As I write this, my son is down the street at our neighborhood school experiencing his first day of first grade. Part of me would love to use this space to talk about all of The Feelings I’m having about this new phase in my family’s life, but I’ll spare you. Instead I’d like to channel my motherly nervous energy*
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One recent Saturday evening, I found myself sitting in a restaurant with my husband and son. About an hour earlier, after realizing neither of us could muster the energy to fix a meal, my husband and I made the rare decision to go out to dinner as a family. (It’s not that we don’t enjoy going out to dinner or
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I have depression—moderate depression with a side of crippling anxiety, if you want to get specific. I was first diagnosed when I was 23, although I suspect it began much earlier than that. It was only after experiencing panic attacks, heart palpitations, chronic insomnia, and regular and profound “low” periods that I sought medical treatment. I started taking anti-depressants and
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Let’s go ahead and get something out of the way right now… I am not pregnant. I don’t plan on being pregnant any time soon. But while I am not currently with child, I am currently (and always will be) obsessed with baby names. Boy names, girl names, name meanings, matching first names with middle names—I love it all and
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A couple of years ago, a friend of mine from high school posted this question on Facebook: “When did you really feel like a parent for the first time?” Most people answered with statements like, “As soon as I saw those two line on the pregnancy test” or “When she wrapped her little hand around my fingers for the first
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Our six-year-old son is sort of known for his hair. Even before he was born, it’s gotten him attention. I had an ultrasound when I was 35 weeks pregnant with him, and I distinctly remember the doctor chuckling as soon as the kid’s image popped up on the screen. “That…that is a lot of hair,” he said, shaking his head.
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Picture it. My bedroom, 2009. Early morning sunshine streams through the window, casting an angelic glow over my son as he toddles into the room just as I slip my arms into a button-up shirt. He tilts his rosy-cheeked, cherubic face to the side and peers at me with twinkling blue eyes. “Nose.” I stop buttoning my shirt and look
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One hour after my son got home from his last day of kindergarten, I presented him with this piece of paper: Yep. I know. I am so mean. As he’d barely tasted the freedom that comes with the final clang of the school bell, as visions of days spent playing Minecraft danced in his head, I shoved some real-talk right
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I rolled over for what felt like the millionth time, hoping a change in my position would help the pit in my stomach dissipate. There was something I knew I needed to do, but the thought of actually doing it made my anxiety level skyrocket. I needed to ask a friend a question—an incredibly important question. But I was scared. What
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It’s been pretty much the same since he was two years old—right when we moved him into a “big boy bed.” He wiggles his toes in the water as I rinse his hair with the plastic measuring cup he’ll use to “make coffee” while he soaks. I wrap him up in a hooded towel, and he plops down on his
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