Bye, Decade

This last decade was one of toilet-selfies, post-op selfies, selfies featuring my sleep mask (good for sleeping, but also cushioning the forehead while resting on the toilet seat), and in-bed selfies.  The most remarkable things were sprinkled in between, but at the heart of it, this last decade was home to my illness.  

2010 was the year I spent time in a rehab facility, after one too many ‘professionals’ told me my illness was all in my head.  It was 2011 before I finally found a doctor who took my suffering seriously, underwent my first surgery, and finally received my Endometriosis diagnosis.  

This last decade has been a rollercoaster of sick and relief.  I’ve woken up feeling completely normal, and utterly thankful, and I’ve woken up unable to leave bed.  I’ve been the most amazing mother and partner, and I’ve been completely useless.  I’ve been able to start my own business(es), and I’ve been too sick to get a ‘normal’ job.  I’ve spent days adventuring outside of my comfort zone, and days recovering from yet another surgery.  I’ve made the most remarkable friends, after losing so many because I was too sick to keep up.  I’ve volunteered for school events, and I’ve napped away entire school days.  

It is a teeny depressing to realize that at the end of an entire decade, I’m not ‘fixed’.  It’s been a decade of fighting to figure shit out, and I’m still fighting and figuring.  I am healthier, overall, then I was 10 years ago, and that’s a pretty hopeful feeling.  I also get scared wondering if this might be the best I’ll ever feel.  I’m only 34 (almost), do I start ‘settling’ now?!

Don’t get me wrong, I’d take today’s feelings over 10 years ago, any day!  Today I am achy, and the kind of tired that blows my mind every time (because I napped yesterday and slept very decently last night, so wtf?!), but 10 years ago I felt worst then this, every single day.  After years of only sick days, I get to experience good days, and even really good days.  And that is never lost on me. (And I’m thankful Instagram makes it so easy to scroll through and remind myself of all of the really good days, while I’m stuck in the bathroom!)

I have a feeling that 2020 will be full of acceptance. Or at least me trying really hard to accept things.  Menopause murdered my self-esteem in 2019.  I hated the way my body looked, for the first time since high school.  The game that my hormones (natural and synthetic) have been playing has been destroying my complexion lately, and I’m honestly trying to to cry about the sudden influx of white hairs I’ve been plucking out of my already thinning head.  

I’ve gotten a really good hold on my anxiety, and in that sense I feel strong and mentally healthy.  (Fuck, that’s a MEGA feat in itself!)  But I know this next year, the start of this next decade, will be full of hard work to remain positive, and optimistic, and loving my physical self despite all the the inevitable changes.  Come to think of it, I guess that’s my only ‘resolution’; more self-care, in order to keep loving all of me.  And also blogging/ journaling more.  Or at least not leaving said blogging to the last minute so that I’m not just annoyed and bored and can’t think of any decent words because I’m over it already, blah blah blah

lol  😏)

Christmas Cry

I had my annual Christmas-cry, last night.  

Does anyone else suffer from such things? lol 

Mostly it’s sentimentality; all the lights and the snow and kids being excited for school to be done, and all the plans to put our nice clothes on for.  It’s overwhelming, in a good way!  But also, my heart feels the need to take a moment to mourn my childhood.  Which sounds so dumb, because mourning is associated with sad things, and my childhood was pretty glorious..especially Christmas.  But every Christmas, I get far too sad about those Christmases being over.

I think a chunk of me died, the day I came to terms with Santa not being real.  I was in Grade 8, I held on to that magic for dear life!  And there was no Instagram, and no political correctness being discussed on the playground, so until I was basically a teenager, I had no reason not to believe.  I appreciated getting to be part of making the magic for my younger siblings, and it’s when I started to understand that Christmas magic and cheer is about more then Santa and presents.. but it’s never been the same.  

Nothing feels the same as the hour my little brother and sister would sit in my bed, up too early on Christmas morning, while I read the same Christmas book over and over, until we were finally allowed to wake our parents up.  I haven’t done many drugs, lol but what I have done, never came close to that utter anticipation.  

And we were all SO in love.  It’s less about the fact that my family has since become a ‘broken’ one, and more about how much we all just loved on each other during the Christmas holidays.  We did a great job fighting like all siblings did, but never at Christmas time.  And especially not Christmas Day!  We’d stay in our jammies, sharing our Disney figurines, or figuring out my brother’s new Nintendo.  We’d watch new movies and share each other’s stocking-treats, before eventually getting dressed for dinner.  

We have the most wonderful collection of home movies, so sometimes I wonder if my memories are actual memories, or just remembering what I’ve watched.. but not Christmas.  Those smells, and those albums my parents played every year, and those feelings, those are seared into me.  And I fucking miss it.  

Blah, blah, blah!  I have my own family now, and that DOES mean that childish magic starts all over again.. though, now I’m worrying that Christmas will never be AS magical for my kid, because he doesn’t have someone to share Disney figures, or Nintendo with..

On the way home from the movies, the gps took me the most bizarre way, and while panicking about probably being lost, and dying in a ditch, I was suddenly on a street where every house was COVERED in lights.  I had Amy Grant’s Christmas album on (I don’t know why Tennessee Christmas means so much to me, lol I am the opposite of a Southern girl, but it was always on in the house), and all the tears came out!  All the way home!  But then I opened the door and the Christmas tree was on, both my guys were fast asleep together, and all was ok, again.

And now we move on, lol.  And eat too much dessert!  And just try to sleep on the 24th, even though we’re so freaking excited because we know our kids are so freaking excited!  And we can live vicariously through their excitement.. and take some pleasure in knowing that we’re the ones creating so much of the magic (just like our parents did)!

Ouch

Being a parent is hard AF. 

It’s not even the disciplining, or the sleeplessness, or the trying to keep them occupied with Pinterest-worthy activities, or the laundry/lunch making/ constant mess cleaning that’s the hardest part; the LOVE is the hardest part.  We love our parents and we love our siblings, and our partners and our friends, but the love we feel for our kids is one that is so big, it could completely crush us at any minute. 

Yesterday, I got crushed.  Just fucking smashed to useless bits, and I’m still picking up the pieces.  

I’m an anxious person naturally, we all know this, I’ve survived umpteen panic attacks, but yesterday was by far the most anxious I’ve ever felt.  Really, the actual trauma only lasted 15 minutes in the tiny, make-shift Emerge room, but it’s something written on my heart for the rest of time.  I know that it could have been worse, I know that shit like this is basically a right of passage for kids, and I know that there are parents (fucking bless their souls) who have to deal with terrifying medical incidents with their kids on a regular basis...but it was enough to break me.  I can admit that!

I proclaimed that I was dealing with some sort of parental-PTSD, today; I cried when Boden woke me up this morning, I cried when he came back and sat in bed and we discussed what happened (he thought it hurt so much because they were cutting his head..he didn’t realize they were sewing it, but is pleased it’s blue thread), I even cried when I sat at my little work desk again, because that’s where I was when the principal called me, yesterday morning.  Just thinking about it, whenever someone kindly checks in or asks what happened, I cry.  And I can’t stop thinking about it.  I am empathetic to a fault, really, and his face when I rushed into the office at school...so fucking stoic, and trembling while I told him that it was ok to let his tears out.  That face just fucking kills me, and it’s all I can see, today.  And all I can hear are those screams, to stop and to be let go, while he’s stuck, swaddled on a bed and some stranger is hurting him.  

That’s the other part, lol; those mama bear instincts that hit you out of nowhere.  It was exhausting, swallowing all the things I wanted to scream at that doctor!  ‘Why does it still hurt so much?! What the fuck is taking to long?!’  He was doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and I wanted to punch him in the fucking face.  

I passed out, twice.  Which I hate myself for, so that’s another thing I’m dealing with.  I stood right by his face, telling him just to look at mommy, and that he was ok, and it was almost over...then I don’t know if it was all the blood, or all of MY anxiety that had been MOUNTING during the 3 hours we were in the waiting room, finally coming to a head, but the room started to spin.  The first time I sat on the floor and sobbed silently for a second, and I could hear Boden asking where I was.  Which of course made it worse.  Then I got up in time for the next stitch, and less then a minute later I knew I was going to fall over.  Nolan said that was the worst part, lol, the way I changed color.  

I’m not even a squeamish person, I don’t mind blood and guts and gross stuff...if it was any other human being on the planet, I would have been fine standing there holding their hand, and even watching it all.  But it was my kid, the one I made.  And he was scared, and he was hurting, and it broke me.  Maybe all parents have to see their children suffer, at some point, to better understand the depths of our love for them.  Maybe I’m just a huge fucking baby, being very over dramatic.  But, it’s how I feel, so go fuck yourself. 

When he was all done, and unwrapped, they sat him up, and demanded I sit with him before I threw up everywhere.  I got an ice pack for my sudden sweats, and we both got popsicles, and then he was fine.  At what point do they/we stop being so goddamn resilient?

A friend pointed out that what I’m feeling is less PTSD (though it was of course a traumatic experience), and more the fact that as parents we naturally swallow all of our own fears and emotions when our children are in need, and today mine are finally coming out.  And they should come out!

We took the day off from school, and he was pretty excited about that.  It was a big day, and we needed to recover a little.  Also, I’m now slightly more terrified of him being away from me, of course.  I hate that he hurt himself and didn’t have his mommy there with him for the first 15-20 minutes.  It’s unavoidable, I KNOW, but I hate that part.  

I am thankful, though, that he has SUCH caring teachers.  I’m thankful my dad hadn’t left for work yet, and could come to the school with me.  I’m thankful it wasn’t any worse.  And I’m thankful for the hospital staff that bought coloring books over, and the ladies who switched waiting room seats with us, so I could plug his iPad in.  I’m thankful for the remarkably calm doctors who did their jobs, even though I know that they know, that in that room we hated their guts.  And I’m very thankful Boden has a daddy who is far more mentally stable then his mother, and could be there for the both of us.  

And I’m thankful it’s all over now. 

#beachbody

I have spent years hating my body, but it never had anything to do with the way it looked.  I remember seeing a body-positive quote, ‘Your body is not the enemy’, and laughing out loud, because yea, it was.  My body was tirelessly trying to kill me from the inside out, it was the enemy, and I hated it.  And while I was focusing on surviving that, I saw the #bopo movement growing on social media, and I just didn’t get it. 

I get it now. 

I never gave my shape and size a second thought, until I started to get healthier.  I was close to 150lbs when I went to prom; I had a wicked butt and spectacular boobs, plus a soft tummy and mega cheeks, but for me it was never an issue.  Maybe it’s because I had plenty of other issues, lol, maybe it’s because social media didn’t exist in our little universe, yet.  15 years ago, if we wanted to be bombarded by photos of over photoshopped, too-thin, unattainable models and actresses, we had to sit through TV commercials, or spend $6 on a magazine.

I got sick after graduating, and was under 100lbs before finally being diagnosed with Endometriosis.  I was throwing up or shitting constantly, and when I wasn’t, I wasn’t eating because I’d convinced myself I couldn’t be sick if I was empty.  At the time, I didn’t think I looked awful, or sickly.  I suppose I was too distracted by trying not to have a panic attack, to feel self conscious about being a complete stick of a person.  But after spending years getting used to losing weight, gaining weight became a strangely scary concept.  

After my diagnostic (and first removal) surgery, I was gifted almost a year of relief; waking up and not having to rush to the bathroom, and an appetite for the first time in years.  Well, an appetite means gaining weight, compared to never eating.  It wasn’t until the first person complemented my healthier figure, that I looked back at photos and how thin I had been.  And it freaked me out.  I started worrying that I’d keep gaining weight, if I kept eating the way I was.  I never had to actually worry about that, though, because I got sick again.  And again, and again.  

Cut to now; I am almost 3 years post-hysterectomy, and the heaviest I’ve been since graduating (besides being pregnant).  And now I REALLY get the whole #bopo thing.  I really get it, and I really fucking appreciate it.  7 months ago I was coming out of a massive Endometriosis flare, and an extremely stressful work season, and I never would have pictured myself needing constant reassurance that my body is perfectly fine just the way it is.  Over Christmas, all my pants were too big, and I was forcing myself to eat at least once a day.  Only 7 months ago, I never would have thought I’d spend 10 minutes in the mirror every time I have to leave the house, examining all of the angles and questioning my worth based on nothing other then my appearance.  But here I am.  

I think that body positivity is such a hard thing for women especially, because our bodies are fucking forever changing.  I feel like I’ve had to accept and learn to love like, 10 different bodies since puberty started!  I had a high school body, like 5 different variations of a sick body, a pre-baby body and a postpartum body, then another sick body, a healthy/ pre-menopause body, and now this.  This... I still don’t really know what it is.  We’re still getting to know each other, really.  Technically, it’s my peri-menopausal body, I guess.  And it’s frustrating, because I’m doing nothing different, and yet it’s changing.  That’s not fair, right?  I’m not eating more or moving less, but my metabolism seems to be dying, as my last ovary dies.  

I’m second guessing publishing all of this, because I’m worried I’ll come off like a know-it-all, or another privileged, skinny white girl whining about her cellulite.  This is completely new for me, though, and I’m just going through the motions.  I’ve come to pride myself on being such an open book on social media, and yet I’ve spent the last few months not posting about all of the fitting rooms I’ve cried in.  I typed about surviving panic attacks, but not about cringing over Spring finally starting, because it meant I could no longer keep my knee-length winter coat on when out in public.  I shared some mega motherhood struggles, but I haven’t posted about desperately missing my sick-skinny body, even though I know that’s a completely fucked up notion.  I’ve storied about the incredible hormonal bloat I’ve been dealing with, how painful and misleading it is, but not about how deeply depressed it’s made me feel, some days. 

Exhale. 

While I’m working with my doctor to hopefully balance things out a little, I realize that these side effects of menopause are things I will likely be dealing with until ‘normal’ menopause ends..lol, in another 20 years.  And I can’t waste the next 20 years hating on a body that’s made it this far, so I want to put in the work.  And by ‘work’ I don’t mean diet and exercise.  I mean unlearning the boxes and the unnatural norms that society has been slipping into my subconscious all this time. 

That’s really what this Beach Body photo shoot was all about, selfishly; surrounding myself with natural beauty and positivity, and this stunning sense of reassurance.  Part of me thought it was wishful thinking, but I put out the casting call, and not only did things fall into place with the perfect photographer, but also the perfect cast of models.  

It was a little chilly and mosquito-y when we all met, and stripped down.  It was kind of revolutionary, for me, being next to all of these different shapes and sizes and colors, none of us built the way Victoria’s Secret says we should be, and yet no one complained even once.  There was no mention of her being bloated, or her arms looking too fat, or her boobs looking too flat.  No one pointed out their stretch marks, even though we all had them.  Instead we immediately complimented each other’s suits, and suggested some super bootylicious poses to get things started. The 7 of us looked nothing alike, but I could tell we all felt the same; powerful, and content, despite our insecurities.  (We all have the insecurities, that’s normal and natural and ok, but not letting them steal the spotlight is the key!)

Initially, when we set the date, I told myself I had 20 days to treadmill and stop eating after 8pm.  If I’m being honest.  How fucked is that?  Using a body-positivity photo shoot as motivation to lose weight?!  Just a month ago I was still in denial about the fact that I don’t have that sort of control over my body, right now.  I was still that unevolved, as far as the body-positive notion goes.  For the record, I did power walk while watching Netflix, but only 8 times, not 20.  And I still eat after 8pm, because between mothering and running errands and running small businesses, after 8pm is when I end up with time to sit and eat.  The day before the shoot I tried on my suits, and cried, and told myself I had enough models, and didn’t need to participate myself.  But I woke up the next day, I listened to a lot of Lizzo, I ate a Snickers for dessert after breakfast, and I did it.  And I’m so fucking glad that I did.  

I know this is just the beginning of some kind of journey, definitely a rollercoaster, and I feel very lucky to have these photos to keep me company. 

Merry Christmas, Anxiety Monster

It was really nice, how many of you responded to my half-joking, kind of sarcastic Story about parenting with an anxiety disorder.  I realized that perhaps by answering here, where everyone can read it, maybe just one less person will be left feeling neurotic and pathetic because of their imperfect mental health - 

I was diagnosed with an Acute Fear Based Panic Disorder.  I got that diagnosis while still fighting for a doctor to take my physical illness seriously.  It sounds rational, that fears would trigger panic, but in many cases they aren’t what most would consider a natural fear, or its a seemingly natural fear (spiders, drowning, big loud dogs) that a person blows way out of proportion.   Someone fearing drowning may never get in a boat, into a pool, or even that bathtub; hearing really heavy rain might make them panic.  For me, my fear is the loss of control.  

I hate flying, not because I’m scared of crashing and dying, but because I don’t get to decide when we stop, even if I really need to stop.  I get anxious going into dental work or surgery, because I have no control over the outcome.  My biggest fear, though, as far as anxiety goes, is being sick, and losing control of my own body (that’s also why I don’t drink or do recreational drugs).  

It’s ironic and DEMONIC, that my biggest panic trigger has also always been my most severe symptom of Endometriosis.  I was always nauseous or throwing up or dealing with diarrhea, and I was always so fucking anxious.  I would get sucked into the most horrifying cycle of my sickness making me anxious, and my anxiety making me sick.  I’d move into the bathroom for days at a time, in a heavy Gravol and Ativan fog. 

Why is barfing so scary?!  Everyone does it!  And it’s not even the awful physical feelings that set me off...it’s the fact that if I’m going to be sick, I’m going to be sick, and I can’t stop it.  I have no choice.  It needs to come out whether I’m ready for it to, or not!  But it goes a little further for me, which is where the neurotic and pathetic feelings kick in.  

Yesterday a girlfriend told be she’d gotten hit by the tummy bug, and I instantly got prickly and warm, regardless of the fact that I haven’t been with her in weeks!  There’s no way I could have gotten her germs!  But then my husband goes out with her husband last night, and her husband gets hit this morning...so I spent the day, tense, and avoiding all kisses and snack sharing.  Reminding myself that it’s not like our husbands were making out the night before, and also preparing myself.  

‘Just in case’ is a mega coping mechanism of mine; make sure the toilets are clean, that my little drug drawer is full, that there’s ginger ale and apple juice in the fridge.  It definitely didn’t help that I was already nauseous, because it’s the end of the month, and that’s just who I am at the end of the month.  

We went to wander around Christmas lights this evening, and honestly, fresh air is SO good for an anxious brain.  I’d avoided taking an Ativan before going, because I was already so tired, but on our way home I took one.  In Starbucks, after my child said his tummy felt weird...and later that he was too full for his apple chips, and then he got real snuggly, which is wonderful, but made me panic because he’s whiny lately, not sweet and snuggly.  

I’d taken a few sips of my latte then packed it up to take home to my fridge, because I didn’t want to waste it by finishing it and then puking.  I put my kid in the car sans jacket etc..less things to wash if he ended up puking, and I checked ‘how are you feeling?’ every few minutes during the ride home.  He fell asleep.  And went right to sleep when we got home.  He’s not sick, he’s just exhausted.  Right?!  

I sat, coloring, in the kitchen until midnight, too anxious to sleep, and waiting just in case he woke up sick.  Because wake up sicks are the worst.  And now I’ll lay in bed, with our doors open so I can hear him snoring, and hopefully I’ll fall asleep.  And hopefully none of us barf.  

We’re not going to barf.  We’re fine.  And even if we are going to get sick, we will be fine.  Christmas will be fucked, but we’ll be ok.  I will be ok.  I have survived every single sick day, so why does even the mention of a sick tummy make me spin and sweat and over prepare, just in case?  Because I have an Acute Fear Based Panic Disorder.   And now you know!

Ps.  For the record, I actually appreciate being notified when friends have been sick, especially if we have been in some kind of physical contact over the last few days, or are planning on being together.  I don’t want you thinking that warning me will drive me into a nervous breakdown!  Most days I can just take a few deep breaths, and I appreciate being able to prepare ‘just in case’.  

Truth Time

I have been going through something, and as much as an open book as I pride myself on being, I’ve kept it to myself as much as possible. I’m still trying to work out why, but it felt right at the time.

It’s been a long few weeks, but this last week was the very bottom of it. And it’s because between doctors being on holidays, and me just plain procrastinating, I went two days without my meds, a week and a half ago ago.

If you’re thinking that doesn’t sound like a big deal, I was right there with you. Two little days! Two little days is all it took to remind me how fucking powerful these pills are, how fucking necessary they are FOR ME, and how fucking thankful I am for them.
It’s taken me much longer then I’d assumed to mentally come to terms with the losses our family has felt over the last few weeks, then PMS hit hard, then suddenly it was August which meant I only had a month left as a full time stay at home mom, and I felt depressed for the first time in years. Of course death and huge life changes are things that anyone would naturally pair with some degree of depression, but being off my meds took it to a very unnatural level. There was an overwhelming fatigue for a few days, my nerves just screamed for my bed while wrangling a sweaty toddler all day. And I cried, so much. And then the withdrawal kicked in.

Yes, two days is all it took for my body and my brain to start panicking and searching desperately for the one thing that has successfully kept shit in order for more then 12 years. Restless Leg Syndrome was certainly the most obvious withdrawal symptom, and when you’re not sleeping properly, depressed or not, nothing is right in the world. Every night for a week I’d lay in bed crying while I twitched and stretched my muscles, then I paced the living room for a half hour before going back to bed to cry and twitch again. I was beyond irritable, beyond unmotivated, and just felt empty. Amidst all the crying, though, (seriously, so much crying) I was also reminded of how lucky I am; not only do I have a remarkably supportive family that let me nap when I could, and friends who checked in on me, I’ve also found enough self confidence to be medicated.

So many people struggle through every day, unnecessarily, because society has convinced them that turning to a prescription is weak and that NEEDING help with their mental health makes them less-than. It hasn’t always been easy for me, of course. I started my meds in high school after an episode of Oprah made me realize That how I’d been feeling was called Depression, and told no one. A few years later someone who was a best friend told me they didn’t Want me around their child anymore, after finding out I had panic attacks and took ‘drugs’.

The stigma is a motherfucker, and I know that it robs far too many good people of a better life. Especially moms. Moms who already question every parenting decision and compare themselves to every other mother on the planet and are made to feel like they need to live up to these epic standards that no one’s ever actually seen before... ‘You have a beautiful child, how can you be depressed?’ ‘How can you take care of your kids if you have panic attacks every time you feel sick?’

It’s scary, admitting you can’t do LIFE on your own. Everyone experiences the death of loved ones, job stress, the parenting rollercoaster, breakups and divorces, car accidents and unexpected financial woes... And it’s too easy to assume that EVERYONE else just does it, they just power through and they deal. Everyone else makes it look so easy, so I shouldn’t be struggling. But I hope that someone out their takes some kind of comfort in the fact that I am not everyone else.

I am doing it, powering through and dealing, but I am also medicated. I am a wife and a really great mother, and I am also medicated.  I am a really worthy human being, who just happens to be medicated. 

I’ve been taking my meds nightly again, for 8 days, and with the help of a new RLS prescription and an Ativan, I finally slept last night. Sleep is life changing. And so are the drugs. And things are finally looking up again. When the people we love pass away, it haunts us on and off, possibly for the rest of our lives, and I am still dealing with overwhelming feelings regarding Kindergarten, but at least I’ve got a stable starting place, again.


Ps. Please know that if you are one of those people who are able to take what life throws at you and conquer it naturally, I am so happy for you, and so proud of you. But, if you are someone who’s asked for help, I bow down to you because I know it’s not the easy way out. And if you are one of those people that are stuck in the middle, hurting but thinking it’s too late to seek treatment, it isn’t. It never is. We all deserve a fair chance at facing the day, and I’ve concluded that that’s what my medication is.

But Seriously

I told a friend that I was taking me and my morning sickness out for ‘breakfast’ this morning, and of course she excitedly asked if I was pregnant. Lol, we’re not close friends, clearly, but it reminded me of a bone I have to pick with all of you. You, being society in general.

How come we still feel it’s appropriate to comment on a woman’s postpartum body, or their postpartum life?

I’m nearly 4 years postpartum, but it still irks me.

A week ago we attended my Mother In Law’s funeral. (Insert deep breaths here) Attending a funeral always comes with polite pleasantries with people you know of but don’t know, and between all of the sweetest comments and memories being shared I was shocked by how many times my body and my life as a mom were brought up.

I was told, ‘If I had a kid that cute I’d have 5 more!’ and ‘If I didn’t have to go back to work, I’d have at least one more kid!’ and my personal favorite, ‘If my body looked like that after being pregnant, I’d have 3 more!’ I understand that all of these things slip through mouths meant as a compliment, so I’ve learned to smile or giggle and nod instead of screaming ‘I'VE BEEN SICK FOR 12 YEARS AND I DON’T HAVE A UTERUS ANYMORE SO FUCK OFF PLEASE!’  But.  Friends.  We need to raise our level of consciousness and think for just one extra second before saying such things.

And because I’m currently on my own with a latte I didn’t make myself, breathing outside air deeply, I’m going to take a sec to address these few things..

1 - How cute YOU think a child is literally has nothing to do with how big a family is going to grow to be!

Is society still this shallow, that instead of commenting on how well behaved our toddler is being while stuck in the midst of a boring visitation full of crying adults, we’re talking about how attractive he is? And we’re talking about it as if it’s really a deciding factor? I can admit that I throw that ‘they’d make beautiful babies together’ line around, but never to someone’s face, and never in the sense that they SHOULD make babies because they’d be beautiful.

Our A+ genetics have absolutely nothing to do with why Boden is an only child. And as much as I chose to only have one, I didn’t really get the choice, and being reminded of that at any time, never mind at a time I’m already over emotional, will always sting. We have no idea why one family is teeny and another is huge.

A tip - Please feel free to remind me that, ‘shit your kid is cute!’ anytime you want, but unless you’re genuinely asking about our choices as a family, it’s safest to just avoid commenting on his non-existent siblings.

2 - I feel so goddamn lucky to have spent these last nearly-4 years at home with Boden. So goddamn lucky. Even on the days that I have to lock myself in the bathroom, or the days I cry because I know I can’t yell at him, or the days I cry because I’m just so freaking exhausted and unmotivated, I go to bed feeling so lucky. And I know that it’s a privilege, that not everyone can afford to stay home once Mat Leave ends (and don’t get me started on the lack of Mat Leave that my American friends get). But it’s way too easy to assume that finances are the only reason a mother chooses to stay home instead of returning to work.

We are VERY comfy as a family, but I am well aware of how much comfier we’d be if I’d gone back to work 3 years ago. And there have been so many days that I wish I was at work instead of at home, or more so that I wish I could work instead of being at home.

As soon as it was done growing and nourishing a new human, my body turned on me, again. When I wasn’t feeding or changing or waking up 39 times a night with my baby, I was in the bathroom sick and crying. You know, I actually tried, and failed to work after Boden turned 1.  I took my most favorite kid (next to my own) all day while her parents worked, for a few months. But I was too sick. I loved her with my whole heart and I loved her and Boden together, and I don’t think any other job would have made me happier, but I just couldn’t.


Since giving birth I’ve undergone and recovered from 3 surgeries because of my Endometriosis. That alone doesn’t leave much time to be gainfully employed.
I am lucky, and I think all moms (or dads) who stay home with their kids are lucky, but again, please don’t assume that’s the whole story.

A tip - It’s very ok to say, ‘It’s so nice you get to spend these days with him.’ Or! For bonus points, ‘Being a stay-at-home mom is such a hard job, and you’re doing SO good!’ You can make a comment or a compliment without making an assumption.

3 - Don’t get me wrong, I know that so many women struggle to lose the baby weight, and my lack of a waist can be envied and seen as lucky. I get that. But unless we are best friends who discuss such personal things, I don’t get why anyone comments on it.

Postpartum recovery does likely play a part in a woman’s decision to have more kids. Some women love being pregnant, and some women’s bodies respond much faster and easier then others after giving birth. Honestly, if I hadn’t been SO sick while pregnant, and I hadn’t had such a traumatic labor and delivery, I would have considered trying for another one before my Hysterectomy a little heavier. Women are allowed to consider 1000 different things when choosing whether or not to have kids, but no one else is allowed to comment on those things. Especially the way she looks. How do we not KNOW this by now?

Some of it is luck, in my case. Luck/ genetics. My mom had 3 of us, and she’s got a smokin bod, and I definitely think that plays a part. But what was the main reason I was so skinny so soon after gaining 40+ lbs while pregnant? It was the puking and the shitting and the nausea that left me with a minimal appetite. It was a disease. And none of that has ever felt lucky. Ever. I promise that I’d rather be 10lbs heavier right now, then as nauseous as I am this morning, and I’ve always struggled with the fact that that’s so hard for so many people to understand.

A tip - Whether it’s luck or genetics or illness or the fact that a mom has worked her fucking ass off at the gym every morning, it’s just wrong to equate her body with how many kids she should have.

You can tell a mom, ‘You look amazing,’ even if she knows she actually looks tired and hasn’t changed her shirt in 3 days! You can (and should!) compliment a mother without bringing her weight into the conversation! You can make her feel good about herself without making the woman next to her feel like she shouldn’t have more kids just because she hasn’t lost all the baby weight!

Or just talk about the weather, instead!