Light In The Midst Of A Storm

Light In The Midst Of A Stom

I can hear the freezing rain as it hits my bedroom window. I am bouncing on a yoga ball in last night’s pajamas with my seven-week-old baby wrapped on my chest. I am trying to soothe the both of us. Sleep didn’t happen much last night. She slept in fits and spurts and I slept even less, trying to keep her content. It is now 3pm and I am exhausted. She has finally succumbed to sleep. Today, there will be no pictures taken. None posted to social media for the world to judge.


I bounce softly humming You Are My Sunshine. I tried singing it to her but the words got caught in my throat. Tears come easily these days. Lack of sleep and her recent birth have brought all sorts of emotions close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for them to escape. The bags under my eyes are a testament to that. But, the bags are ok, because today, there will be no pictures.


I stop bouncing for a moment to give my body a rest. I take a deep breath in, I can smell her still new head. Tears well up in my eyes. Gratitude and a deep sense of sadness are battling for control. She settles back in and I pull my hair back into a ponytail. How long had it been since I last washed it? Three days, maybe four? It didn’t matter; there would be no pictures today. No, today was for me, for us. Today is too raw with too many emotions vying for my attention.


This is my life, unedited. It is beautiful and amazing and hard and exhausting. Some days are better than others and I try to keep it all in a delicate balance. Otherwise I will be washed up in sadness, brought on by postpartum depression, anxiety, and an ever-growing feeling of isolation. No, today there would be no pictures. No visual reminders of the tough days. No sharing of the darkness. This is for me and me alone.


The baby squirms and repositions herself. She takes a deep breath and releases it with a sigh and a coo. It doesn’t take much digging to find moments of light even in my darkest days. I bounce a little more so she can get the rest she so desperately needs. That I so desperately need. I close my eyes and just enjoy the quiet. There will be no pictures today; they can’t capture the silence anyway.


She stirs again and this time wakes up. She is sad and hungry. I am sure her diaper is wet. I slowly unwrap her and lay her on my bed. She has been fussy for the past three days. She eats, sleeps, and cries. I am guessing a growth spurt is to blame but I still feel helpless. I change her diaper and she makes a funny face mid cry. I can’t help myself and I burst out laughing. I need this release. This levity. She stops crying and gazes straight into my eyes and smiles a big, toothless, full of adoration smile. This time I am the one crying. Maybe today there will be pictures.


I grab my phone and capture her smile. You can see that she had been crying, her face is red and splotchy and there is a tear in the corner of one eye. But, despite all that, she is smiling. At me. With my dirty hair and messy clothes. With my too close to the surface emotions and guilt driven self-doubt, she is smiling at me because none of this matters to her. She loves me so unconditionally and absolutely. The purity of her emotions takes my breath away. I snap a couple more pictures and put my phone down.


There were pictures today. Pictures to remind me that during even the darkest of days, there is a tiny ray of light, a ray of light that doesn’t notice any of my flaws and couldn’t care less if my eyelashes are curled or not. A ray of light that makes the isolation of motherhood a little more bearable, a ray of light that was once just a dream.


Today wasn’t perfect and that is ok. Tomorrow might be better. All I know is that in the midst of the freezing rain and too close to the surface emotions my little girl smiled at me and there were pictures.


Light In The Midst Of A Stom


I’m Dreaming Of A White….. Birthday?


“Your birthday is soon, right momma?” She may be more excited than I am. I have always loved my birthday. I don’t really think about getting older, I am usually far to focused on celebrating the season to worry about something I have no control over.

Having a nearly Christmas birthday has it’s highs and lows. Luckily, I love Christmas and all that comes with it so much that I couldn’t think of a better time to have been born. Sure, a lot of people forget in the hustle and bustle that is holiday prep. Yes, I get a lot of Christmas themed gift sets and baubles wrapped in Santa print paper.

It is fine. Really.

Long ago I embraced all things Christmas. From carols to ugly sweaters, I am in love with it all. I wouldn’t feel like my birthday without a tree in the living room and peppermint everything for dessert. I even get our Elf On The Shelf involved and she usually is found with a rolling pin, trying to bake me a cake.

Christmas and my birthday have almost become one in my mind.

However, I do dream of someday taking my family to Hawaii to celebrate. I would love to spend the day frolicking on the beach and hiking through ginger flowers. After, we would all sit around a fire pit, sharing our favorite parts of the day. Spending my entire birthday outside in the warm air sounds amazing.

I would love to fall asleep under the stars instead of a ceiling. I would love to wake up to the sound of crashing waves and singing birds. I can feel the sand in my toes now….

Of course, a peppermint mocha probably wouldn’t taste as good on a tropical island. And my favorite sweater would be far too warm. Snowmen can’t be built out of sand and sledding on green grass just wouldn’t be the same.

Maybe someday I will celebrate somewhere warm, but for now, I am going to curl up with my warm mug of coffee. I will enjoy our stove and watch my favorite Christmas movie for the thousandth time this year. I’ll glance out the window and watch the snow fall silently and smile.

It’s beginning to look a lot like my birthday.



This post was part of the group writing challenge, Use Your Words. Each participating blogger was assigned 4-6 words, submitted buy a fellow participant. Each post is written in the bloggers own style and must contain each word at least once. The fun twist is that no one knows who got their words, until now!

My words were:

shelf ~ rolling pin ~ ceiling ~ fire pit ~ ginger ~ ugly sweater T

They were submitted by:


Please check out all the other amazing writers and see what words they had to use!                             Baking In A Tornado                         Spatulas on Parade                           Follow me home                                 Battered Hope                     Stacy Sews and Schools                       The Bergham’s Life Chronicles                       Evil Joy Speaks               Eileen’s Perpetually Busy                         Confessions of a part-time working mom                                 Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

Love is Love

Love is Love

If you are/could be a spokesperson for any organization (March of Dimes, LGBT, American Lung Association-or one that you believe we have a need for) what would it be? If you don’t like the spotlight whom would you choose to be the spokesperson? Why that organization? (Submitted by:      




I remember asking my mom why two men were holding hands. Her answer was simple. “Because they love each other.” Later she would add that love is love and it is none of my business who people fall in love with. She raised me to see love and happiness and to not judge anyone. Ever.

When I got to high school it was the 90s. Popular television shows were writing in gay characters and celebrities were coming out. The world my mom had created for me was being reflected outside my tiny bubble of reality. Then, one day I heard the F word for the first time while walking the halls of my school. It shook me to my core. Why would being gay be an insult? Who cares who anyone loves or doesn’t love?

Soon after I joined a gay-straight alliance. We did outreach and offered a safe space for gay, straight, bisexual, and curious kids. It was amazing. I was surrounded by like minded people all working towards the same goal. I missed that group after graduation. I missed being around such caring and loving individuals.

A few years after graduation a very good friend of mine came out to me and I saw how nervous and afraid he was. I stood by him as family turned their backs and offered to send him away to be “straightened out”. It broke my heart. He should have been celebrating. I know so many others who finally come out only to be closed off from loved ones. Then, there are the absolutely heartbreaking scenarios where people are too afraid to be who they are. They are made to feel guilty, wrong, and less-than.

No one should ever be made to feel that way.

I try to raise my voice, step up on my soapbox, and tell any one who will listen, that love is love. I support equality for everyone. No exceptions, no special circumstances. Just simple, pure, wonderful, equality. Freedom to love whomever we want to. Freedom to be whoever we truly are.

Until all love is seen as love I will lend my voice. I will stand up for love. I will support love. I will scream and shout and cry and push for love. Whatever it takes for the discrimination and hate to end.

Whatever it takes to keep young gay folks from feeling fear because of whom they are attracted to. Whatever it takes to make falling in love an incredible experience for everyone, not just heterosexual people. Whatever it takes to create a world in which my girls can grow up to be who they truly are, without fear or scrutiny. Whatever it takes.


“When everyone else is more comfortable remaining voiceless
Rather than fighting for humans that have had their rights stolen
I might not be the same, but that’s not important
No freedom ’til we’re equal, damn right I support it” –Macklemore “Same Love”


Love is Love




This post was a part of the December Secret Subject Swap. Twelve bloggers all submitted writing prompts/subjects and in return were assigned a topic. No one knows who got their prompt, until now. Please check out the other amazing writers.                          Baking In A Tornado                                       The Momisodes                          Spatulas on Parade                            Dinosaur Superhero Mommy                        Stacy Sews and Schools             The Bergham’s Life Chronicles               Evil Joy Speaks                       Confessions of a part-time working mom           Silence of the Mom                         Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                         Climaxed

A New Baby Fly!


If you were a fly on our wall you would see the hilarious, heartfelt, insane, moments that make up our life. Here are just a few….


Four-year-old, using the bathroom: “PRIVACY! I need PRIVACY!!” One minute later, “Still going!” Another minute later, “Anyone? Can someone tell me why I am naked? Anyone? WHY AM I NAKED?!?!” One final minute later, “Daddy!? Can you come tell me a story while I sit here [on the potty] and brush my hair?”



I love pearls. Apparently this love has been passed down to my four-year-old. We were sitting on the couch and she complimented me on my earrings. I thanked her and asked her where her (faux) pearl necklace and bracelet was. She thought for a moment then turned to my husband and said:

“Daddy, will you go into my room and get my pearls for me? I can’t do it because my feet are relaxing.”



As most of you know, we have a brand new baby. She is a month old and our life has simultaneously been turned upside down and makes more sense than it ever has before. Being a mom for the second time is an interesting experience. I find that I am more relaxed and confident about day to day tasks. I also find that life has a way of keeping me humble.

We had only been home for a short amount of time when I decided to check and change the baby’s diaper. I laid her on the couch and started changing her, not paying as much attention as I would have if she had been my first. I worked quickly, relying on muscle memory as I chatted with my husband. Mid-change I felt my hand become warm and wet. I looked down and our sweet new baby had peed all over me, my pants, her new diaper, and the couch.

I quickly got to work cleaning us up and replacing her diaper. Just as I got the new, dry diaper on her I heard the familiar sound of number two being deposited. I looked at my husband and we both just laughed. I got to work changing what ended up bring the third diaper in five minutes. I felt like such a newbie parent. I still laugh at my not-so-gentle reminder that none of us really know what we are doing. Ever.



I was not prepared for the big, big feelings my older daughter would have for her sister. We were warned of the jealousy that might arise and the acting out that might manifest. What we were not told about was the amount of love this little person would have for her sister.

“I knew my wish [for a sister] was going to come true. I knew because your belly was starting to grow because there was a tiny ant size baby in there. I knew. I wished and wished and wished and now she is here and I love her.”

To hear her trying her best to verbalize her adoration for her new sister is amazing. To see how the baby, at only a month old, already responds and reacts to the sound of her big sister’s voice is pure magic.





Fly on the Wall

This post was part of the Fly On The Wall writing challenge. A group of bloggers all write and post on the same day, sharing snippets of their lives for you to read, as though you were a fly on our wall. Please do check out the other writers. They are an amazing group of bloggers.                          Baking In A Tornado                                  The Rowdy Baker                                Just A Little Nutty                                          The Momisodes                          Spatulas on Parade                                   The Sadder But Wiser Girl                          Follow me home                        Stacy Sews and Schools                          Menopausal Mother                                 Battered Hope                         Dinosaur Superhero Mommy                   Someone Else’s Genius                     Crumpets and Bollocks                                              Risa Nye                                    Go Mamma O




One Size Doesn’t Fit All


Let me set the scene for you: I am in Target with my family. Our two-week-old baby needs to be changed so I head into the ladies room while my husband and 4-year-old head over to Starbucks. I walk in to the busy restroom and lay my baby on the changing station. A woman, presumably waiting for an available stall, glances over.


“Oh! What a tiny baby! She is beautiful.”


“Thank you,” I say, smiling that goofy postpartum smile.


“Is she yours?” The waiting lady asks.


Huh? My smile fades and I stare at her for a moment before stuttering my answer, “Uhhh, yeah.”


“I wasn’t sure. You don’t look like you just had a baby. Congratulations anyway!” She says before entering a stall.


I just blinked and looked down at myself. What did she mean, I don’t look like I just had a baby? I definitely FELT like I just had a baby and I am pretty sure my stitched up lady bits looked an awful lot like they had just expelled a baby.


I finished changing the baby and rejoined my family. I had hoped the comments would end with my pregnancy but I am quickly learning that social etiquette doesn’t pertain to pregnancy and postpartum body comments. Somehow, the moment I became pregnant I had unknowingly consented to commentary by complete strangers about my physique.


Throughout my pregnancy I heard comments ranging to how “tiny” I was to how “huge” I was., sometimes in the same day. I heard phrases like, “Wow, you are about to pop!” to, “ I WISH I looked like that while I was pregnant.” Neither comment would make me feel good. The first would be delivered with pity and the second with a healthy does of envy. I would smile and nod and try to change the subject, holding out for the blessed day when my baby would arrive, taking the spotlight off from me.


That has not happened. Sure, she gets 75% of the attention, as she should, she is ADORABLE. But that other uncomfortable 25% is always directed at my apparent lack of postpartum appearance. While most of the comments are meant to flatter there have been a few that stung. I had one person tell me that my flat stomach made them sick. I think they meant to say they were envious but chose their words without thinking. It felt awful.


My body has carried two amazing little girls. It has given each of them 9 months of protection, warmth, and nourishment. It has been either pregnant or nursing a baby for the past 5 years. It has withstood great losses and deep, deep pain. It survived years of self inflicted abuse, neglect, and self-loathing. It has put on weight and lost weight. It has fought back and silently surrendered.


It has taken nearly 35 years and two children to get to a place where I love my body. I am not perfect but perfection isn’t my goal. Happiness, that was and always will be my goal. My body has helped to create a family for my husband and I. I owe it a great amount of gratitude.


However, I have been finding myself recently doubting this newly found acceptance based on strangers commentary. I have been explaining why I look the way I do so soon after giving birth. I have been making excuses and deflecting genuine compliments. I shouldn’t be doing that. I should be saying, ‘Thank you,” and moving on, remembering how much this body, in whatever form it is in presently, has given me.


It is incredible how an offhanded comment with no ulterior motive can really make people second-guess themselves. The opinions of others should not affect me, but they do. Size shaming, whether it is thin people shaming larger folks or bigger people shaming their smaller counterparts, is not ok. We are all beautiful. There is no such thing as perfection, only what we each perceive as such. There is no need to shame each other. No pregnant woman needs to hear that she looks like she is about to pop. No postpartum momma needs to be told that she doesn’t look like she just went through 9 months of growing a new little person just because she is thin. No teenager needs to hear that they aren’t tall/thin/curvy/petite enough.


Perfection isn’t real. It is a projection of what we each think we should look like. But, if we look close enough, we will see that each of us is actually pretty perfect. Our self perceived flaws, those things we feel like we need to explain away to perfect strangers, those are the things that make us truly beautiful.


Meanwhile, I am done apologizing for my postpartum appearance. I am done with the excuses, quickly mumbled while self consciously looking at my feet. Instead, I will say a polite thank you. I will keep my head high and show my daughters what it looks like to truly love yourself. After all, it is because of this body that I have them.



And Then, There Was Four

And Then There Was Four

I could have gazed into her eyes forever but she yawned, squeaked, and slowly drifted off into the most peaceful of sleeps.


It was quiet there in the birthing center at the hospital. The lights were dimmed and nurses were rounding in hushed tones. Across the hall I could hear the familiar thumping of a fetal heartbeat on a monitor. Sometimes I could hear the shuffling of a laboring momma, walking the halls, just like I did a few short hours earlier.


I looked back down at my daughter. She was just over twelve hours old. I hadn’t slept in 24 hours and I couldn’t have been more at peace. How else was I supposed to feel? I was holding a dream come true.


A squeak and a yawn and I was brought back to my bed, in the very room that we welcomed our second daughter. In the room where our older daughter helped to coach me through contractions. In the room where my mom timed the waves that would eventually bring her a fourth grandchild. In the room where I fell in love, all over again, with my husband, as he fed me my turkey sandwich while I held our minutes old baby.


I took in the calm. The past 24 hours had been a whirlwind. I went from being a 37-week happily pregnant, albeit uncomfortable, person to a new mom, all over again. The tiny girl in my arms was, just a few hours earlier, nudging my ribs with her toes and getting into position to be born.


All the day before I had been having contractions. They were not painful; they were just the contractions I had struggled with for so many, many weeks previously. The difference was that now, at 37 weeks, the baby was able to thrive on the outside. I had just started to let my guard down, find peace in the last remaining moments of this pregnancy, one that would almost definitely be my last.


By bedtime I was exhausted and my back was achy. I jokingly asked my husband if he could take Monday (the next day) off so we could have one more day of weekend. “Only if you go into labor!” He joked back. I laughed. That day had not felt like the day before labor would start. I remembered the day before our first daughter was born. I just knew she was on her way. That day, Sunday, was not that day. I said good night and headed to bed to start my nightly tossing and turning.


Somewhere around midnight I had finally drifted off only to be woken two hours later to my tiny inhabitant doing barrel rolls in my belly. I laid in bed, staring out the window at the tree in my neighbor’s yard. Half of the leaves had fallen off and the remaining ones were shifting from brilliant yellow to a subdued brown. I had been watching this tree for weeks, knowing that once the leaves had all fallen, our baby would be coming. A small but very distinguishable popping feeling very low in my abdomen interrupted my foliage filled thoughts. I knew instantly that my water had broken.


The next two hours were filled with excitement and fear, phone calls and last minute house prep. Eventually our small car was filled with a very excited family, everything we could need for the next couple days, and a whole lot of love and anticipation. Off we went to meet our newest family member.


We had just decided a week earlier to include our daughter at the hospital. Originally, she was going to stay home with Grandma. After talking with friends, each other, and my midwife, we decided to bring her and my mom with us. You would have thought we had told her she was headed to Disney to meet the entire Frozen cast, she was so overjoyed. We realized, after making the choice, that it was the only thing that made sense for our family.


As we settled into the room where I would deliver, I could not have been more confident in our choice to include my mom and our daughter. I was at ease and not the least bit anxious, exactly what I had dreamed for this birth. My labor and delivery with our first was filled with fear and anxiety. So much so that it ended up clouding my memories and making the entire experience a blur of incoherent moments. I vowed to stay present this time, to be in control of my experience instead of just a fearful victim of the pain.


By morning my labor had not progressed much, I was still in very early labor, my pain was barely worth mentioning. The decision was made to fully break my water (the pop had been the product of a small leak that set off labor but did not allow it to progress). It wouldn’t be long now; we were going to meet our baby.


I took to the halls of the second floor, walking and chatting in between contractions. My husband, mom, and daughter all took turns walking with me. My husband would hold me through the pain, rubbing my back. My mom and I shared moments between the breathing, finding great amounts of gratitude for each other’s presence. My daughter would hold my hand and quietly stop when I did. She would remind me to breath by taking slow, deep breathes next to me, gently squeezing my hand.


“Good mommy! Good breathing!” She would say, defying her mere four years. When the pain threatened to take over my control, when it threatened to take me from being resent, I would look into her eyes. I would ask her to give me a kiss, or just breathe with me. I found strength in my family. They, whether they realized it or not, gave me the ability to have the birthing experienced I so desperately yearned for, one that I so desperately needed. Their calm and reassuring presence got me through labor.


The last phase of labor went very quickly. We decided to have my mom and our soon to be oldest daughter go for a walk while I delivered. Within a few minutes I was holding our tiny new child. I did it. We did it. Our dream had come true; my personal dream of a positive birth experience had come true. Overcome with gratitude and love, I held our baby and my husband and I cried.


We are a family of four now. Our oldest has slid into the roll of big sister in a way that we could have never anticipated. My love for my family has grown more than I thought was possible. My respect and adoration for my four year old is immeasurable. My gratitude and adoration for my mother is at a place it has never been and I could have only hoped for before this experience. I am humbled by my amazing husband; I adore him with every fiber of my being. And, our new baby, the center of it all; the missing piece of our puzzle. She completely completes our family.


And you. My readers, my supporters, my friends. You all rode along as we experienced this journey. I will forever be grateful for the emails and Facebook messages. The congratulatory words and hugs when we crossed paths at the grocery store. You have all kept me believing in the light when the darkness threatened to take over. Thank you.


As I finish typing this up, I feel a tiny hand touch my leg. Our three-day old baby is napping on our bed next to me. As soon as she felt me next to her she let out a content sigh. I wonder how much more my already overflowing heart can handle. Then, my four-year-old comes in, climbs onto the bed and kisses her sister and says good night.


“What was your favorite part of the day?” I ask her, like I do every night.


She looks up from her spot next to her sister and smiles, “Spending time with my whole family. All FOUR of us.”


And Then There Was Four


Exposing A Costume Conundrum

Exposing A Costume Conundrum

It is that time of year again! Fall is in full swing and everything I love the most about living in New England is in great abundance. October is my favorite month for so many reasons, one of which being Halloween.


Many of you may remember that last year at this time I wrote a little rant about inappropriate kids costumes. For those of you who didn’t catch it, here it is in a nutshell: While perusing the Halloween aisles of a local department store I stumbled across a costume that was a size 2T-3T. (For those of you without kids, that it approximately the size a 2 or 3 year old would wear.) This costume was a leopard, aimed at little girls. Sounds innocent, right?


It wasn’t.


It was a knee length purple and black dress with short sleeves and a headpiece with pointed ears. No big deal. Except it was a big deal. It was a big deal because this costume didn’t have a speck of leopard print and on the package it was labeled as a “NAUGHTY LEOPARD.”



I will let that sink in for a minute. I know that last year (and this one for that matter) my daughter’s only definition of naughty was (and is) impish behavior. Breaking the rules. This costume did not imply any of that. It implied the other, much more grown up, definition of the word.


Remember what size it was? 2T-3T. What in the WHAT?!?!


So, that was last year’s disgusted rant by the mother of a young daughter, sick and tired of the sexualization of our girls. I demanded we put the creepy back into Halloween. Or at least take away the sex. I don’t care if it sells I am not buying it.


Now that you are all caught up, here we are. 2014. A full year later. I am still a ranty mother to a young daughter but this year I have another daughter on the way. Hormones and momma-bear fierceness have taken control of me. I feel another rant a-coming and you all are going to be privy to it.


I am (as of the morning this will be published) over 8 months pregnant. As you can imagine, I am quite round. My due date is right after Halloween but due to my history and current contractions, our newest little lady may just be here before the spookiest candy fest of the year arrives. My older daughter is ALL about dressing up. Mommy and Daddy are not exempt. Have you ever tried to change the mind of a 4 year old? Yeah, that.


So, I found myself, during the wee hours of the morning, mid insomnia battle, searching for costumes that will fit a very pregnant body AND a post-partum body. It may be easier to find a leprechaun, riding a unicorn, at the end of a rainbow, guarding a pot of gold, than it is to find a costume for me. Apparently since I am a grown woman looking for a costume for Halloween I must obviously want to be a sexy something-or-other.


Every costume I have found will expose more of my lady parts than even my midwife sees. That may be acceptable and desired for some women out there but let’s not forget, I am about to give birth and if she is born before Halloween, I will be mere moments post-delivery. As much as giving birth makes me feel gorgeous, NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT.


Then it dawned on me; maybe I should search for a costume that no one could possibly make sexy. I thought of the perfect character with a forgiving body shape. Animated, wholesome, adorable, hilarious, and ROUND! He was my cartoon doppelganger. I quickly grabbed my laptop and typed in my Google search:


Women’s Olaf Costume.


Let us take a moment again, for those of you out there without children or televisions or radios or any contact with the outside world. Olaf is the summer loving, magical snowman sidekick in the little movie called Frozen. Heard of it?


Anyway, back to my Google search. I entered those three words and hit enter. There it was. An Olaf costume for grown women, just like me. Well, sort of just like me. Just like me except not pregnant or post-partum. Ok, it was an Olaf costume for women just like me if I was a Barbie doll.


Somehow, costume manufacturers and designers who should turn in their sewing machines out of shame had sexified Olaf. A snowman. Three round lumps of snow with a carrot shoved through his head and buckteeth. Sexy Olaf. I was in shock.


The costume was simple. Too simple. It was a hooded mini dress. Pull the hood up over your head and Olaf’s face was printed on it. The dress was printed to resemble his body, minus the actual shape. I feel like I should really emphasize the MINI part of mini-dress.


The good news? If I was still pregnant and went into labor, I could deliver the baby, fully costumed. THAT is how short this dress was. Pretty, right?


I eventually gave up. Clearly the sexy Halloween costume trend has reached an all-time low. There is no sign of it slowing down either. Until we stop objectifying women of all ages and trying to convince them that their worth lies in their sex appeal, I am afraid the trend will stay put.


And, in case you were curious as to what I will be wearing come Halloween, I have decided to don a cape and be the very best role model I can be for my daughters. I will not show the world my body and instead will be grateful for what it has given me and respectfully keep it clothed. I will also be sporting a giant baby belly or a tiny newborn, either way I will look incredible. Not because of my 3 inch hemline, plunging neckline, or exposed midriff, but because of the little girl, dressed as Batman, holding my hand and looking up to me.


Exposing A Costume Conundrum



My husband is my confidant, my best friend, my backyard pumpkin harvester, my biggest fan, my partner in crime, my everything.

Being on bed rest is hard for me but I can’t imagine what it must be like for him. Just today he has had a makeover while working from home, saved our house and cable lines from a tree branch, checked on the pellet stove he installed yesterday, comforted me, made meals, took care of dogs, washed and folded laundry, cleaned the house, and is currently at our daughter’s dance class with her. Not a moment of complaint. Not even a hesitation. This is what he does.

20140914-_MG_0051Tomorrow is our anniversary. I have no gift to give to him as I am home bound and a procrastinator. What I can give him is a family that ADORES him and a wife that respects and looks up to him. I am in constant awe of him and the life he has helped to build. It may not be perfect but it is perfect for us.

And love. I can promise to love him more than he can imagine or conceive of.

Eight years ago I recited vows while fighting back tears of immense joy. They were the most important and life changing words I have ever uttered.

I, Michelle, eight years ago, took you Zachary, to be my husband, to have and to hold from that day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from that day and every day forward until death do us part.

1377364_10201196314603919_1500175689_nThank you, husband, for the best eight years I could ever ask for. For two daughters, a warm, safe home, for constant laughter, love, and support. Thank you for putting your family above all else without sacrificing yourself or your dreams. Thank you for being more than I could have ever imagined that sunny day that I handed you the keys to my truck. Thank you for being everything. Thank you for being you.

So, this is what happens when dreams come true. IMG_3750.JPG


Seeking Sympathy (Guilt Need Not Apply)

seeking sympathy

As my pregnancy winds down, the discomfort increases. At my last prenatal appointment I mentioned the increase discomfort since my last full term pregnancy wasn’t even close to being this uncomfortable. My midwife nodded knowingly. She agreed that being four years older the second time and having a little one to care for absolutely creates new issues and discomforts.


What she did not do was judge me. She let me complain quietly. Nodding her head in agreement or at the very least, in sympathy. She didn’t remind me of my blessings. She didn’t rub in the fact that I repeatedly said that I would give and go through anything for another child. She just listened. She reassured me that it was very typical. She just let me talk. This seemingly small act had a huge impact on me.


Most people around me know our story. They were by our sides during our multiple heartbreaks. They saw me slip into a depression and struggle with what I presumed to be our fate. They also witnessed our hard decision to stop trying to conceive. They saw my husband and I slowly come to terms with our only child status and eventually embrace our tiny family.


They were there when we announced our surprise baby. They held their breath with us as we waited to see that itty-bitty heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. They exhaled along with us at our 11-week scan, when we saw a healthy baby. They have been there and we are eternally grateful.


Most have been so supportive. SO supportive. But, there have been a few people who have unintentionally said some less than supportive things, disguised as support.


Sometimes, I need to complain. I need to sit down with someone I am close to and whine. Pregnancy is TOUGH. Yes, it is amazing and miraculous and beautiful but it is also painful and uncomfortable and hot. It is queasy and achy and exhausting. Even though the life inside of me is an enormous blessing and will never be taken for granted, the process of growing her is taking a toll on my mid-30’s body.


I am in my third trimester now, about a month away from meeting this little squirming person we created. And you know what? I hurt. Physically. Sometimes, when asked how I am feeling, I may mention the sleepless nights and searing back pain. It does not make me less grateful.


All the gratitude and blessings in the world still do not make 20 plus weeks of extreme nausea any more bearable. It doesn’t take away the discomfort of 15 weeks of pre-term contractions. It doesn’t make sciatic pain or pelvic separation any more enjoyable.


What I do not need is another well-meaning person to say, “Yeah but it’ll all be worth it!” Or, “Just remember what a blessing this is!” Or, “Be grateful you get to go through it, you thought you never would.”


These words may have all of the good intentions behind them that the world can hold but it does not make them sting any less. Ever been in pain and exhausted and not sure if you’ll make it to the end of the day without collapsing in a weepy pile only to be told to count your blessings? It is a super guilt inducing feeling and it is not something I want to be feeling.


What I need is more nods of understanding. More sympathetic ears. Maybe even an “I have been there” belly rub.


I spend 90% of my time counting those blessings. I talk about them, I write about them, I take photos of them, and I breathe them in. The people who try to remind me of them inadvertently make me sad. They should know how grateful I am. It is insulting, frustrating and hurtful.


It has led me to not share how I really feel. I fear coming across as taking for granted the very dream I held onto for so long. So, instead, I focus on the good and let the guilt over the less-than-stellar build. And build. And build. Until I end up crying myself to sleep, wondering if I really am just ungrateful. Maybe if I could muster more gratitude, the discomfort and pain would be more bearable.


One look at any drug store aisle of analgesics and the answer is clear. There is no bottle labeled, “count your blessings as needed for pain.”  I am not ungrateful I am human. I am a human growing another human while caring for a small human. It is ok to complain sometimes. It is ok to admit moments of weakness. It is all part of my truth and I cannot deny that or let it make me feel guilty any longer.


I would have loved to have a picture perfect pregnancy. One with no swelling, little to no pain. One where I glowed for 9 months while our miracle baby grew inside my belly. But that isn’t real life. Well, maybe for some, but not for me.  All-day morning sickness and crazy Braxton Hicks contractions are my reality. Swollen fingers and expanding feet are what is happening. I may be glowing but that is mostly because today is 80 and it is supposed to be sweater weather.


All of this is totally ok. It is perfect because in the end, I will have my second daughter. I will get to hold her and look at her and eventually the memories of the pain and discomfort will fade. They will never fully disappear though, as they shouldn’t. The memory of them will perfectly balance out the immense feeling of gratitude that will wash over me as I lay eyes on our new baby.


So, if you hear me say I am sore, haven’t slept in days, or feel so nauseous I might scream, please do not remind me to count my blessings. You can rest assured that I have counted and recounted them. I have talked about them, written about them, photographed them, and breathed them in. No, I do not need to be reminded of all I have to be grateful for. What I do need is to be allowed to express my feelings, my truth, without fear of guilt or judgment. I need a sympathetic ear and a smile.


A donut and belly rub wouldn’t hurt either.


seeking sympathy

I See A Fly On The Wall



Some days we get up, get ready, and Go! Go! Go! Other days, more so recently, we stay home. Our pajamas are our uniforms and the television our entertainment. These are the days we talk the most, snuggle the most, laugh the most. Normally I would feel the twangs of mommy guilt but instead, I enjoy these days, just her and I.



IMG_3422Sometime around her 2nd birthday our daughter decided that when we get coffee, she would as well. She grabs a small to-go cup and asks us to fill it with milk from the self serve coffee station. A lid goes on it and she sips her “coffee” alongside mommy and daddy.

Last week she and I stopped at our local food co-op to get coffee. She grabbed her cup and I filled it for her. I watched as she carefully sipped it while strolling through the store, stopping to say hi to the (many) people we saw who we know. Once we got to the register she carefully placed her cup on the counter and announced that she had a small coffee. The cashier smiled knowingly and handed it back to her after ringing it up. My girl held it in two hands, once again carefully sipping it.

We made our way into the car and I buckled her into her carseat. I placed her “coffee” in her cup holder. I turned up the stereo and we drove off. At the stop light I reached up to adjust my mirror. In it I caught this moment. There she was. My little girl, sitting in her seat, legs crossed. She was happily singing along to Katy Perry and sipping her beverage. It was a moment anyone else may have missed or not noticed. But I did. In that moment I saw my baby girl, growing fast. I saw her as a kid. Her very own person, yet with so much of me.

I caught her eye and quickly snapped this photo. She giggled and went back to singing. These moments are exactly what it is all about.



IMG_3419I woke up to tapping on my house. Not my window but on the wood siding of my house, right under my bedroom window. I got up and went over to investigate. I was greeted by this little woodpecker and her mate. They apparently heard that our house was an all-you-can-eat buffet of sorts. What they didn’t hear was that the owner of said buffet is heavily pregnant and exhausted.

I tried to stay nice as I asked (demanded) that they leave. In response I got the mail trying to fly INTO my house. I give up. This place has gone to the birds.



IMG_3358It feels like yesterday that I took the test that FINALLY said I was pregnant. And now, here I am, looking like I am trying to smuggle a basketball in my shirt. In a few (short) weeks we will welcome our second daughter. It still feels like a dream.

It is amazing how long the days can be but the months have flown by. Here in New England fall has started to take hold. I couldn’t be more happy and more excited. Every nudge and roll, every hiccup and kick is one more reminder of what is to come. I CAN’T WAIT!!



IMG_3278We have a tradition every night at bedtime. After stories and before hugs and kisses we all ask each other, “What was your favorite part of the day?”

This ritual started over a year ago when my husband was away for work. He was gone for four weeks and it was the first time we had ever been apart. It was hard on all of us and I needed to stay focused on the good in our lives, even if it was a tiny detail.

Every night my daughter and I would talk about what our favorite part of the day was. Recalling the fun we had would make going to bed without our favorite guy a bit easier.

Daddy came home later that month but nearly 16 months later we still ask. Her answers vary, depending on our day. Recently though, her answer has remained the same.

“Spending time with my whole family.”



Fly on the Wall

This post was part of the Fly On The Wall writing challenge. A group of bloggers all write and post on the same day, sharing snippets of their lives for you to read, as though you were a fly on our wall. Please do check out the other writers. They are an amazing group of bloggers.                           Baking In A Tornado                                The Rowdy Baker                                Just A Little Nutty                                         The Momisodes                       Spatulas on Parade                               The Sadder But Wiser Girl                          Follow me home . . .                  Stacy Sews and Schools                             Menopausal Mother                                        Go Momma O                                     Dinosaur Superhero Mommy                         Someone Else’s Genius                               Battered Hope