Bloom.

In contrast to much of media these days that is fast and onto the next trend, I want to live in a thought and explore it a little longer. What I am working on is sitting with an idea for a couple weeks and bringing it to life through words in a blog post, but also in other forms of art that I am learning like poetry and actual fine arts. That is what you will see here in companion with September 23rd’s post, “Patriotic.”

It’s hard not to think about September 11th writing about Patriotism. This year marked the 20th anniversary and I was so lucky to spend the morning with my sister running a trail race in Saugatuck. The trail was challenging, full of steep hills, dirt paths, fluffy sand, and 302 steps straight up a dune.

The morning was also beautiful. Cool, yet sunny. Blue skies and blue water. My dad was one of the race coordinators and he timed the race to start at 8:46– the time the first plane crashed into the first tower– as “Amazing Grace” into U2’s “I want to Run” blared throughout the starting line.

Music has been a tonic to hard times for generations. September 11th has received many tributes in tunes over the last 20 years. Starting with the many country crooners: The “Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning” and good old Toby Kieth’s “… Put a boot in your ass.” (A line I struggle very much with…) Even a young man in my freshman class composed a requiem in the fall 2001 garnering a handshake from George W. Bush on a visit to Ohio.

However, it wasn’t until September 11, 2020 that I heard the music from “Come From Away,” a fantasic Broadway play produced about the 38 planes that were rerouted to Newfoundland as the US airspace closed.

Theo came home from pre-K that day and shared, “there was a plane crash.” My mind busy with work on a normal day, wondered for a minute if there had been a local plane crash. In our rural area, crop dusters are always floating around, terrifying me with their steep drops. Absentmindedly I wondered, “Did one of those crash near the school?”

And, then the date hit me.

Yes. Oh my gosh, yes.

There was a plane crash.

And, my four year old knows about it.

I pressed, trying to learn more about what he knew.

“There was a lot of fire!”

“There were bad guys!”

A big crash and bad guys. There had to be a better way to talk about this with kids. So, I did what any other millennial mom would do… I got on a Facebook mom’s group and asked for help.

Advice started to flood in about talking about heroes like police officers and firefighters and even to discuss fire safety. Another woman shared the book, “The Man with the Red Bandana,” a heartbreakingly beautiful picture book a family created to honor their son who– thanks to multiple reports from survivors– helped so many get to safety as he went back and forth trying to clear the tower. (Sports Center did a tribute to him, too. Klenex required.) A teacher assured me that focus on “the crash and bad guys” was a totally normal reaction for a young boy. And, then one woman suggested the soundtrack to “Come From Away.”

After the bedtime routine and in my own bed, I found it on Spotify and pressed play. I listened to each song, piecing together what might be the story in my mind. I felt the fear as people sat on planes for hours, unsure why only to hear the rumors of “an accident” and “World War III.” The melody of many languages and prayers combining with my favorite prayer, the St. Francis prayer, is stunning. I cried my way through “Me and The Sky” a fantastic, empowering ballad about Pilot Beverly Bass and her lifelong love for planes. But, one song I came back to over and over again throughout the last year was, “Stop The World.”

You can hear it here.

The lyrics start:

Stop the world
Take a picture
Try to capture
To ensure this moment lasts
We’re still in it, but in a minute –
That’s the limit – and this present will be past

And here we are
Where the world has come together
And she will be
In this picture, forever

These words made me think a lot about the pandemic. In the early days of quarantine with such limited travel across the country, I remember looking up at the sky– just as I had on September 11th– and thinking, “There are no planes in the sky.”

I remember as a 14 year old, that was so strange. And, then again at thirty three, so strange. No planes in the sky.

So many when asked about September 11th will also mention the sky. How it’s bright blue contrasted with the black smoke only making it seem that much more distinct. Making people wonder if they would have even noticed how blue it really was without our eyes on the sky the whole day.

In quarantine, I took so many pictures. I took so many pictures of my kids, but always caught the sky, too. We were outside a lot so while snapped pictures and pondered about how strange it was that there were not planes in the air, I also caught the spring clouds. I wanted to capture them. I felt like I had to, calling it “Cloud Therapy” at times. They were so big, puffy and dreamy. Like the clouds in Andy’s bedroom in Toy Story. I remember wondering, “Is it always like this? Or am I just now noticing it?”

Can I see it better because the world as stopped? Because I have stopped?

The lyrics continue:

So stop the world
Stop the world

From spinning ’round
I wanna look out
Overlooking something
Worth taking the time
to stop flying by

I will tell my kids about quarantine, especially those very first weeks. When the world had truly come together and there were no planes in the sky and people stayed home. We went on walks and watched the clouds. And, it was in the clouds that we learned– I learned– that it’s important to stop spinning around, flying by and that so much is worth taking the time to stop because every moment will soon be the past.

To bring to life these thoughts I painted this piece using acrylic’s and loose, almost abstract techniques to capture their shape and feel found in the many photos we took when the world stopped.

• 

• 

• 

• 

To totally state the obvious, Tiktok is a weird place.

I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong. This summer I even got into creating just small, short videos of clips or random things from random days that make me smile. It turned out to be a good exercise in searching for and celebrating the little things that delight me throughout very normal days. And, for better or for worse, I do consume quite a bit of Tiktok content as well. Sometime it is the perfect hit of serotonin. Other times it’s a mindless scroll. But, no matter what it is, there is almost always something on that screen that makes me think.

August brought COVID into our home and it was hard, sad and— at times— scary. But, for me, the bright light of “Bama Rush Tok” helped me through. These girls were so earnest and cute and it took me back to those eager, exciting first weeks of college. Truly influenced by it all, I brought not one, but two tennis skirts and spent a bit of quarantined time stringing colorful beads into bracelets for both my daughter… and me. However, it all also made me think about how “rush” really never ends as Cici Xie- a New York City Attorney who I discovered on TikTok— was quoted in this recent Harpers Bizarre piece.

This is how my brain works and why my curiosity in the seemingly innocuous, banal and even superficial is something I am leaning into more. I used to think it was something to be embarrassed by or that because I was interested in say, fashion or reality TV, that it didn’t mean I could be intelligent. But really, while I clearly love things on the surface level (like colorful accessories and trendy, yet very functional– and overpriced— skirts), I almost always want to dive deeper. I am curious to learn what might be below the surface and I want to have conversations about it.

And, so that is what I did in July with my family. 

My mind— that always has to go deeper— was wrestling with the idea of being “patriotic.” 

It was post 4th of July, pre Olympics and my TikTok was serving up clips of young people sharing how only during the Olympic would they chat, “USA! USA!” Couple that with a shared quote card on Facebook saying, “I love America. Bet you won’t post because you are afraid people will think you are racist.” 

Then back to TikTok with contrasting clips of people donning American flag’s on all clothing no matter the day and others boasting that they would never wear red, white and blue even on the 4th of July. 

Combine all this noise this with learning about Juneteeth, the massive division and conversation about vaccines and masks and all that is linked to those opinions, I got curious about patriotism.

As a kid, I loved the 4th of July and I loved the Olympics. My hometown’s 4th of July celebration was a fantastic event and I came of age with the Magnificent Seven. Old Navy flag shirts were a staple and I always cheered for my home team. But, now older and knowing more, I wondered was it silly or even wrong to celebrate “independence” on the 4th of July when it wasn’t for everyone? Did I care if an American kneeled on a podium? What does being “patriotic” look like? Was I patriotic? And if I was, what does that mean or perhaps even say about me?

So, at the table with my family I posed the question, “Are you patriotic?” My dad, brother-in-law and husband have varying interests, many thoughts between them and sometimes different political views all said, “Yes” immediately. 

It lead to an interesting conversation about of all things: Love.

Adam, wise and not one to always just open his mouth, brought an idea that has been discussed at our home before. Reminding me that to love someone— or something— but never be critical of it, isn’t love. It’s dangerous. We both are always learning that a marriage or any relationship be it with a friend, employer, brand or even nation for that matter needs to require some space for feedback, even constructive criticism, and growth.  

Away from the table and back in my mind I thought about America a bit more and came to the conclusion that it’s both. She is a place a love and she is a work in progress, too.

She, like so many wonderful people I know, is learning new things and reflecting always on things she did or believed in the past. She is recognizing that she may have been hurtful or even just wrong and is trying to do better. She knows that “great” isn’t the goal because great is a destination. Great is an ending and she is in this for the long game. Instead, our gal America is ever-curious, ever-growing, diving deeper to discover her multitudes. 

What I have come to find is that curiosity, learning and growth is one of the most attractive things about a person. I want to be around these people. I want to learn from them and love them. I want to be one of them, too. This is why I know that something as silly on the surface as a TikTok video is actually so much more.

So, yes. I am patriotic because I love America. Loving her means I am sometimes critical and certainly holding her accountable, I do love who she is and who she is becoming.

• 

In February, I began swimming laps a couple times a week. I am a decent swimmer, I always have been. But, never great. My brother and sister were great. Both were on high achieving high school teams with their own state titles and my brother even swam in college. We were a swimming family.

Well. Sort of.

I kicked off my parents twenty year career as “Swim Parents” on the local community swim team when I was five, but I never did anything beyond the summer, neighborhood team.

I could have. I thought about swimming on the high school team all the way through my senior year knowing you could just walk on the team. With a little more dedication and training than the summer programming, I probably could have been pretty good, too.

I think about this sometimes as I crank out a workout or when the old men in the lanes beside me ask, “So, where did you swim?” thinking I am an ex-athlete.

Why didn’t I swim? I wonder.

I like swimming. I always have. It makes me feel strong and accomplished. I can do it easily and well. And, I love being in water. It’s something about the cool, weightlessness of it all. I was always the butt of the joke while day drinking or on spring breaks. Everyone else could just stand in the pool and chat. I would be there with them, just tucked up in a floating ball with my head just above the surface.

But then, a few stroked later, I’ll remember. I didn’t like swimming.

I knew myself well to know that school was hard for me and to add the pressure that two practices a day, one of those at 5 AM, would be very bad for my grades and whole general way of being. Even if school had been a breeze, the thought of jumping into the pool that early in the cold, dark winter was very unattractive. But, most of all, I didn’t love swimming.

At least not like that.

In a recent swim set, I challenged myself with a work out I found online. The speed was intended to be faster and on a 1:00 mark. As I pulled the water, working to ensure a few second rest, I felt a panicky feeling creep in. It was a feeling I was familiar with. I hated sets like this. I hated feeling like there wasn’t any rest. I hated knowing a 20 year old on a power trip, ahem.. I mean my coach would be at the end of the pool yelling at us to, “Go!” I didn’t love how in swimming you could get breathless while underwater. Memory of my googles filling with tears on the community team in grade school created a tightening my chest. This is why I didn’t swim. I didn’t like feeling this way.

The good thing about swimming is that you can do a lot of thinking. It’s just you and the bubbles. No music, no podcast, no conversation. I thought back to me as a girl, full of anxiety and overwhelmed in the pool; but, without the words or knowledge to call it that. Instead, I just figured I wasn’t good enough to swim beyond the summer season because everyone else seemed so unbothered. If I couldn’t keep up, it wasn’t right for me my memory recalls thinking about this… and many other things.

Sometimes when I swim, I think of my own kids and wonder if I want them to swim or not. Every sport has a version of its own version of intensity. Even academics and music can. Do I want them to feel this way?

I think about how so often it seems like everyone else is managing what is asked, but you’re having a hard time keeping up.

There are good lessons here about teamwork and even growth. Proving to yourself that you can do things you once thought you couldn’t or that scared you. But, I can’t help but think how I want to protect my kids from this feeling. I don’t want them to feel like this: scared, panicky and overwhelmed.

I make my way back to end of the lane, skipping the flip turn and opting to just grab the edge and turn around. This is a move I have done for years when swimming on my own, believing that out from under the rule of a hungover college student coach, I didn’t need to do those anymore. I made that decision on my own, knowing what was best for me and what would make me enjoy swimming. This thought makes me add ten more seconds to my rest at the end of the next lap changing the work out.

One of the best pieces of parenting advice I was ever given was from the dentist. It was buried in what is likely her well worn spcheal about getting kids to brush their teeth even if they don’t like it. A problem I don’t have (most of the time) with my kids. She said, “Remember: You are the parent.”

It’s a strange thing to have to reckon with. Me. The parent? I have questioned the whole idea since they told me I could leave the hospital with Theo. Like, really? Me? But, I have so many questions and shouldn’t there be more instructions, supervision or… something?

But beyond being obvious, it’s real. I am the parent. This line has helped me so much when I question rules I make for my kids or the punishment bad behavior deserves or the safety gut checks I feel or my own emotions I want to let loose. I am the parent. I make the rules. For the most part, I am in control.

I have taken the idea behind this line into many other parts of my life now, including the pool. I make the rules. I set the pace. I don’t have to do flip turns and if something feels uncomfortable, I change it or rest.

The same panicky feeling crept in the other week looking at our summer calendar: Weddings, camping, vacations, boating, camps, VBS, visits, and dinners out. Busy day jobs, a puppy to train, a book I want to write and laps I want to swim. I was overwhelmed and felt some major post covid “too much, too soon!” anxiety.

But, then I remembered, I am the parent. I set the pace. I make the rules And, so I changed course. I took things out and added a little more rest to make sure this summer something I still enjoy.

• 

“Oh, so you are a city girl?”

I hesitate. Yes? 

I was born in downtown Chicago and lived there much of my young childhood, bouncing around to the suburbs, then to Cincinnati, and back again, finally landing in Columbus, Ohio for my middle school and high school years. After graduating college, I worked for a marketing agency with offices in many large cities across the globe. I was based out of the Michigan Avenue offices, but was traveling often so I lived in an apartment in Indianapolis. Then, I got married to Adam and moved to his small hometown. And, when I say “small,” it’s small. Its population is less than the number of students in my high school. 

For a long time my identity was being a city girl in the country. It was how I framed this blog when I started it in 2013. It was also how I framed our business and even still use the line about it’s population compared to my high school as an opener is tasked with presenting our story.

May marked our ten year wedding anniversary, but also my own anniversary–My anniversary of moving too Russiaville.

Adam moved here when he was six and, outside of the college years and a short stint in Indy post grad, he has lived on the same 40 acres we live on now. As a girl who moved a lot in her first twenty four years and lived in a lot of places not like Russiaville, Indiana it’s weird to realize that of all those places, I have now lived here in this tiny town longer than anywhere else.

I have written about this before, but it is still kind of weird because little Russiaville is the place people would have least expected me to be for even just a short stint, let alone put down roots.

A couple months before our wedding, I picked up my sister from Notre Dame for her Spring Break and we swung into Russiaville before heading to my apartment in Indy. We got out the of the car and Kerry looked around. I could read the look on her face. The March landscape of rural Indiana is underwhelming at best and so was Adam’s property as it sat empty for a few years after his parents moved to Indy.

“What?” I pressed.

“I don’t know,” Kerry considering her words as she took in the surroundings. “It’s just… I kind of always imagined you more in a high rise apartment in, like, New York or something.”

I’d imagined it, too. I was raised on How to Lose a Guy In Ten Days and The Devil Wears Prada and I interned in– and really liked– LA. I saw myself in a city. Riding in cabs or in an office high in the sky. At Happy Hours and walking to get coffee’s. On dates, working long hours, and meeting all sorts of funky, fantastic people. It would be a big adventure.

I saw people live this, marking their moves to big cities with going away parties, images of champagne on Facebook, and many iterations of: “Let the adventure begin!” Even Kerry has a picture posed in front of a U-Haul truck sharing her move to employer’s New York offices to be closer to the man who would become her husband.

My move to the country was quieter, no celebration or declaration of a big adventure. But, in its own way, it was the same kind of adventure. I have made it all into a narrative over the years to help string the threads of how being lonely and lost in the country led to blogging and a garden which led to an actual farm business. I have been able to make it cute, lacing in the line about the population compared to the student body at my high school, further driving home an exciting change and embarking on something new.

As humans, we like narrative. It helps us make sense of everything that happens. There is also a touch of hope in a narrative that things will work out, even if not in the immediate present, eventually. It also feeds in to our natural storytelling abilities and, really, what’s a good story if there isn’t a little adventure? And, we really love adventure.

We love travel, new businesses, new cities and moves that will change our lives. We celebrate and dream about picking up and starting over, calling it “brave” and “bold.” There are countless quotes about adventure and if you are looking for ideas for a wedding shower, baby shower or nursery, Pinterest has you covered in all your “Adventure” theme needs.

But here is the thing, eventually the big, adventurous move just becomes the place you live.

The shine of newness fades and the encouraging, “You are so brave,” stops. You have good days, some bad ones too. The minutiae of life comes in– work, school, dinner, laundry– creating routine. And, for the most part, the cast of characters is set. It’s no longer different, it’s just your life.

And, you start wondering can you still claim the identity from the life before? Or, are you just “from” here now?

I also start wondering that we are telling couples, grads, even new babies and perhaps even ourselves in all the “Adventure Awaits” and “The world is waiting for you” messaging that life, living and all its minutiae is less then.

There is a place for adventure, of course. And, I am going to do my best to encourage curiosity and exploration in my kids and even in my own days. But also, work to drive home the importance of always making your own magic along the way and no matter where you are. If you can find some beauty and something great in less tangible ways than big moves, life really will be a grand adventure.

I heard this best brought to life recently in a commencement speech that Kelly Corrigan gave to The Walker School. In her address, she tells the students to ask questions, be curious and to remember that everyone has great stories. If you don’t connect and chat with people, you could miss out on some of the greatest stories you could ever hear.

But, then she shared a line that stopped me mid laundry folding: “A great life is just a collection of great days.”

That is all it is.

Talk about taking the pressure off big, bold grand adventures.

So, am I a city girl?

Or, a country girl?

Neither.

I just live here. And, do my best to make some magic in the minutiae.

This post is part of a blog hope with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series “Minutiae.”

I am not a particularly musical person. I never was.

In my childhood– and I think my sibling would feel the same way– a lot more of our time was focused on school and sports than it was on music.

It’s not to say that we didn’t enjoy music and it wasn’t present: Music was always there.

In fact, my family has deep roots to music with my grandmother studying at Carngeie Mellon and pursuing a career as a singer. But, in those busy years of three kids running in every direction, career growth and homemaking, it didn’t look like we were a “musical” family. We took the mandatory instrument classes in middle school and my parents were in the privileged position to expose us to Broadway musicals and the ballet. But, not one of us was in the marching band or any of the musicals put on in school.

However, in those breakneck, formative years, where music made the most impact was in dad’s car.

My dad was a curator of the playlist well before the iPod. He had CD’s, mixed tapes and invested in the software to digitize all his old records in the late 90s. My mom would often worry about our ears, claiming he was destroying them at the decibel of volume we listened to his tunes in his car. And, for a road trip? He always came prepared.

My dad graduated high school in 1973 so there were the popular bands from the 60s and 70s like Chicago, The Beach Boys and The Monkee’s.We listened to The Beatles… a lot. Sammy Davis Jr’s, “The Candy Man,” was always a hit and we would scream-sing along with, “Rhapsody in the RAYYY-AYYYNNN.” In the 90’s, he and my mom both got into Mary Chapin Carpenter, my first taste of country. But, despite the CDs invested in and concerts they went to, the favorite “Carpenter” was Karen Carpenter.

The “doo-wap” sounds and cute lyrics of The Carpenters were family road trip favorite. Lots of “Stop- oh yes! Wait a minute Mr. Postman!” and “Sha-lalala’s” and “Woah-oh-oh’s.”

I considered “Close To You” as the song that my dad and I would dance to at my wedding. It was edged out by “Unforgettable” in a nod to both my memories of the songs that would play in our house when my parents hosted dinner parties and those of my grandmother, my dad’s mom, who passed away a couple months before my wedding.

But, I always liked “Close To You.” In my little girl mind, the lyrics came to life. I saw the little birds, like the blue ones who were friends with Cinderella and Snow White, flying around and angels scheming in the clouds to make the day I was born the most beautiful day. Sprinkling moon dust, golden starlight and flowers everywhere.

My eyes are blue, but it turns out the day I was born it rained so much Chicago flooded. Per the newspaper clippings in my baby book, it wasn’t pretty. But, it still didn’t stop my imagination from seeing that dreamy, magical, fairy tale-like image even into adulthood. Picturing it in my mind while pregnant for the first time. Feeling the meaningful magnitude of key change as Karen sings:

On the day that you were born

The angels got together

And decided to create a dream come true.

Just hours after returning home from Theo’s birth and hours before I would head back to the hospital with postpartum preeclampsia, I started to process all that had happened. I cried with my mom in my bedroom wondering how it had all gone so wrong and why everything still hurt so bad. I looked to Adam and told him nothing about this, about the birth, any of it was beautiful.

Adam agreed.

In the weeks leading up to the birth, we had taken lamaze together and imagined what our birth experience might look like. We imagined it being this beautiful moment. The imagery still in my memory is laughable now. But, I saw it so clear. I saw it being something primal and pretty. Relaxing and revelatory. Something that moved us as we worked together to begin our family.

But, there were were, shell shocked from it all and still so clueless about what was to come.

In my mind, everything had gone wrong and I wanted a do-over.

I wanted to try again.

And somewhere in the mix of drugs and hormones, I started to believe it was possible. I wanted the blue birds and angels to give me my dream come true. I wanted the beautiful birth I had imagined, not the sampler platter of interventions I had received over two days only to end up with an emergency C-Section. I didn’t want the NICU stay or the massive swelling making it hard for me to simply bend my knees. I didn’t want the return to the hospital that was coming and the diagnosis of postpartum preecplamsia. I didn’t want any of it.

In my bedroom that afternoon, I had the thought that was, and still is, the hardest for me to think back on: I wanted to do it over so badly that I thought if there was a way to go back to before Theo was born and try it again, I would. And here is the most shameful, awful part: Even if it meant not getting him, but some other baby.

Just like how lyrics could come to life in my head, this thought did too. Even though it was complete fantasy, the thought was methodical and clear– like many of the thoughts that would come in the next few weeks.

I knew immediately it was a terrible thing to think and I hated myself for it. Something that would become a slow, weird form of torture, the knowing my thoughts were strange and bad and wondering how or why I could think such things.

This is the hardest part for me to write in my book and I am editing these scenes right now.

Hindsight and time helps me help me see the beauty that was so clearly there all along. So has working through those thoughts on my own and with Adam. We have had real conversations about what we are comfortable about sharing in the book and this one where I wanted a “do-over” and how my mind made up a way that might be possible has been the biggest question for me.

But, when I brought it to Adam, it was a surprisingly quick, “You need to share that.”

We talked about how it might impact Theo and committed to one another to make sure he knows everything. He needs to know that we looked forward to his birth so much; but in reality, it was so hard and scary over and over and we never imagined it being that way.

He will know that there are challenges in all that we do, even with check lists and preparation. That life and expectations are precious things, not always fairy tales. Pain and feelings are so valid– especially his own– and he will be encouraged to express them.

And, if I do ever publish and get feedback from a woman finally able to acknowledge her own experience and feelings, he will know about it. He will know that he was always wanted, loved and since Day 1 he has the ability to make a massive impact just by being him.

He will know that day the angels did get together and, even if it didn’t always look like fairy tale blue birds floating around, they did create a dream come true.

That, and his eyes of blue.

In my continued exploration of art in 2021, I am in a four week poetry course. Truly, the nexus of me signing up for this class was inspired by the cleverness and imagery I find in song lyrics.

Here is a poem I did our first week that fits with this blog post:

• 

• 

The book came recommended from a friend who also loves to read. We exchange celebrity memoirs and fiction titles often, so I put it on my TBR list. It was early 2018 and soon I saw the cover every where: All over GoodReads, at Target and on Audible’s homepage… so, I read it.

I read lots of business/self help/mindset books in my twenties. Things like Sophia Amoruso’s “Girl Boss” and Stella and Dot founder’s, “Find Your Extraordinary.” I read Gretchen Rubin’s, “Happiness Project” many times. Anything by Shauna Neiquest, Jen Hatmaker, Glennon Doyle and Brene Brown. I lumped it in with those. For the most part, I liked the author’s voice (… I did roll my eyes a bit at her referring to the reader as “gangster” and “sister”) and some of the things she had to say. It was a fine read. I added her on Instagram based on a genuine curiosity when I read how she gets to go to the Oscars because of her husband’s job.

Truly.

A bit of background on this… The summer I spent in California, I became fascinated by the jobs beyond “acting” when it came to putting on movies. I was invited to see Indiana Jones with Shia LeBouf at the Emmy theater. That afternoon pulled back the curtain and made me think differently as the audience sat for the entirety of the credits. They were reading them! They we looking for names they knew beyond the A-Listers. Who’s was the craft services team? The stunt doubles? The marketing machine behind it? Who coordinates the events? These people were their neighbors.

Anywho.

The book caught fire and soon it was everywhere.

She was everywhere.

And, within six months Rachel Hollis was a part of my everyday life. 

I got into conversations with friends and peers about the book and Rachel. The Greek Life world is a fan of a good speaker and many of my equals across the industry were taking note. So were my fellow business owners in the farmers market/small business scene. That summer, I recommend the book to others and gave it as gifts to friends and clients. I listened to her daily livestream and went through the backlog of her podcast, then called Dias, and found them to be pretty good. I went to the streaming of her documentary, inviting my sister in law. I read her fiction books, published years before the fame of “Girl, Wash Your Face.” I made friends in the community and my own based on our collective fandom.

And, I was the perfect fan: A mom with two new babies who had one foot in the corporate world, another in our side business. A dream to write and create, but also be a great mom, a great wife, a great friend and to look good doing it.

I was also just really curious about it all. She was an event planner that fell into blogging to help promote the business, but began to find more success there in the boom of Pinterest perfection of the early 2010s. And, now she was on top of the New York Times Best Seller List week after week. As someone kind of in blogging, it was an interesting case study.

There is evidence of it all being problematic from the jump. In reading her book, I was raptured by the story of her daughters adoption and how her first book was rejected over and over. I like some of the ideas like “embracing the chaos” of your season, especially if you are in toddlerhood. But, I did get a “that’s weird…” feeling as she shared the story about how she got together with her husband. Not mentioning at all how toxic it really was, but rather painting it as a love story for the ages didn’t sit well with me.

The line about not trusting someone who goes back on their promises they make to themselves has been proven to be very troublesome. But, at the time, it spoke to me in a special kind of way as it was a massive fear of mine. Deep down, I always felt like I was making these plans, goals and dreaming wild dreams and never completely following through or doing enough. Her wording about not trusting lying Pam eating pizza, even though she said she was “doing Whole30,” hooked me because I was raised in a system that made me believe that even my weight was evidence of my lack of self discipline and not trying hard enough. (More on this dark and twisty belief another day.)

Late in the summer I wrote a list of goals and after exhausting a few sheets of paper, my inner self loathing told myself that what I really should have just written was: “Do Everything Better.”

Many of those goals were good.

• Start working out again

• Be a mom that wakes up energized in the morning

• Drink less

• Write again

• Automate what I can in the marketing of the farm

As the year came to a close, I joined her Last 90 Days, a challenge to live the last 90 days of the year like you would the first thirty. I loved this idea. I knew the feeling of spending all December a little drunk, always with a sugar cookie always within reach. Come December 27 I always felt miserable. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel great going into the New Year for a change?!

It was. I was lighter in more ways than one. I was drinking water more and alcohol less. I was working out. I was writing again. I was less scattered and I woke up singing pop songs. I was happy.

Then, 2019 happened and I started to see cracks. 

I often wonder, “When do you become an adult… really?”

At 18? 21? After graduating college? When you have your own home? When you get married? Have a kid? Turn 30?

I became an adult in 2019.

So many good and terrible things happened that year. I had to learn really hard lessons and see a lot fall apart. Two of my friends– that I now regretfully gave Rachel’s book to in 2018– walked through massive losses. So did the friend who originally passed the title along. A friend was lost to addiction. Another was found to be still with us; but also not, thanks to the same disease. Adam worked hard to find his footing with his business and I worked hard to find my role in our family. My grandmother was peacefully released from Alzheimer’s grip and I looked at my own mother with new eyes as she cared for her in those last days. I wrestled with privilege and my fragility as the news every day forced me to sit with them.

All the while, Rachel Hollis was like a background track to the year with her weekly podcasts and daily live streams. Sometimes it was great and her voice was just what I needed to hear. Other times, she would say something and I would just toss it, considering it as something that just wasn’t for me. But, more and more I would hear something and think, “I don’t know how to feel about that…”

The claims on plagiarism initially didn’t bother me too much because being a bit of a business/self help junkie, it felt like there really weren’t many new ideas once you spent a little time there. But, it kept happening and I took note.

Her second non-fiction book was mediocre at best. A reshuffling of the (stolen) ideas in her first book at worst.

I didn’t love her growing fandom within MLM’s and her serving as the keynote speaker for all their events. In real time, Adam and I were seeing the real damage they cause within small communities and family’s that we loved.

And, amid all that was going on in my life, I started to question some of her ideologies. A “mindset shift” and “moving your body” wasn’t going to help the people I was close to.

Years before, when I first began asking myself big questions about religion, it was rooted in that some of the messaging I was taught in church wasn’t true for all Christians. I started to see this in Rachel’s messaging too realizing that the messaging was packaged “for women” but really it was for a certain type of woman.

I kept following along, though. I still thought it all was an interesting phenomenon. You couldn’t deny the growth and fame she was amassing. Her books were both on the top of the NYT’s list. She interviewed Joe Biden and spoke everywhere. I liked watching her team grow and was impressed by much of what she put out from a clothing line to coaching and I even really liked her planner.

However, by the time 2019’s Last 90 Days was gearing up, I was only half in. The habits I had put in place the year before were still going strong and I felt good. For the first time since becoming a mom, I felt confident in my body, our business and my writing, and in the decisions I made. I didn’t find myself reaching for the daily motivation or tuning into the podcast. I wondered if maybe I had outgrown her messaging.

But, then 2020 came, and I realized what it was: She was mean.

She was snippy to the community, to her husband, her dog and even to her children. She had abrasive ways of storytelling, advice giving, and talking about other people in and around her industry. (Ahem. Taylor Swift…) She complained about her speaking opportunities and even her own events seemed to be a pain. She made satires about “Mama needing a drink…” and you know how I feel about this. And, quarantine seemed to really not sit well with her.

I hate saying “She was mean” because it sounds a lot like the tropes that women deal with all the time. The, “You should smile more!” or a “Be nice!” kind of thing.

I wrote about “being good” last week and my dad and I talked about it a bit after the post went live. It was a good conversation about what a needle it is to thread in order to teach a child to “be good.” Learning to “be nice” is a similar needle to thread.

You want a child to be nice, but not so nice that they get walked all over. Nice, but also strong willed enough to stand up and say things like, “I think you are wrong,” “I don’t agree,” and “No.” But, you want them to say those things in a way that isn’t belittling. Miss the eye of the needle and you have a child that is a doormat or a bitch. No pressure!

Hyperbole aside, what I think I see in the eye of the needle is the foundation of a value system. I see kindness; but, with a bit of rethinking— dare I say mindset shift– on the word.

“Being Kind” sounds like a synonym of “Being nice,” but in reality they are two different things.

Nice is, “You look great today.”

Kind is, “How are you, really?”

And, I don’t see “kindness” falling into the category of things that are unfairly demanded of women– or men for that matter.

I don’t know if Rachel got too entrenched in the “Give Zero F’s!” world of power and “Boss.” Or, if that world wore on her. Or, if she is just inherently mean. But, what I know now is that she is certainly not nice. Or even kind for that matter.

I know now because hard things happen and you can’t work or think or manifest your way out of them. I know now because whittling people down to or making assumptions about one, single thing is beyond rude. I know now because looking at the world as a mountain to climb minimizes so many. I know now because I lived like her for a while, and yes some of it was good and lasting, but there were times that I wasn’t even kind to myself.

I know a lot more than I did three years ago.

My 2019 brought a lot of adulting shit; but, maybe you are truly an adult when you finely thread the needles of “good” and “nice” just right and you find “kind.”

Kind is when you stop being nice and good and you tell the truth in a manner that is clear, not cruel. Kind is when you start calling things what they are.

Like how fringe time to work out and write is privilege.

Like how using words like “gangster” and “sis” is appropriation.

Like how calling your house keeper “the sweet woman who cleans your toilet” is wrong and hurtful.

Like how believing (and teaching) that working “your ass off” will ultimately lead to success is harmful.

Like how a leader blaming their team for a wrong doing isn’t leadership.

Being kind is also when you follow through with action. Unfollowing is a great place to start and it’s not to cancel or shame, but to signal to partners and publishers that this person does not align with your value system.

And, at the end of the day, you are kind to yourself, too.

You don’t let yourself be embarrassed or ashamed for being a fan. (I don’t know… maybe you write a whole blog post about it?!)

And, maybe you get over the idea that a little extra weight on your hips isn’t evidence of being weak; but rather, it was a day you cuddled your kids and watched a movie instead of working out. Maybe it was a couple slices of prosciutto over the serving size when sharing a cheese board with girl friends. Maybe it was an extra glass of red wine when in a good conversation with your husband. Whatever it was, it’s was kindness.

The world deserves it and so do you.

On the podcast I plan to talk about how I still think Rachel Hollis is a really interesting case study on blogging, especially as influencers get bigger, develop their own brand and even gain representation similar to those of a traditional “A-Lister.” (Fun Fact… did you know that the Screen Actor’s Guild now accepts Influencers?! YES.)

I love all things celebrity.

I love podcasts.

You want to know what I am not loving? Celebrity podcasts.

It feels like in the last year or so celebrities have been infiltrating the podcast world more and more. Maybe it’s the pandemic and podcasting an easy way to connect with their fan base? Maybe it’s because they are seeing it as an easy revenue stream as their platform is already established? Whatever it is, they are now there in droves and it bugs me.

I am worried about the “little guys.” The independent creators who are sharing great knowledge and fantastic, real stories. These people are funny and smart and have things like day jobs, banal responsibilities like meal planning, picking up regular house clutter and dealing with childcare issues from time to time. They draw from these real life situations and experiences in their content.

Celebrities don’t and can’t do this. They have a team of people managing their day-to-day and another team of people helping them even just get their podcast up and running. Good podcasts are so much more than talking into a mic. There is hosting and graphics, show notes and calendars and so much to know in regards to editing, mixing and marketing. Even if an independent podcaster now has outsourced those things thanks to some extra revenue, it was something they had to learn and do when starting out. A celeb gets to completely bypass this.

I am even not a huge fan of the celebrity guest. There are exceptions, of course. But, it is clear when someone is making the rounds to drum up excitement for a new book or movie and not to actually share wisdom or a story. And, while there are some exceptions, most of the time celebrities all kind of say the same thing.

My proof? Listen to a few celebrity interviews. A celebrity almost always starts their story with some iteration of: “I was a weird kid.”

They say this with an inflection that implies that it was their “weirdness” as a child that led them to their future success.

And, when asked to explain their “weirdness” in childhood? It’s that they were playing any instrument they could get their hands on. Always reading a book. Loving old movies. Doing anything to get a laugh. They just loved being outside or never wore a normal outfit or was always cutting their hair. So weird. >>Insert eyeroll here.<<

This isn’t doing it for me because the more I watch my own kids, their cousins and friends, and even think about to when I was a kid, the more I’ve come to realize is that all kids are weird.

They make strange connections and laugh uncontrollably at their own jokes (that make zero sense…). They wear costumes on the regular and three patterns at once. They put ranch on everything and like it. They get hooked onto a cartoon or a toy or a character and go hard for months. They wear sandals in the winter and snow boots in the summer. They sleep well just about anywhere… but their bed. They can make an empty wrapping paper roll, a kitchen pot, or a hairbrush upwards of thirty different things each.

And, that is just my kids. I am sure yours are even weirder.

Maybe it was believing that the things they loved were weird and not caring about this that gave them a thicker skin for the circuit of auditions and rejections. But, that isn’t weirdness. That’s gumption. Resilience. And, audacity. Good things. Perhaps personality traits that are a little tough to muster for some people; but, not a weird kid make.

I have begun to wonder if what those celebrities meant was that someone let them be weird. Someone encouraged it and kept them weird and wild and curious and bold into adulthood.

I catch myself cringing every time I say, “Be good” to my kids. I say a lot of “Oh, we are getting a little too crazy…” and “Let’s not be so silly” and every time I do a little alarm rings inside my head.

I was a good kid. A very good kid. I listened, I got the grades, I followed the path. I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t rock the boat, I never got too big or too loud.

Being good kept me out of trouble; but, also gave me plenty of it, too.

It made me keep opinions to myself, so much so that I stopped having them. It made me not react when things or people hurt me. It’s made me not trust my thoughts or my own body and cause a fuss for anything from major medical concerns to just being a little chilly.

When I crossed the 24 hour mark in labor with Theo, I was four centimeters dilated. Four centimeters that were not even of my own doing, but rather that of the folly balloon, which is basically a device that manually dilates a woman’s cervix in hopes of jump starting labor. Despite exhausting contractions all day, I still was not anywhere close to pushing. I knew I needed to rest and so I finally agreed to an epidural.

The drugs hit and I felt relief that gave way to a few good hours of sleep. When I woke up, the doctor checked my cervix and I had dilated to a seven.

At first, I felt great. A seven, I celebrated. That is so close!

And, then my mind started thinking.

What if all along it had been a “me” thing? A mental block? What if I had been trained to suppress my natural state of being in not allowing myself to get too wild or strange? What if my body was wound so tight it couldn’t do the most primal of things? Like how it took cocktails to finally get me to dance or to sing, it took drugs for my insides to open up.

As a kid, I loved to dance and sing.

But, then I started to have outside influences: Concerns about my size as a dancer or lack of talent as a singer. “Be quiet’s” and “Be careful’s. “Not inside” and “settle down’s.” Things that are seemingly innocent and perhaps even things that keep us safe, at least for a moment. But, do they add up?

A good, respectful kid is so great and important. I want them to be safe, kind and to listen. But, one of the biggest things I wrestle with as they are coming into their own little person is how to help them be– for lack of a better word– good while maintaining their wild, weirdness.

It’s all over t-shirts: Raise Good Humans.

I like the idea of it, but like so much in parenthood it’s precarious, this “good” thing.

So my brain swims with thoughts. How do I keep their natural spirit without crushing it within this responsibility of raising good humans? How to I fuel wildness, but also demand order and civility in and out of my home? How do I let them be themselves and encourage it as they grow in the face of a world that will tell them to be what it wants instead?

These are questions I have in real time and I don’t have the answers. I can do my best to change what I can, but I know enough to know that the world do a number on them. Without even meaning to, the beliefs and systems we have in place will strip some of their weirdness away. They will learn to second guess and question themselves because they will be told they are wrong or just a little “too much.”

These are systems that raised me, too. So, I have work to do as well and there are things I need to change. Without meaning to, I will also do a number on my kids. It’s the reality of living in humanity.

I am humble enough to know that I will get a lot of this wrong. But, willing to try my best to not only raise them “good,” but also do all I can at keeping them weird. Always welcoming curiosity, pain and silliness and exactly who they are.

In my efforts to learn about art and my new iPad as well as in the work I am doing to celebrate my kids weirdness, I created “dream prints” for both of them. I love asking them each morning what they dreamed about. I want to hear the stories that their sleepy subconscious creates and about the things that greet them in their sleep.

These are pieces that will never be in a museum. I still have so much to learn about art. But, they are a snapshot of who my kids are right now and that is special to me. The dreams of Pokemon chasing and ballerina dancing won’t last forever. They will give way to dreams that are more practical, less chaotic and not so magical; but because of these prints, we all will have the reminder of now and I hope that inspires them to keep dreaming no matter how big or weird.

• 

In February 2020, I read Chanel Miller’s book, “Know My Name.” In the public eye, she was first “Emily Doe,” the victim in the Stanford rape case with rising swimming superstar, Brock Turner.

It is a book that is spectacularly done. Chanel tells this story in a beautiful, smart way. She is so honest, vulnerable and real that reading it feels like a conversation with a friend. So much so that I didn’t tell many others to read it. And, not because it isn’t worth sharing— in fact, quite the opposite. It just felt like such a private conversation that in loyalty to a friend I was supposed to keep close.

Two people I did know immediately I wanted to share it with are my kids. Not today, obviously. But, I told Adam it will be required reading in our house at about fifteen. I believe there are so many good lessons and important things to talk about in Chanel’s words. I even Googled to see if there is a discussion guide for teenagers. 

There wasn’t anything specifically designed for teens, but plenty of reviews and blogs recapping key takeaways. Takeaways like how the system currently in place makes survivors get lost in the story and legal case, making them no more than a body. Brock was an Olympic hopeful swimmer with a squeaky-clean background. Chanel was nameless and had no background. In the case, she was a girl who was drunk at a fraternity and that’s it. But, she was a person with a background, family, job and friends. Dreams and goals too. Anyone and everyone is and the system ignores this in an effort to keep the victims identity disclosed.

Then, there are the realities of rape culture, which perpetuates the idea of “toxic masculinity” or the belief that men are dominate and “just being boys.” Chanel counters this with a beautiful paragraph about the two Swedish grad students who stumbled upon her rape and tackled Brock as he ran away– only first checking on her to make sure she was not hurt. She calls this true masculinity and so do I. If I could teach young boys anything it would to be like the Sweds. 

However, one thing that seemed to be missing in all the online blogs and was even kind of glossed over in Chanel’s writing was the realities of the college and post grad drinking culture. 

Okay, listen: No matter what, no matter how many drinks a person has or if they are blacked out, rape isn’t okay. Because someone or both parties are drunk doesn’t make it okay that it happened or okay to commit. It isn’t and shouldn’t ever be an excuse or justification.

But, could drinking still be a player? And, is it worth conversation? 

I think yes. Not in defense or to be used against anyone, but it is worth a conversation in general.

And, I believe this because I lived it. 

In college, I lived not just in a drinking culture, but a blackout culture and hook up culture. It was cute and funny to “BO” as we called it (black out) and “shack” (stay the night/hook up). And, in reading this book, I came to recognize that I know so many people who were raped. But, it was the normalcy of heavy drinking and hooking up that took away the stigma and didn’t let us call it what it was.

That’s heavy.

But, when you are in it, it looks light and fun. Like it’s not a big deal.

In college, I found worth (as ridiculous as this sounds) as a “party girl.” I was cool because I could drink beers with the guys and was always down for a good time with the girls. When drinking, I went from cute to hot– something I had never been– and that meant something in my eighteen year old mind. With a knack for a good playlist, social charm and excitement to whip up some cocktails, I was the girl you called if you wanted a good time. It became who I was and it was not uncommon to drink- heavily- three to four nights a week.

We masked it as “work hard, play hard,” a mantra we carried into post grad where the drinking continued. Happy Hours became normal and the idea of needing a drink just “unwind” after the long day made daily drinking a habit. The first agency I worked for in Chicago had free vending machine full of our portfolio of beverage clients: Soda’s, hip expensive water, wellness teas and allllllll the beers. 

Every conference I attended had evenings filled with activities based around drinks that carried on very late into the evening.

And, away from work hours, open bars at weddings were a literal free for all and laughs about the night’s shenanigans over brunch- where the drinking continued with Bloody Mary bar’s and bottomless mimosas- filled my weekends. 

That sounds like a lot. But, when you are in it, it was fine. Everyone was doing it, even your boss and the mother of the bride. It was no big deal.

Being a “foodie,” exploring good beer and wine and their flavors became a hobby of mine. Understanding pairings was fun and if I was having chicken I should probably have a chardonnay too, right? Because they pair so well together, right? Never mind that it was a Tuesday. Never mind that we finished a bottle and moved onto another.

Oh, and that grogginess and headache every morning? That isn’t a hangover. Pop some Advil and get to work. Right?

Then came motherhood and it reveled a whole new drinking culture: Mommy Drinking Culture.

Giving up alcohol for the nine months was fortunately easy, and in a way, that was a relief. But, as soon as my kids arrived and I was inducted to this club with a celebratory, “You can drink again!” 

In funny, loving and real manor, I was gifted little strips that looked like the strips of paper I used to test the chlorine levels in the pools where I was a lifeguard as a teen; but, these were designed to determine if there were traces of alcohol in my breast milk.

Onesie’s about baby looking for “a bottle of the house white” filled our drawers.

Still today, on a Target run or quick scroll on TikTok, the messaging is “Mama Needs a Drink.”

I am told this through more onesies, t-shirts, bags, glassware, pillows and actual wine bottles. On social media it’s even more prevalent with #mommyjuice and viral vlogger satires as they sip their moscato. Mom friends are made quickly with the common denominators of: You have a kid AND you like margaritas?  Looks like can be friends!

And, I don’t think the dad’s get off easy on this one. Check out the birthday or Father’s Day cards available for dad’s and it is either ties, grills, golf or booze. Gift guides at the holidays boast the same things each year, too: beer making kits, whiskey ice stones, and personalized pint glasses. There is a whole Daddy Drinking Culture, too.

Since the beginning of our exposure to the many faces of a culture of drinking, it’s all been masked with the justification of self care. 

Getting drunk in college lets the wound tight and stressed student finally release. Same for the post grad.  And, they deserve to relax and let loose just as the maxed out mom or dad does too. It is something deserved. Heck, it may be the only thing you do for you all day.

It’s no secret that I have had a bone to pick with self care for a while and this brings it all to life. So many times “self care” is illustrated as doing something so you can be good for “them.” Them being kids, spouse, bosses, neighbors, clients, whatever. Here is what I have come to find:

1. *Real* self care isn’t easily illustrated. It isn’t Instagram worthy. It’s actually boring. It’s going to the dermatologist or going to bed early.
2. Why should you or would you do something for someone else and call it “self” care?
3. Drinking doesn’t make you good for “them.”

Not just in the sense of being an awful mom/human when I am hungover. (Seriously. Awful.) But, in the sense that normalizing this culture of drinking— especially as parents— is straight up unhealthy. It causes stress, anxiety, mood swings, depression, burnout, weight gain, drowsiness and actual health concerns. 

That “more” became so real and very close to us in the last few years.

For the first time, we are experiencing friends embarking on recovery, addiction breaking relationships we watch grow from the first spark, and even alcohol related illness and deaths. It woke us up to realize it’s not fun and drinking games anymore. It’s a problem.

And, it’s not just unique to our group of friends. The Indy Star recently ran a wildly eye opening article about the rising rates of liver disease in young people citing that many of these new cases are not coming from “stereotypical image of an alcoholic.” They are normal people in their thirties with young families, good jobs and productive lives… and they need liver transplants. The article also noted that this the trending numbers are highest in the female, middle age category.

They are seeing this in women— and men— in the prime of their life who have no problems functioning day to day. But, they are drinking every day in a toast to self care or as something they deserve for all their hard work. Something they learned to do from the drinking cultures they had been exposed to as far back as college.

It’s not the point purpose or scapegoat in Chanel’s story, no. 

But, it is there and worth being a part of the conversation because under a friendly guise of being “a part of this season,” something well deserved and as a way to “take care” of ourselves, it is still putting us in hard, sticky, scary situations.

A note: I feel like it has to be said… I enjoy drinking! After I took stock of a lot of things in 2018, I stopped drinking during the week and really keep an eye on it during the weekend. I sometimes do wrestle with the “foodie” thing and have not committed to hard and fast rules. If I am somewhere fantastic, eating something super special on a Tuesday, let’s have something that pairs well. But, I have just brought more awareness to my own drinking and I don’t drink if I don’t feel like it and I will not drink something if I don’t like it.

I believe drinking is really personal. And for me, yes, there were parts of my drinking at a time that were not good. They were flirting with “a problem” and not bringing value to my life. So I got a little more intentional about it. 

That sounds easy, but it was a bit of work. So much of me thought my drinking was brought on by outside things like work or stress. But, also just hard, worn in habits. It was a me thing. That is when it clicked that I needed to take the reigns and I am so much happier. 

I still do love exploring flavors of wine, cocktails and beers. I enjoy talking with Adam over a glass of wine and love sharing a drink with my friends. I love when the conversation leans into “third glass close” territory and you bet your butt I will celebrate my book with champagne.

It is just now I know how to do this in that manor that drinking brings value to my life, instead of being something to make me “okay” to go back in to it.

On the Podcast today, I talk a little about the idea I have of “Intuitive Drinking” inspired by this conversation and buzzy Intuitive eating.

In the beginning of 2020 I had spontaneous lunch with two friends at my house. We had all run into one another at the nearby library and with the lunch hour approaching and an unopened pack of hotdogs in my refrigerator, I offered our home as a place more welcome to noise to further catch up and let the kids play.

Ah… That pre-COVID life.

As the kids ran off to the playroom, we gathered up used dishes and got to talking. Being the New Year, we shared things we were hopeful for. One gal mentioned that maybe another baby would be part of the next twelve months.

We all sighed knowing it was a possibility for all of us. A want of all of ours. But, each of us had been pricked by motherhood and that left the journey and decisions towards more children challenging.

One woman, with two children, had suffered multiple miscarriages. The other was facing what her doctor called, “secondary infertility,” meaning she got pregnant once with no problem; but now, in an effort for a second baby, it’s taking much longer than anyone would like. And, then there was me. A history of no problems becoming pregnant, but a body that doesn’t seem like delivery and a hormonal makeup that doesn’t seem to like the early days.

All of us had dreams of other babies. More babies. But, also have concerns and challenges in getting us there.

It’s a common question from just about anyone these days and even one that I ask myself daily: “Are you going to have another?”

Since as long as I could remember, I wanted four kids.

I thought it was a great number. Enough, but not strange.

I saw it all so clearly in my mind: The busy house, the loud table, the wild Christmas.

I also wanted my kids to have a tribe of siblings, preferably all them experiencing life with both a brother and sister.

Adam and I agreed early on that big families are more fun, the kids from big families were funnier and well adjusted and that a big family is what we both wanted. As newlyweds, we would joke that if we ever won the lottery, and saving for college wasn’t a thought to consider, we would just have lots and lots of babies.

Like it’s that simple.

There is a lot of things I got wrong about babies and motherhood before I experienced them.

I’d like to think that I was ready for a baby. I was nearly 29, after all. Married for a handful of years, career established, money made and saved, living in a home we owned. I was pretty self aware, calm in most emergencies and super self sufficient because I knew how to grow my own food, do minor car maintenance, start an LLC and travel Europe without a smart phone.

I did a lot to build a life and was told by so many well meaning friends and bloggers and celebrities that I could just “fit the baby into that life!” I imagined our babies just coming along for a ride on the great things Adam and I had worked so hard to build and get into place.

I recently heard this best explained with the most banal expression on Kate Kennedy’s “Childless Millennial” podcast. She shared how she has felt pressure and has worked hard at getting “her ducks in a row” pre kids (Think: The house, the career, the finances, the relationships…) and feels the pressure to have a child. So, after all that work she is supposed to just “cannonball” into those ducks?

I didn’t know about the cannon ball.

At least I don’t think I did.

And, maybe I did. But, I thought I would be exempt because I had stuff figured out and had support or because it had been proven over and over that I was highly capable of so much. Or, it would maybe be more like a nice pencil jump (… ex-life guard here). Or, maybe I just ignored the idea of the cannonball, distracted by Freshly Picked moccasins and pretty, pretentious cloth diapers.

But, it was a cannon ball and it jostled everything I had so nicely in a row. My marriage, my job, my friendships, my body, my passions, goals, confidence, things I thought I knew about myself and the world… All of it was hit and out of place.

Having a baby and then another didn’t just “fit into our life” or even cause a couple ripples. It fundamentally changed everything.

This fall, a friend who I don’t see often asked, “So when are you having another?” She knew about my desire for a big family and she also has two kids of her own that are similar in age to mine. She also wants a bigger family.

I wavered saying, “I don’t know. There is my health thing and then…” I trailed off, “I don’t know.”

I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to say or how to say it.

She did.

“It’s hard!,” she exclaimed and I thought she was going to go into a conversation about how hard the decision is to make. A conversation I have been a part of before. The, “It’s crazy to think about going back to diapers” and “We kind of have a routine.”

But, she had not finished her full thought:

“Those hormones in the beginning are the worst. I hate not feeling like myself.”

I had lumped the hormone thing into “health” knowing my propensity for the blues after babies and not sure that is the best way of being, especially with other kids around. But, I also just don’t like feeling that way.

I think back to when I was especially low after Theo and didn’t even get what was going on with me. There was a day around One Month that my friends were visiting and I watched them hold my son. They looked beautiful, confident and put together as they laughed on my living room floor. I felt far from any of those things and I remember a specific, weird word some across my mind.

Sparkle.

My friends seemed to sparkle.

And, I wondered if I would ever sparkle again.

The friend continued, “And, they don’t just last a year. It wasn’t until my daughter was, like, two and a half that I felt normal again.”

I thought more.

Since that day in my living room nearly five years ago, I have tried to fit many different molds of mothering trying to find my way back to “me.” Like the work done in the early adult part of my life, many did not fit or work. But, finally, this summer– when my youngest was two and a half– I started to feel it again. I felt like the ducks were back in a row. A bit of a messy, Type B row, albeit. But, a row.

In more thought about it, that way of being has served me much of my life anyways. Being okay with B’s. Being fine with putting things out in the world without over thinking it. Being self aware to not worry about perfection. Being okay with “good enough.”

Finding this part of me again and living it in a year that truly could have sent me spiraling again actually made me feel a little… sparkle.

Now, nearly five years later and I finally feel like my ducks are again in a row and I feel like myself again. And, I like it.

I didn’t like the chaos of the cannon ball and the clean up that came after it. I didn’t like not feeling happy, light, and confident. I didn’t like trying to force things. I didn’t like not feeling like me.

My brain, thanks to outside messaging and things I think and worry people think about me, makes me tell myself things like, “I am selfish.” If I was a good mom this wouldn’t matter. I would just want babies no matter what. At any cost, especially at the cost of my- LOL- *mental health.*

“Sparkly” is a silly feeling and even sillier way of being. And, I am not the girl– nor have I ever been– that fits a stereotypical “sparkly” package. Context: I am much more a Vivian than Elle Woods.

But, I feel sparkly again.

I feel like me again.

And, maybe even like a better, stronger me. A me with more thoughts and conviction. A me with more passion and courage. A me that is less worried, but cares more too. A me that is curious again and wants to try and learn new things. A me that is lighter in more ways than one.

And, I like it.

I find myself excited about clothes and doing my hair again. I am really into art and hobbies and I want to host dinner parties and go out with friends (hopefully sooner than later…). I love who my kids are and who they are becoming. I want to play with them, laugh with them, cheer them on and focus on my own health to give them the gift of my own longevity. I am loving making out with my husband and growing our businesses together. I adore getting into deep conversations over wine with him and those close to me. I am wanting to learn more, read more, write more and just drink coffee in quiet.

Listing it out makes it seem superficial and that chorus of, “If you were a good mom these things– clothes and hobbies, coffee in quiet– wouldn’t matter.”

But these are my ducks.

Do I really want to do another cannonball?

Right now the ripples on the water are sparkling in the sun.

And, I like it like this.

It is good.

Good enough for me.

“It’s kind of a sad day,” Adam said looking over his shoulder. “The crib is coming down.”

He added, “No more babies in this house,” as he flipped Savannah’s pony tail.

However, we looked at each other and shrugged, both unsure if that is a forever statement or fact for now. It’s something we talk about from time to time and is a thought in my messy mind nearly everyday.

But, for now, no more babies.

Savannah turned three in November and was long overdue for a real bed. (Seriously. Don’t tell our pediatrician it took us this long…)

Adam passed me a now unattached side of the crib to take to the basement and I looked around the room. The white crib in pieces and the changing table propped against the wall. Signs of babyhood in piles ready to be stored, making way for all things Little Girl: Hot pink, unicorns and Barbies.

I sighed looking across the room and said, “It’s the chair for me.”

Adam turned around, hammer and new bed instructions in hand, and raised his eyebrow, “The… chair? That chair?”

He pointed to the boxy grey seat and ottoman. Covered in Aden and Anis blankets and a chevron pillow because a baby room is the only place it makes sense to hide that relic of 2012.

Yes.

The chair.

That chair.

That chair that we fought about on the way to lamaze. Hunting for a glider or rocker was hard for lots of reasons. I was too picky. Adam didn’t care. I was too opinionated. Adam didn’t have any opinions. Finally, after testing all of the chairs– for the second time– at Babies R Us and Buy Buy Baby, my hormones sent me spiraling.

Adam doesn’t care. He doesn’t care…! This is our child. How can he not care?

I have so much to do and have to do it all alone because he *doesn’t care.*

Hormones, man. I could write a whole book on what they did. Oh, wait. I have.

That chair and it’s ottoman that I stubbed my left toe on when I carefully tried to get out of the seat only a couple days after my C-Section. My body was sore and so swollen that my knees didn’t bend well. A sign of the distress it was in. When my foot slipped out from under me and banged into the metal bar under the foot rest, half my just pedicured big toe nail came off. Blood dripped from my toe and a loud, “Fuck!” escaped my mouth. A sign of the distress I was under.

I don’t curse.

Okay. I rarely curse.

And yet, it was me who first let that fantastic and ugly word loose in front of our new child’s precious ears.

Because of that damn chair.

It’s the chair where I sat, persistently working to get Theo to nurse and I would constantly lose the clear nipple shield, provided by my lactation consultant, in its cracks and crevices. I am sure you could still find a couple deep inside of it.

It was the chair I sat in and rocked Theo for hours. Exhausted, I would mentally beg him to sleep and nap or just be calm without me having to stand.

It’s the chair that I cried in over and over again wondering, “Where are these tears even coming from anymore?” Because surely, after crying every day, there couldn’t be any more left inside of me.

Things didn’t click for Theo and I in that chair. We eventually found each other about six weeks in; but, it wasn’t in that chair. It was on our living room floor, staring at one another, side by side, the avalanche of love and knowing hit me. An actual, “There you are!” seemed to be said by both of us.

But, we would find each other time and time again, night after night in that chair.

Nursing became second nature and great for both of us. Sleep got better– not perfect– but better. Both of us became very comfortable with each other in that chair. Singing, reading and rocking before bed and snuggling up again in it’s deep arms in the middle of the night.

And yet, every new change brought new challenges. During the months leading towards toddlerhood, his wants were clearly evident, but a mystery to me thanks to our barrier in communication. Days were full of the normal frustrations found between babies and caretakers then.

“Little person. Big emotions,” I would remind myself.

Especially as that stubborn toddler would relax into me in that chair. In that chair, we would find each other again. Forgiving one another for the days tantrums, mistakes and miscommunications.

Thanks to the gift to nursing and new mom’s everywhere– the iPhone– it was in that chair that I learned about the Cubs 2016 World Series victory which lead me to race down to our bedroom to wake and tell Adam the news.

One week later, again in the early hours of the morning in that chair, I learned of Donald Trump’s victory. I cried and went downstairs to wake and tell Adam the news; but, instead I found him in the living room, glued to the TV, also in disbelief that this was really happening.

Theo was upgraded to a big bed much earlier than we did for his sister because of her impending arrival. The room with the crib and that chair became his sister’s. But, the morning I learned about the shooting at a country concert in Las Vegas, we escaped from the world and back into that chair. The room was a bit of a mess with onesies and sleepers in piles on the floor and growing more pink by the day, but we exchanged our busy morning of work and daycare drop off for snuggles and many readings of “The Little Blue Truck.” It felt like that in that chair I could delay him from experiencing and feeling the pain of the world.

Savannah arrived without as much trauma at birth, a tangle of postnatal mental health afflictions and to a mom who knew a little more.

We rocked and read and nursed in that chair. Just like with Theo, I studied her fingers and the curves of her nose and ears. I slept in that chair and also saw every hour of the night awake in that chair. And, even just as recent as this fall, her brother would join us in that chair. Together, with two little booties on my lap and both of my arms reaching around their now long and lanky bodies, we read over and over about what might happen if you give a mouse a cookie.

And, it was in that chair that I wrote a book. That book about all the weird things that those hormones do. The chair was a comfy spot and away from all the other distractions of our home and the baby room (when not in transition) was typically clean.

It was in that chair where I clocked 8,000 word days and shared the story of how I became a mother. Like my relationship with that chair, it wasn’t easy in the beginning. I had to be wrong and broken and had to try really hard. But, eventually I would find it.

I found it in motherhood and in that chair.