I pulled back from Savannah’s head. My hands covered in sudsy shampoo and looked at him. 

That for sure sounded a lot like… “Bucket.”  

But… without the B.

Trying not to react too much I asked in a casual voice, “Hey bud. What did you just say?”

Again. There it was.

Something very, very, very similar to “bucket.”

I blinked at him.

I wanted him to say it again to just be 100% sure, but I also didn’t want to make it game. I pretty sure I knew what he had said.

But, how?  

That wasn’t from me.

Honest.  

And, no. I am not in denial or being self righteous. 

I just don’t cuss much… if at all.  There is no prude, shy, or pretentious reason. Cussing just isn’t a habit I ever picked up. It doesn’t bother me. It can’t because I would have never made it in kitchens… Or, with Adam as a husband.

Adam is more of a fan of… oh gosh. How should I say this? Strong words. 

He is particularly partial to the one that rhymes with “duck.”

This could be from him. But, really, he has done a good job keeping it in check with the kids around. Maybe it’s not him.

Could have been a friend or two of ours that we saw recently. Even family could have let it slip.

And, my mind also went to the next obvious place: School.

Theo mentioned another boy was angry and sent to the office that day.  Could that child have said this word and now Theo was testing his own boundaries and trying it out? Wondering if he said it, would he get the same reaction as the boy?

When I was three months pregnant, I started touring daycare facilities. Being the anxious first time parent I was, I considered all of my options. Many churches, the YMCA, the local school system and independent childcare facilities.  

When trying to find the best fit for me and my unborn child, I asked for recommendations from local parents and people close to me. I was told to visit outside of nap time. To look for evidence of artwork and activities versus just kids sitting in a bouncy chair. And, be aware of things like the other parents. To note their professions and the local neighborhoods because “It’s not just the teachers they will be learning from, it’s the other kids. And, you just don’t know what they will come home with.”

This seemed so valid as I faced the seemingly impossible task of handing my precious, untarnished, innocent bitty offspring to someone else.

But, today? 

It’s rude. 

It’s stereotypical, sizing people up like this. And, even phobic because there was a little fear of “others” in that statement. 

But, most of all, this statement was unimportant and completely invalid.

No matter what I did- besides keep my kids at home forever and ever- they would eventually pick up something not so great outside of our home and bring it back at the end of the day.

Eventually and easily, Adam and I chose a wonderful church, complete with my pediatrician’s recommendation and endorsements from friends and friends of friends. 

In the last three years, my children have come home with great, new knowledge of numbers and the alphabet. Theo recently surprised me with writing his own name in chalk on our driveway- something I had not taught him. They have come home with adorable artwork featuring their growing hands and feet. Stories from their new friends and the games and songs they made up. Knowledge of Jesus, good hand washing, fire safety, respect for grown up’s and so much more.

But, they have also come home with sugary treats I would never purchase. A desire for Ranch dressing on everything. The awareness of Power Rangers and Peppa Pig. So many boogers and one case of hand, foot and mouth. An ability to make toy “gun” out of anything from a finger to a letter “L” magnet as well as an affinity for all things “poop,” “fart,” and “but, why?”  

Oh. And, though it is yet to be confirmed, there is the possibility of “Bucket” too.

While, I could have gone without the week (… on vacation, no less) of hand, foot and mouth, it’s okay.

I wish I could tell the woman who gave me that advice, the one who was scared of the world and what it might do to my child: “Thank you.” But also, to not be so afraid. 

I wish I could tell myself that too.

Because the last thing I want for my kids is for them to be afraid of the world. 

I want them to go out into it. I want them to see and learn from their peers. Even if it’s not all good. Even if, at times, it’s messy or scary.

I want them to see all kinds of people. People just like them and people nothing like them. I want them to learn from them just as much, and if not more than, they learn from me.

I want them to bring the wild world back to our home and have them teach me things. I want to have good, real conversations about what they see and hear. I want the world to mark them and have their experiences out in it- good and bad- help shape them, guide them and fuel their dreams and passions.

I want all of this because what I now see clearly is that I am not raising a perfect, precious, sweet, little, innocent children. I am raising adults.

That’s the goal. 

Full stop.

To raise real, kind, great adults.

So, I am raising two adults that will be open, not fearful of the world. Adults who are excited and eager to try new things and take in all it offers.

They will know that our home is safe; but, also know that it doesn’t hold all the answers, so they will be curious and never stop learning from the people around them. 

I hope, pray and cross all my fingers that the world doesn’t steal their innocence and jump the gun on the ideal timing; but, I am raising adults so when the time comes, we are going to talk about shootings, sex, drugs and words like “bucket.”

They only tip the scales at 34 and 28 pounds respectively, but in real time, I am raising two adults. I am raising two tiny humans- adults in training- that go out in to the world every day. Little sponges that see, taste, hear, experience all sorts of things and bring it all home.

That’s scary, of course. 

But… “Bucket.”

It’s so, so good too.

I looked at their plates.

Milk.

They still needed milk.

But, other than that and the black beans that would be done in a matter of minutes, these two toddler meals were done.

Theo and I talked as I poured the milks and I couldn’t help but feel happy and proud.

Adam’s hours had become long thanks to the hustle of late planting. But, here we were. Thriving. Making and eating good, healthy meals. Chatting with each other and listening to The Hamilton soundtrack. Happy.

We were so far from frantic and frozen dinners these kids had last summer accompanied a frazzled mother.

Theo shared that he would like a water too. Knowing to dodge the inevitable landmine, I took the time to ask him which cup he would like his water in. I would clearly pick out the wrong one if I took on this task alone.

As the blue Contigo bottle slowly filled from the refrigerator, I glanced to the pan on the stove.

I was heating a touch of oil in the pan that I cooked their quesadilla’s in for a little heat on the black beans. The kid’s drink orders were taking longer than I expected and I thought that all the oil may cook off by the time I got there.

After I divvied the many beverages out, I returned to the stove and the oil was still in the pan. It had not cooked off. I grabbed the colander of black beans that I rinsed under running water before the drink orders. I tilted it to pour the beans into the pan.

A few drops of water hit the oil. They popped, sizzled and danced across the pan.

Shoot.

Too hot, I thought and pulled my arm holding the colander back. I didn’t want to add the beans at this heat. They would burn or dry out.

Then, almost violently, a fire ball erupted from the pan.

Large orange flames leapt up, reaching my eye level and growing. They snaked up the backsplash and lapped around the oven’s hood.

My mind ran as I watched the fire take over my line of vision.

Oh my god. This is big.

Too big.

It’s not like a little flame on a tea towel or oven mitt that gets too close to the stove that I could easily blow out.

This is… a real fire.

The kids.

Adam’s not home.

I am alone and… there is a big fire in front of us.

The fire extinguisher? We have one. Under the sink. Why did I feel frozen? Under the sink!

Theo. Savannah.

Oh my God. This is bad.

Water? Something about water that might make this worse. Why can’t I remember? Think!

Smother? With what? These flames are huge. Climbing towards the ceiling.

Oh my god. This is it. This is really happening. Our house is on fire.

Our home.

Theo. Savannah.

Do something. Do something now or get out. Get the kids out!

For whatever reason, I grabbed the pan. Barehanded. Ablaze.

I got it off the stove top and away from the walls and held it in the center of the kitchen, just for a moment.

Better?

… Maybe?

Swiftly, I reached our large sink, flipped the pan and set it down. The flames went out immediately.

(For the record. This is not what you should do. More on that later.)

It was over.

I stood back from the sink in the center of my kitchen, finally able to breathe. Heart still racing, I looked at the stove top and backsplash. Black soot covered the white subway tiles and part of the cream cabinet.

Then, I looked over my shoulder to two toddlers.

Both of them stood there… horrified. And, almost as if on cue, they both started to wail. Screaming with terror.

The three of us crumpled onto the floor. I pulled them in as they jockeyed for the tightest hold on me. Theo pulled back and looked up at the stove. Screaming through tears, louder than I had ever heard from him before. Full of fear.

“That was a big fire!”

“I know, I know,” I soothed. “It was an accident. It’s over now.”

Trembling, screaming and wailing again, “That was a big, scary fire! Scary!”

“It was a scary fire. It scared me too,” I shared honestly, pulling him in tight.

It’s discussed a lot, the scary things about motherhood. There are viral Instagram posts and blogs sharing stories about all the things that “scare” us moms. They are all wrapped up with a bow stating, “But, momma. You are so brave!” “You do it anyway!” “You never let them see you break. That’s what being a mom is all about.”

Sure, these blogs are not typically talking about fireball’s exploding in kitchens…

They are more along the lines of the wild fear that comes over you after witnessing a positive pregnancy test; seeing your toddler excluded from a game at the playground; or, when hearing something bad on the news. It’s the fear of possibilities. The chance that something bad can happen and you- the mom- can’t stop it.

One of the strangest things I have now recognized as a parent is just how often my parents had to have been terrified.

But, they always seemed so cool. So brave. So all knowing. So on purpose. Growing up it felt like the things that scared me could never scare them.

In a way, this was great. It was great to know I had a protector. Someone who could save the day. Be brave when I wasn’t sure I could. With them, I knew I was safe.

But, while I feared monsters and bad dreams, they had their own monsters and bad dreams to deal with.

Turns out, our nightmares were actually quite the same.

Fears and anxieties don’t just disappear at eighteen, twenty-one or the day your own child is born. From my experience, they may even get more heightened at these milestones.

In the dark weeks that followed Theo’s birth, fear ran me. I feared I wasn’t the right fit for the job. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was making all sort of mistakes. I feared my labor and the complications that followed were a sign that I wasn’t meant to do this. I feared the world’s sharp edges. I feared the reality of this baby’s humanity and my own. My fear consumed my thoughts and my nightmares. These new monsters left me often in tears and with new, obsessive habits.

And, while the fog of that intense fear has lifted, a bit still lingers. I think I know enough now to know it will always be with me. My own set of monsters and nightmares to deal with every day.

“It scared me too” I repeated, kissing the top of Theo’s head as he pushed further into my chest. “It was a scary accident. But, we are fine.”

The blog advice to “never let them see you break” cross my mind.

No.

I will do everything in my power to make them feel safe. I will do my best to soften the edges and to make the monsters go away.

I will be brave, but my kids will know a mom that gets scared.

They will know a mom that makes mistakes. Who doesn’t know it all.

They will know this human side of me so that they know when they reach adulthood they have permission to be human too. They won’t fear these parts of them as much. They will know fear is good and normal and means they care enough- love enough- to have something to lose.

Sobs slowing, Theo through a sniffle confessed, “I thought that big fire was going to get you.”

His arms wrapped around my neck.

Oh, sweet boy.

Me.

In all that, he was worried about- scared for… me.

All the worries, fears and big love I have for him and he has it for me.

I pulled him close and kissed his head. I assured him I was fine and made him tell me he was too.

Turns out, our nightmares are actually quite the same.

And, that I am exactly the right fit for this job.

Writers Note: Oil and water truly don’t mix. What happened was the water still on the black beans from their rinse vaporized as they hit the hot oil in the pan. So, the water went from liquid to gas really quickly and created an explosion. These kinds of fires have ruined homes and contributed to third degree burns.

I don’t play the “God Thing” card often. And, I get the science of this, but… man. I can’t also help but see the magic in the fact we are all fine and the black soot wiped away with little effort leaving my kitchen looking like this never happened.

A few things to keep yourself prepared:

• Have pan lids close by
• Don’t use water to put out a grease fire. Use salt, baking soda, flour or a fire extinguisher
• Familiarize yourself with your fire extinguisher. After this, I looked at ours and was surprised by the weight of it. This could have proven to be a mess had I tried to lift it with just one hand.

And, yes. Don’t worry. The irony of nearly burning down my kitchen is not lost on me. Adam had a good laugh about this. “You, basically a chef!” Ha. Ha. Accidents can happen to anyone.

Happy and safe cooking!

I studied Hospitality Management in college.  

It sounds a little strange.  

To “study” hospitality.  

Weird, right? But, don’t worry, I had 8 semesters, a summer abroad and two others in internships exploring the subject. And, I had it down.  I was even on Dean’s List.  

Tangibles like accounting, menu development, culinary skills and even a decent amount of Spanish.  Check. 

Skills like management of people, kitchens and events, ethics and customer service too.

Today, I am cool and quick to delegate or find a quick save in kitchen chaos… even that one Thanksgiving when the turkey finished two hours early.  

An aside: Don’t use the second oven- the one normally used only to store excess kitchen equipment- on the big day.  It will -surprise!- run warmer than the top one and throw you off.  And, your sweating husband, who doesn’t have your training, will be delegated to the garage to drink a beer and breathe.

I giggled every time I said “My pleasure” until it became a habit to use in place of “You’re welcome” and my way too breezy, “no worries!” go-to at eighteen.

Friends and even coworkers mock how formal, yet friendly, my phone greeting is thanks to training to smile as I talk… even when someone can’t see my face.  Good Afternoon, this is Claire!

My ability to get it taken care of, my “my pleasures” to do it, and the smiles came easily after a decade.

They came despite bad days.  

They came on the days when I needed to be taken care of.  

They came even when, on the inside, I was panicking and didn’t have a clue how it was going to get done.  

Despite the wild requests impacting my personal life and chances for reprimanding.  

Despite being yelled at.  

They have pushed through the easily recognizable lump of tears forming in my throat.  

I would handle it.

It would be my pleasure.

I would do it happily and with a smile.

Here is what they didn’t teach me as I studied Hospitality: This isn’t actually hospitality.

It’s manufactured through training, experience and a little fear.   It’s based on impressing people and “Yelp” reviews. There isn’t realness or even truth telling here.  It’s fake hospitality.

It’s… acting.  

And, like the actor with their training and the comedian with their skills and a musician with their experience, this is entertaining.

Don’t get me wrong.  I so value my education and I believe in wonderful act serving others.

And, I love entertaining and being entertained!  

I have been to glitzy weddings that took my breath away and parties that transport guests to other places entirely.  I have “ohh’ed” over a beautifully presented plate and so appreciate great effort given to create magic and memories. 

I have crafted decor and hid the clutter for events as precious my kids birthday parties to more formal dinner parties.

And, those who know me just a little would know that I never turn down an umbrella drink and warm towel from a clean shaven, well dressed concierge. 

But, I now see there is a difference and know better than to get them confused.  I feel there is a time and a place for each and, hear me out here: Not one is better than the other.  

But, for every Pinterest worth toddler party you throw, invite the same guests over for a play date.  Make boring coffee out of the Kuerig and let your guests see that your living room, on a normal Tuesday, looks just like theirs.  Don’t spend the time apologizing.  Sit, talk and be together.

Make sure that your table, well laid out complete with a gourmet meal and seating cards ensuring the most lively conversation, is the same table where the same guest can come with your physical, weeknight clutter and their emotional clutter, and eat leftover soup.

Recognize that small talk, good music and champagne while dressed in a a dress that makes you look and feel glamorous with your partner or friends is so fun.  But, so is a night in sweats and fuzzy socks, with tea or red wine, sharing dreams, pursuits, and thoughts.  Listening and asking questions.  Allowing for others to do the same.

To be real.

There is magic and memories in both.

This post was created in sponsorship with Basic Invite, but as always the thoughts and heart is mine.

Basic Invite is an invitation design website and is a new favorite of mine thanks to their truly custom designs with the nearly 200 color options… even foils in rose gold, silver and more!  

These simple, yet beautiful and fun designs are totally my style.  I cannot wait to order some to show a little hospitality… and entertain this summer!  I loved checking out their graduation collection as I recalled my own course of study for the creation of this blog post.

Have a grad or a party coming up?  Set the tone for a great night of entertainment and hospitality and check them out.

PS- They are offering 15% off right now with the code: 15FF51

This month marks ten years since my graduation from Purdue.

Which all really boils down to one fact: I am ancient.  

No really.  Old in all caps… OLD.

Now sweet classmates who are already wanting to cry, “We are not old!”  Lemme paint a little picture for you:

If we were to meet an incoming freshman today and tell her that we graduated in 2009, it would have been like someone telling us as freshmen that they graduated in 1995.

1995…!

No offense to the Class of 1995, but my mind would only go to one place and that was that you were old.  Very old. OLD. 

But, with a sense of wonder I would start to think: What was college like then?  

How did you do… everything?  How did you do it without the technology I had? How did you get through Spanish homework without Google translator?  Or, research internships? Or even write a paper?  Did you have your own computer?

And, like, how did you let the fraternity boy know that you and your sister’s arrived to the party?  Did you even have a cell phone?  Oh my God. Did you have a… pager?

How did you stalk your high school boyfriend’s semi formal date and take relief in the fact that her hair was… not cute? (I was a really nice 19 year old…) Was it even hard to even just keep in touch with friends from high school?  Did you have an email address?

Realistically? Probably not.

I see the same twinkle come across the eyes of today’s undergrads when it clicks that I did college, complete with a summer abroad and anther in LA, without a smart phone.  

Even my sister- just four years younger- listens with wide eyes as I tell her about the first iPhones in 2007 and how awful of an idea they were for a college student that has a beer- or five- a few nights a week.

Now class of 1995-er, you may have liked college the way it was and you may think the technology I had- like Facebook and AIM, personal laptops and flip phones- were unnecessary (not true) and distracting (very true). 

And, while I am so glad that I hit campus pre-smart phones (Sorry.  I have to empathize: SO GLAD.), I really can’t imagine without things like my cell phone (despite T9 and texting rates), my laptop and the internet, and especially without the ways of keeping in touch like social media, texting and email.

My book club recently read, “Text Me When you Get Home” which is an interesting look at female friendships from history to pop culture.  The premise of the title is that “Text me when you get home” has become a way of communicating love and care for our female friends.  In a way, “Text me when you get home” has become a way of saying “I love you.”  It also prompted the question in the discussion of the book: “How has technology impacted your friendships?”

Answers varied, but were obvious.  In general, the conversation was that technology has been great for friendship.  Older women loved that it has helped them reconnect with lost friends. Women my age and under love that it helps our friends stay connected.  Facebook and group texts were a favorite.  Email was deemed useful, but mainly for logistics.  Planning a get together, sharing new addresses, general updates.

My group of friends from college started an email thread in 2006, the summer after freshman year. Our first long period of time apart.  It would pick up every break with updates, plans for getting together, or details we needed to discuss for the return to school.  Our email thread is still alive and well today.

I got to thinking about this email chain and some where along the way, amid the plans for tailgates and sharing our new mailing address, we shared so much more than logistics.  

Our email thread is our story.

A literal documentation of who we are. 

Who we have become apart from one another and together.  

We grew up in our gmail accounts from college girls complaining about life at home after the loose, “no parents” world of college to women with careers, homes, babies and more. We helped raise each other- together- with every new note. Through our sharing and learning and dreaming with each other we helped each one of us grow up.

In our emails we made plans for dinner in Indy or Chicago, but also shared our heartache when the boy we had loved moved on or the frustration when we needed that one boy to just to get a clue.  We laughed about our “shenanigans” and awkwardness.  We made claims to get “high school thin” over and over again. We confessed through bitterness and sarcasm how much a parent’s disapproval/divorces/hyper involvement hurt.  We shared our highs, our lows, and our goals.

Our emails went international when one of us was abroad.  A very wine fueled update from me in Switzerland still makes us laugh today.  Others in France, Italy and Spain.  Coast to coast, we celebrated landing internships… and struggled through the reality of a forty hour work week behind a desk or on our feet fetching coffee, food and samples.

In an attempt to embarrass, drive us apart and to ostracize, our email thread was even once hacked.  This resulted in a nauseating day with secrets revealed to parents, roommates, loves and crushes.  But, despite the thousands of miles that separated us, it was our email that brought us together and made us even closer.

Through our screens, we continued to bond over our first steps into the “real world” and responsibilities post graduation.  Dogs, rent, bosses, health insurance. New friends, work friends, lost friends, boy friends. 

Through email, we planned reunion tailgates and nights back at “our” bar on campus. They were great, but always left us feeling a little sad with the recognition that it wasn’t our place any more.  We were growing beyond the place that brought us together.  The place we once called home.

As the years went by, promotions were celebrated.  Job loss- and the identity loss that comes with it- was shared.  Grad school gripes and graduations filtered in.  Meeting up for drinks when traveling for work was arranged.

Emails soon gushed with engagements which lead to plans for sharing rides to our friend’s hometown and rooms on the wedding block.  The love that never came for the girls that totally deserved it was felt, even though they were always the first to write back with an ecstatic “Congrats!” The honesty and gut punch from the note containing our the news of our group’s first separation, sprung us all into action trying to find ways to show her the love and support she was worthy of.

And, of course, after love and marriage came the babies. And, they came and came.  Always announced in email- well before social media- asking for prayers for the risky first trimester, admitting that we wouldn’t be drinking that weekend at the lake, or showing off baby’s first photo.  The babies came with such a force that one of us disclosed she was finally expecting; but, in this chapter, our emails had been a hard place as it proved to be a challenging road to motherhood for her. 

Amid the anticipatory notes planning showers, bachelorette parties, 30th Birthday get togethers, road trips and getaways, sadness would find its ways to slip in. Fortunately not often; but in deep ways, death hit our group.  Grandparents. Aunts and Uncles. A dad. A friend. A friend’s husband. A stranger that leapt off an overpass right in front of us.

As I look into the next ten years and more, I know there will be so much good in my inbox. Probably many more babies.  Love will grow and maybe even surprise some of those who are still waiting for the right love.  Both resulting in more showers and even a few plans for weddings.  Career success will come.  Dreams will be achieved.  New addresses will be shared and updated.  Some of us may feel the tug of motherhood, unfulfillment, or restlessness to step into something totally new and exciting. 

And, despite it not being our home anymore, Purdue will always be ours.  Our kids will grow up together there with tailgates and more.

But, like it has been already, sadness will be there too.

Stats being what they are, we may see more divorce.  New messages may reveal more job loss, but now- older and with families- the stakes are higher.  Kids may have struggles that change the lives and families I love.  Money problems and addiction may wreck havoc on relationships and even change us.  

The parents who I danced with at weddings, who invited me into their homes, who fed me and shared advice over wine, like my own, may get sick.  There is a good chance than in the next ten years, a few may leave us. 

The men that I love for many reasons, but mostly for the reason that they love my friends may too.

And, as women closer to 40 than 21, I can’t be naive to the fact that it may be in this space on the internet- the space that holds the story of us- that I learn that one of us is sick too.

All the emotion, all the news in black and white text on my screen, almost all the moments I wasn’t prepared for, arrived here. But, each time, we took it on together.  In our gmail. We will continue to grow and learn from each other right here.

It sounds trivial.  I get it.  You may even think news like “cancer” via email seems impersonal.

And, while I love a phone call far more than the average person, it’s not.  Not at all.

Just like how “Text me when you get home” has a different meaning to those who know it, to this group, “I’ll send a email” means so much more.  

It means, “This is important and-good or bad, big or small- I need you all in this with me.”

I was crying so hard I shook.  I was alone and so scared that I was afraid to open my eyes.  But, then you slipped your hand into mine and held it.  You told me you would hold it until my husband could come in.  Your peers, likely with just a look, happily picked up your tasks. You held my hand.  You probably talked to me the whole time.  Thanks to the whirlwind of the emergency C-Section and the medications, I don’t remember that.  But, I do remember feeling less alone.  Less scared.

You woke me gently in the middle of the night and told me it was time to try to walk.  You steadied me as I put weight on my feet for the first time in over 24 hours.  You looked at me and together we shuffled to the restroom.  With one hand you held my arm and with the other you helped me wash my hair, my back and legs.  Together we washed away the two days of labor and surgery.  The evidence of it all mixed with water and rinsed away.  You helped me do what I was too weak to do.   Helped me begin to say, “That part is over.”

My seemingly over the top diagnosis based on my newly acquired degree from WebMD had been right.  I was sick.  I was in bad shape.  I needed medical intervention and help or something bad might happen soon. In triage, the pent up fear of not trying to get ahead of myself came in hard tears.  As the synopsis of each procedure needed was shared, I grasped at any semblance of control I had left in the situation and asked about nursing.  I felt like I was finally making progress.  And, you hugged me and held my face telling me, “We are both going to do everything to make sure you develop a great nursing relationship with your son.”  You gave me power when I felt like I had none.

A knock at the door and you appeared.  I had been with you a week earlier when I was in labor and we made the connection that we were in the same sorority at Purdue.  However, you graduated nearly a decade before me.  You heard I was back on the floor and wanted to see how I was doing.  You thought I might want someone to talk to and you really wanted to meet my son, who you “Oh’ed” over and held with excited joy telling me he was so handsome.  You made me feel remembered.  Your care made me feel loved.  You made me feel like we really were sisters.

The sad, robotic, literal “whomp whommmp” of the blood pressure reading filled the room.  We had been there long enough to know that was a bad sound.  After days in the hospital, my body still could not maintain normal blood pressure readings.  Frustration and fears rolled through the room.  I asked Adam, bouncing our son, for the numbers.  Bad, again, and getting higher.  We wouldn’t be going home tonight.  You were beside the doctor who considered, out loud, that we may have to start IV medication again.  At her orders, you had removed the port that morning, thanks to signs of improving health.  And you saw it register on my face. The idea of getting poked again, medication again, starting all over was too much.  I wanted to whine.  I wanted to cry.  Instead, I crumpled over and you grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake.  “This sucks, but we all have shit that we have to deal with.  You have a baby and a loving husband.  Parents who care for you.  This is just your shit right now.”  You didn’t mean to, but in that moment- even though I thought you were a little mean for a second- you taught me one of my life’s biggest lessons.

Thank you.

Thank you all.

I don’t know one of your names and you may not remember me either.  We were only with each other for a shift. But your actions, your words and your care had a profound impact on me.

To the nurse.  My nurse.  Then and in the future.  Your skills are great and so appreciated.  And, while I can’t even begin to imagine the emotional and physical weight your job puts on your life and your relationships, I know it likely goes without many thanks.  But, what I really want to thank you for is for being exactly who you are.  Calm, wise, and kind.  A reminder to me of pure empathy and that in this wild world- a world where we hustle, tweet, text and try not to make eye contact- we need people.

Thank you for being those people when we are scared, vulnerable, powerless, in need of a friend or a pep talk.  Thank you for being the people there when people need people the most.

Thank you for being a nurse.

 

If you have a cruel sense of humor, you might think that I had it coming.

It’s okay. Some day’s I think it too.

Here is the thing: I drank all the “natural birth” Koolaide.

And, I mean All. Of. It.

In my defense, I was in the whole “natural,” green-living, “crunchy,” world and had been for years. I gardened and canned. We raised chickens. I worked in food and nutrition. I had green cleaning and beauty products. I did yoga and had a daily meditation practice. I knew better than to waste food and invested in reusable water bottles, bags, coffee mugs, and more.

At the time that I was pregnant with Theo, I was contributing to three different natural living blogs- four, if you happened to count my own. I wrote articles like “Using Chicken Poop as Fertilizer,” “How To Grow a Windowsill Garden,” and created recipes for things like chemical free marshmallows and sugar free ketchup. My bylines appeared on the same home page as my peers Home Birth Recap or Water Birth Story and articles with debates about vaccines.

Before I had a crib, I had cloth diapers.

Wooden toys and organic cotton onesie’s filled my registry.

I had a Pinterest board dedicated to “Feeding Baby” full of homemade baby food recipes. All real food and organic… obviously.

In my third trimester, classes like breastfeeding basics and Lamaze filled my calendar.

I read Ina May and studied The Bradley Method.

I listened to birth story podcasts and watched YouTube videos of natural births. I cried single every time. Mother’s laughing and crying as they lifted their baby to their chest. Husbands nuzzling into their necks in awe of their wife’s strength and gift. It was so beautiful.

I wanted it. I wanted it all and I knew I was prepared.

I was prepared to embrace the pain and shun all interventions and labor augmentations. I was prepared to recognize the natural, beautiful process of childbirth. To steel myself from an epidural- the ultimate enemy. Only rivaled, by the intervention to end all interventions: The C-Section.

I didn’t study c-sections like I did natural birth. In fact, I actually knew very little about them, except for they were for high risk pregnancies and complicated births. For small, dainty women with health complications of their own or tall husbands. They were for weak women or those with lazy doctors.

I didn’t need to worry about c-sections. That was extreme. I was normal. Boring even. Baby looked great. Head down and low by 36 weeks. We were good to go.

And, as for a natural birth? I had it in the bag.

I was prepared and well studied. Women had been giving birth for centuries without medical intervention. Sure, some people died… but, not people like me.

I ate right and worked out through my due date.

I definitely wasn’t scared of pain. I had kidney stones and had been fine.

Plus, I was a high capacity woman. I was capable. I hustled. I did grow my own food. And, I rocked the corporate world. I was healthy and rarely sick. I could run half marathons. I wasn’t afraid to stand up for myself. I could mind over matter anything. I could persevere. I was in control.

I was a mentally and physically tough person.

And, I had a c-section.

Twice.

Both times, technically willingly (because there are signed papers to prove it); but, unwillingly.

Heart broken and scared, I cried both times on the way to the operating room. My mind racing with the same questions: How had it gone so wrong? How was this my story? Why did my body fail me?

These tears and questions would reappear for weeks after Theo’s birth. But, not after Savannah’s.

Theo’s c-section was an emergency. After fifty hours of induced labor, where Ina and Lamaze went out the window, and two hours of pushing (… told you I could persevere), Theo’s heart rate skyrocketed towards the 200s. My kind doctor knew my wants- she wanted it too- told me we can’t wait much longer and the room snapped into action.

The medicine that was quickly pumped into my IV combined with the fear that also pulsed through me, caused my body to shake and shudder so badly I honestly worried I would bite my tongue off.

I was terrified. Scared of feeling it all, seeing it all. Scared of major surgery with no time to think, to panic Google, to talk about it with Adam or to call my mom. I considered for a moment that maybe it would be better for them to just knock me out, but the room was moving too fast.

Instead, I slammed my eyes shut as they started the race down the hallway to the OR. I didn’t want to know what direction the operating room was. I didn’t want to know what it looked like. I didn’t want to see the people in it. I thought that with my eyes shut I could pretend like it wasn’t happening.

Theo’s c-section, after the long days leading up to it, was a blur. In the days that would follow I would tell Adam there was nothing beautiful about it.

Savannah’s c-section was scheduled. My same great doctor delivered a similar line at my 41 week appointment as we waited for my body to go into labor on it’s own- my only hope of a VBAC: We couldn’t wait much longer. So after an afternoon of tears, we scheduled the operation for two days later.

There were tears as we prepped for the surgery that morning. Softer tears than they had been with Theo, but full of similar disappointment and a little tinge of bitterness. How had it gone so wrong? Again. How was this my story? Again. Why did my body fail me? Again.

This time, without an epidural or an emergency, I had to walk myself to the operating room. I had to get myself onto the operating table. I had to do this with my eyes wide open.

And, that is when I saw it.

Nearly 42 week pregnant me, curled over my doctor as another administered the spinal tap. I looked down at my feet, dangling off the table, and they were shaking. Nerves, worry and fear- even though I had been here before and in a far scarier situation… they were still here.

But, I was doing it anyway.

I was doing it solo because Adam wasn’t permitted in the room yet.

I was doing it with my eyes open able to see the bright lights, every tool, and messaging on the wall for catastrophic situations.

I finally saw what I couldn’t see with my eyes shut in the emergency that was Theo’s birth and the months after: I was brave.

C-Section mom’s are not dainty, lazy or weak. They don’t fail. They don’t take the easy way out.

They have to muster up courage. They face fears because it’s all they can do and they do it alone as partners are not permitted to join them until things are just “so.”

They have to be crazy vulnerable trusting others, letting go of the control, and baring our body- inside and out with strangers.

C-Section mom’s put their bodies in physical pain for weeks to come, not just for the moments of birth.

All to bring our babies safely into the world and make sure we are safe too because they need us. They need their brave mom.

That is beautiful.

Recently, Theo has started to ask about my scar.

I have struggled with the mark, seeing it as a sign of defeat and shame. Something that shouldn’t be on my body. A reminder of the fact I wasn’t woman enough- mom enough- to give birth.

But, he is curious about the raised line on my belly and watches it as I get ready in the morning. He wants to touch it and at times it feels like he has a stronger, spiritual pull to the thin pink line under my belly button.

Thanks to the many pregnant teachers at school, he now knows that babies grow in mommy’s bellies and the line is where he came out of mommy’s belly. Just this week, we got to talking about it and he called the mark a “door,” likely thanks to me using words like “open” and “closed” and “in” and “out” to explain how the doctor did it.

At first I laughed a little, thinking this preschool observation was cute. But after a little more thought and a bit of digging through the photos of both of the kids’ births, I came across this photo from Savannah’s C-Section.

Adam, not one to get squeamish, snapped a series of photos of our girl coming out of my stomach. Into the world.

Through the door from one world to another.

Theo was right. It’s a door.

It’s the threshold my babies passed to join us here in this wild world from their cozy home they knew for ten months. The door frame they had to cross to make us parents.

If I had had it my way, I would never have this photo. I wouldn’t have this amazing perspective of the actual moment where she was straddling the inside and the outside. And, I wouldn’t have the ability to have Theo run his fingers over the jagged line that allowed him to enter the world. That brought him to me.

There are times that I still do get sad that “birth” is something I didn’t and won’t experience in my lifetime.

But it’s this that reminds me that I did.

And, it was beautiful.

I know the whole college admissions scandal seems almost passé after the wild week with Instagram’s shut down and New Zealand’s terrible shooting, but can we go back there for a second?

It’s been a weird ten days or so for this girl from the nineties who would literally run home from playing outside to watch Full House. Trying to picture “Aunt Becky” as a criminal has been confusing. Plus, the fact that the whole investigation is called “Operation Varsity Blues” is so strange… and, really makes me want to watch that movie.

And, the dollar amounts these parents paid to get their kids into a “elite” college is outrageous.

1.5 million?

Insert facepalm emoji here.

All I can think is “Why?!”

I totally get the idea of wanting the best for your kids.

And, I will take a moment to totally check my privilege here, too.

I was raised by parents who both had post-graduate degrees. Education, college in particular, was important. I was given many advantages such as SAT prep classes and a whole spring break dedicated to college visits. Both dollars and my parents were invested in the whole process. My mom did extensive research on websites like Princeton Review, giving me ideas of schools that were a stretch or safe based on my scores, activities, abilities, and grades.

One of those stretch schools was Notre Dame, my dad’s alma mater. My grades, like many of the accused, were at the lower end of what they admitted. The conversation about Notre Dame would sometimes shift to how my legacy status of an active, giving alumni might get me over the hump and into the university.

I wasn’t a complete ND fanatic. It wasn’t a “Dream School” for me. But, really, no where was. And, I liked the idea of Notre Dame. The football games, the pretty campus and I loved to laugh at my dad’s stories about his time on there. He was proud of his school and; while I wouldn’t call it “pressure,” it was clear he would have been so happy- so proud- for his daughter to attend the university too.

He even had me tag along to the Columbus Alumni Club’s dinner for admitted seniors… when I was a junior.

We recently recalled this night and were in agreement that we both walked away from the evening feeling strange.

That night, it became clear that Notre Dame was not the right fit for me. We realized that we both liked Notre Dame for me because of the look of it. We liked it for the legacy factor. Because it was a fun, beautiful place. We liked it for the brand of Notre Dame.

At that dinner in 2004, Notre Dame became real. I could see who my peers would be. I tried to imagine myself there, just one class behind them. In those visions I saw myself struggling. Always busting my butt for C’s, while all around me, my peers managed the workload better. (And, in full disclosure, the visions also included relentless grey, cold weather.)

Worse, amid the crowd of excited incoming students, I saw myself getting in because of my dad.

That was the only reason I was there that night and that might be the reason why I would get into the school. I felt like an imposter. I couldn’t imagine feeling that way for four years. I knew enough about the applying and getting admitted to college thing to know that getting into Notre Dame was an accomplishment. These students were being celebrated for that feat that evening. I couldn’t imagine taking the place of someone else who really wanted- and deserved- to be there.

I had this self-awareness, perhaps even compassion, and, eventually, the courage to tell my dad that I wouldn’t even be applying to the school. His school. Notre Dame.

My fear was that he would see not even trying to get in as a disappointment. But, he understood. He saw it that night too. Notre Dame wasn’t right for me.

He would get his legacy four years later when my sister- far more academically gifted than me- enrolled in the class of 2013. But, even with Notre Dame’s prestige across the globe and the story of legacy, he didn’t put any more weight or pride on Kerry’s choice, experience or degree than mine. Just last week, as the news broke, he texted us saying what a joy it was to watch us blossom into our talents naturally and in different ways.

Maybe wanting the “best” for our children, should be rephrased to wanting the best… for them.

There is a lot of talk right now on Personal Branding. Honestly, it’s not all bad. But, it’s also not all good.

I love people finding their story and voice. And, I think the work in looking at yourself and what you would want to be said about you when you are not around- as personal branding is defined- is good work. Knowing what you believe and what you stand for is great. This builds self awareness, confidence, conviction and more.

However, it still has it’s flaws. Social media is basically personal branding. It’s what you want the world to see. So, it’s often lacking in imperfection, truth, and genuine emotions as we hide them in fear of being too weird, too messy, or full of- perceived- mistakes.

I can’t help but wonder if some of these parents got too wrapped up in “the brand.” The brand of that prestigious university, and also, their own “brand.”

They felt they are the kind of person who raises children that would attend a certain type of university. Their children had to fit into their own brand of “elite,” “accomplished,” “innovative,” “scholarly,” whatever.

How dangerous.

One of the coolest and strangest things about having kids is their humanity. They are their own little person. A whole person. With good days and bad days. With spunk, empathy, flaws and strengths.

Your children are not things that build your brand story.

They are not an accessory.

The best, most curated, perfectly-crafted pieces of your kid is not your identity.

You and your child are a part of each other’s story. And, the best stories are messy. They have up’s and downs. Win’s and losses.

And, both of you have your own identities.

But, even identities are a little limiting and even, at times, destructive.

So instead, remember that you, your child, you spouse, every one of us is a whole person.

Not a thing. Not a product or an accessory.

But, rather a human.

A messy, powerful, strange, mistake making, learning, seeking, celebratory, fluid, changing, awesome human.

Claim all of this as your brand. Teach your children to do the same.

What a legacy that would be.

Today, on International Women’s Day, I cannot help but think of all the great female business owners I have come to know and love since I entered the world of business ownership six years ago. They have seriously been one of the greatest blessings- and surprises- in starting my own blog and business.

Sometimes we have meet through times I was investing in my blog and business by going to conferences, taking courses, classes or workshops. Other times it been through putting myself into groups designed to help with education and accountability. Many times it thanks to social media; never underestimate the connection that can really found in a DM or an Instagram comment. Sometimes it’s through work and other times it can be totally random.

But, through all these avenues, I am constantly finding women who are crazy interesting. They are killing it in the content creation space as bloggers, podcasters, authors and photographers. Offering great services like wedding planning, business courses and even marathon coaching. They have shops, restaurants, farms and salons. Because of my passions, many in my circle are rockstar food producers creating their own line of baby food or allergy friendly treats. But, it wasn’t until recently, I met someone who has created a product.

Sure, okay. My farm sells products. And, I know people in the planner game and, yes, cookies are, in fact, a product.

But, they didn’t dream up and create cookies. Planners, while updated and unique, are not a new concept. And, I didn’t invent eggs. I just happen to sell eggs that are produced by chickens.

I don’t mean to make these or any businesses smaller at all. Creating a business is so crazy hard. I am so proud of all of these women. Creating a business- no matter how big or “small-” takes guts… and the totally unsexy backend of it all (Think: Taxes, LLCs, insurance, etc.) is wildly confusing.

But, the only thing that I can think of that would make things even harder would be adding on the creation of a product… that has never existed before.

I am a big fan of How I Built This, a podcast hosted by Guy Raz of NPR. On HIBT, the stories of how some of our favorite businesses got off the ground are shared. There’s RX Bar, Method Soap, Melissa and Doug Toys, Rent the Runway, Kate Spade and more.

But, one of my favorites is the episode with Sara Blakely from Spanx. She shares how she was new in her career and had to wear tights and stockings often. Then, she went to wear white pants to a party and wanted things to look smooth, like they did with the control top support of her stockings… So, she cut the feet out of them and realized she was onto something.

She was young, but she began navigating the world of sewing, materials, factories, production, patents, testing and more.

(Side note: Just today on Instagram, Sara shared a bit of those early days in a heartfelt post on social media honoring her friend that passed away seventeen years ago. She is @sarablakely.)

On Valentine’s Day, I met with Christie of Bibago, an Indianapolis baby bib company, and I was reminded of Sara.

Christie, introduced to me by Jeannie of Cafe Baby– another great business owner turned friend- is a busy mom that invented a bib with a pocket that can hold a container. I love meeting with small business owners because I like the conversation and believe two heads are better than one. I like hearing that I am not alone and I find that I am not bad at offering help and perspective.

As we talked over coffee, she told me about her current hurtles with attorney’s in getting a patent.

Things I have never dealt with.

How she was working on sourcing the best container for the bib. Food grade, BPA free, dishwasher safe, fits the dimensions, and would have to have a snap.

Things I never had even had to consider.

That she is looking into manufacturing facilities to produce her bibs so she can scale production.

Things I had never worried about.

… I was starting to wonder if I would be any help in this conversation. Then, she started to tell me why she created Bibago.

She was a new mom. Working and trying to continue to train for triathlons. That meant long runs with the stroller. Long runs when her kids would get hungry and need a snack… and she would have to stop, open a bag of goldfish or whatever… that, a few hundred yards later, would be thrown out of the stroller and onto the ground.

Things I have dealt with.

She was a bit of a neat freak and learned quickly that kids are messy. Trying to get them to learn to eat with utensils is tricky and even with bibs, food still fell into their lap, saturated the bib’s fabric and got everywhere. This was hard at home and even harder when out to eat.

Things I had considered.

Mornings were busy and she wanted her kids to have a good meal for breakfast. But, in order to get where they needed to go, they had to eat in the car. This meant something balanced and nutritious to start the day was out the window. It was granola bars and Pop Tarts. Things that could be held. That gave her Mom Guilt.

Things I worry about all the time.

Instead, with Bibago, thanks to it’s waterproof fabric covered in cute patterns (all designed by Christie) and pocket with a snap in container, she didn’t have to deal with these things anymore. She didn’t have to worry.

She would make overnight oats and snap the container into her kids bibs and they ate on the way to daycare without fears of spilling or a sugar crash. Before runs, she would fill a container with a snack, snap it in and go. Her kids could eat as they pleased while she got her workout in without interruption.

I loved it all. I could totally resonate with the need in the car and on runs. She shared a Bibago with me for Savannah and we are loving it. (Theo is even jealous and asks to wear it all the time.)

I have written here that Savannah is a little destructive. Still true. So, with the Bibago, snacking is so much easier because she can’t dump the bowl.

What I have never shared, likely out of fear for jinxing it, is that Savannah is a great sleeper. I feel bad telling any new parent about it because it’s that good. It’s so good that I have to wake her up after 8:00 AM each morning so we can get a move on.

Now before you, 1. Flood my inbox for tricks on this, let it be known that we got lucky. She just has always been a good sleeper. (Her brother on the other hand… Send coffee, please.)

And, 2. I hate to complain because the sleeping in is great on weekends; but, on weekdays? It makes things complicated.

Theo is up two hours before her so he is already fed and ready to go. But, Savannah still needs to eat and eat something that I feel good about. Like Christie, thanks to Bibago, I can make Savannah overnight oats or scrambled eggs or just put cereal in the bib’s container, snap it in and get her in the car. We are good to go. No spilling, no messes in the tiny crevices of the car seat and no Mommy Guilt for me.

Another thing to not feel guilty about? Supporting another woman’s business.

I recently heard that, globally, for every dollar a woman makes 80% goes back into care for her family. While, for every dollar a man makes 30% goes back to their family. By economically supporting a woman, you are supporting families, your community, and the future.

To support Christie, visit bibago.com. These make for great shower gifts and are great through toddlerhood! We were gifted this bib for Savannah, but I will be purchasing one for Theo. They are functional, handy, smart, and so cute.

I have participated in giving something up for Lent since second grade despite the Lenten season not being a huge deal in my home. I am not Catholic, nor was I raised Catholic; but, at seven, I coveted that black smudgy cross nearly as much as I coveted my friends pretty, white first communion dresses.

I also like a challenge. So, I played along.

I was raised Episcopalian… which, is basically, Catholic’s little- more laid back- sister. We had Lent and ashy foreheads, but it was a lot more casual. I didn’t get to get out of school on a Wednesday for mass (We didn’t even call a service “mass.”) and we could eat meat on Friday’s.

In our services, we sang a whole lot more than the demure Catholic services I attended after staying the night with a friend. There were not rules about when we took our first communion, so often preschoolers participated, and older teenagers chose when- and if- they wanted to be confirmed. I served at the alter alongside my male classmates and we had female church leaders. It was a church believed in equality- in every sense- for everyone.

Through the lense of adulthood, there are many things that have changed for me in regards to religion. First, despite my longing for the beauty and tradition of Catholicism as a girl, Episcopalian was an amazing way to grow up.

But, still, even with it’s more progressive beliefs, much of my religious experience was laced with upper-middle class privilege. (This is a huge blog post for another day, but think: Feeding the homeless to recognize what you have and, well, the allure of pretty first communion dresses.)

But, one thing that hasn’t changed is Lent. Even after all these years, it’s still something that makes me take pause and reflect as the season asks Christians to do.

Traditionally, the idea is to give something up, a luxury, to reflect the sacrifices that Jesus made. As a girl and into my twenties it would be something like chocolate, sweets, soda, or wine during the week. All things that I knew were kind of bad for me. A little “sin,” if you will.

But, I gave them up… with a little vanity. With the hopes of losing a little weight.

Today, myself and many of my peers may find ourselves far from church, but remembering Lent and thinking of it as a New Year’s reboot. A nice thing to try for 40 days. A challenge with a timeline. We like those.

Religion and faith are weird and confusing for me. I have zero answers and nearly that many beliefs on the subject because it’s not a gift I have fully received. But, I what I do believe is that there shouldn’t be any shame in whatever anyone choses to focus on during Lent even if there is a touch of a desire to use it as a weight loss plan.

Sure, there could be a bit of vanity involved; but, I am finding in losing weight over the last few months I am using a lot of “church-y” words without even thinking about it. Words like “bless,” “honor,” “soul,” and “gift.”

“I will only eat foods that bless my body.”
“I will honor my body with movement.”
“This body houses my dreams, heart and soul. I will take care of it.”
“This body grew two babies. Got my butt to classes at Purdue in the cold. Allows me to walk into a public place and not worry about stares or comments. This body is a gift.”

It’s been a long time coming after all the hate my body has received from it’s biggest critic… yours truly. And, like my relationship with religion, it’s still a complicated relationship. Meaning it’s all far from perfect. (Don’t worry, I definitely roll my eyes when I remind myself that “I will only eat foods that *bless* my body.”)

But, it’s working. After years of trying everything under the sun, this is what is working.

So, if there is a creator behind our bodies, the bodies that houses our dreams, hearts, and souls; allows us to carry babies; chase goals; travel the world; build businesses and charities; climb mountains and more, then it really is a gift. A gift worth honoring.

So why not use Lent to give yourself that reboot? Why not use the season to reflect on what a gift your body is while watching what you fed it and moving more?

Perhaps it will be the jumpstart needed for a lifestyle change or two, not just a 40 Day Challenge.

And, maybe one of those changes will have nothing to do with weight loss.