asleep. We weaned her from her bottle just weeks before her second birthday. We established a bath, book, bed routine which was the only routine in her life. I accepted that she would never nap again, ever. Once I was able to accept this not so perfect life, I found the joy in the little things. I was able to laugh at our mishaps. I was able to let go of the mother I thought I would be and accept the mother that I was: messy, imperfect, but always trying her best. Then a few months after my daughter turned two, I got pregnant again.

My second daughter brought my rare second chance, the opportunity to do motherhood my way. This time I had experience under my belt. I knew what worked for me and what didn't. I knew that I didn't have to listen to any sage advice, I didn't have to read any book, I didn't have to follow any list or directive. Here was my chance to follow my own rules... And I did. By doing so I finally found the joy in those night time feedings. I was able to laugh at the blowouts and the missed naps. I was able to submit to those days when all the baby wanted was to be held without the overwhelming guilt of not doing the laundry or the dishes. The second time around I found myself. I found that person who was undeniably, Mom.

No one ever tells you about the ugly stuff. When you announce that you are expecting, you are showered with congratulations and peppered with advice. Everyone will tell you about the best breast pumps and which diapers are most absorbent. No one will tell you that sleep deprivation and night time feedings will bring you to the absolute edge of everything. Everyone is quick to share sleep tricks and recipes on how to make your own baby food. No one will ever admit to those few short moments when they contemplate packing a bag and driving their car to the next state without their new baby. I think it's because motherhood is one of the most revered titles on the planet. Mothers, by definition are supposed to be perfect and infallible. We are supposed to know how to get our babies to latch on the first try. We are supposed to know how to make baby sleep through the night before two weeks of age. We are supposed to know how to soothe and nurture and love. When I was pregnant with my first a woman I know told me, "Motherhood is the most natural thing in the world". Three weeks into be a mother I thought, "Natural for who?". I'll admit that after nine years, that although I'm not a natural, I am a mother, faults and all.

Motherhood is the ultimate learning experience. It's like never ending on the job training. What have I learned as a mother? The list is endless, but here are a few lessons that have stuck.

Write your own rules. If you want to breast feed, do it. If you want to bottle feed, do it. You are the mother and it's your choice. Don't let friends or colleges write your rules. Don't let books or blog posts write your rules. Write the rules yourself. This is your child, you get to make the decisions. I wish I would have known this so many years ago. It would have made motherhood so much easier. I second guessed every decision I made because it didn't line up with this parenting book or that friends advice. Who cares. Your kid. Your rules.

Savor every minute. You won't realize that you will miss night feedings, until your kid is in kindergarten and doesn't need you to rock their tiny body to sleep anymore. You won't ever again get those short moments when they are milk drunk and woozy, their impossibly small head on your shoulder, grunting as they fight sleep. You don't realize that when you are in the thick of it, so just know that you should enjoy it a few times. You don't realize that your toddler will never be that same chunky and demanding person with sticking hands and ill pronounced words again. That chubby cheeked face will thin, they will learn how to pronounce their "r"s or "t"s, and they will find their own way three weeks into preschool. It will most definitely break your heart, but it will also overwhelm you with gratitude. Savor the moments that you are in right now, no matter the mess or the chaos. I promise, you will miss them when they are gone.

Know your limits. Don't let obligations and expectations break you. Three birthday parties for three different friends in one weekend may kill you, or at the very least turn your child into a goblin. It's okay to say no, it's okay to quit. When my oldest daughter was three I signed her up for a ballet class that didn't allow the parents to watch. I didn't realize that when I signed her up, because my oldest has class A separation anxiety. After two classes where she cried the entire time, we quit. I asked the studio to transfer the money to their gym class where I could watch from the sideline. I heard it all from they naysayers, "How will she ever learn", "She has to get used to being away from you", and so on. Still, I knew that she was three and one day she would learn how to separate from mom. I also knew that I didn't have the emotional or mental stability to shuttle a crying three year old with a newborn in tow to a class once a week. I knew my limits and everyone was happier in the long run.

Speak up. Talk to someone. If you feel lost or numb or on the edge. Tell someone. I was so afraid that I'd be labeled a bad mother if I admitted that motherhood just wasn't my thing. I was scared that I'd be judged, and cast out of my group of mommy friends. The surprising thing was that once I admitted it, I was a better mother. Once I admitted that I hated the night time feedings and the breast pump, I felt better. Once I stopped lying about how awesome motherhood was going for me, I was a better mother. I'm not sure why, but maybe the secret is in the surrender. Just talk, to friends, to your husband (remember him? see below), to those "perfect" gals at mommy gym. I bet they have a struggle or two of their own, and they are just dying to let it out. You never know who you will help just by speaking up.

Don't forget your husband. I know this sounds silly, but it's sound advice. I got so wrapped up in being a mother that I totally forgot I was also a wife. No, I'm not talking about housework and hot dinners, I'm talking about that person you married because they are your partner. When my oldest daughter was born I never asked my husband for help, I never told him I needed help, I didn't share a single thing with him. Why? I have no idea. I guess I just figured since I was a mother I was on my own. Crazy, I know. Not only did this divide us, but it also made us roommates. Husbands or Partners are important. They married you and took vows and they are capable humans. I promise that just because they do things backwards or not "your way", they are still very capable of being parents. My husband is a great father, but in the beginning I never gave him the chance. One I relaxed a little, he took a lot of the stress off this whole child rearing business. Then I remembered that I really liked him and that I really missed him too. Don't forget your husband or partner. Lean on them. Ask them for help. Invited them to eat the left over pizza with you at four in the morning after the baby wakes for the twelfth time. They miss you too, and maybe they won't eat that pizza with you, but they will remember that you asked.

 Motherhood is the one thing that brings you overwhelming joy and earth shattering heartbreak at the same time. Which can blind you when you are in the thick of it. Each year of motherhood will bring new challenges that will make you wonder what was so hard about those two in the morning feedings. Still motherhood will be the most exciting thing you will ever do in your life. Even if you aren't a natural, even if it took a few years to find your groove. I try to remind myself  every day that my children don't need perfection, they only need me. Which is so very reassuring when you are in the middle of chaos and catastrophe. More commonly known as motherhood.

Wife, Mother, Blogger, Writer. I like Starbucks, Instagram, anything by Shonda Rhimes, and the "F" word. 

If you like to laugh and lament over motherhood, Absolute Mommy is the place for you. 

Join me on my quest to be the "Okayest Mommy" in the world.