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Does anyone else feel constantly disappointed in humanity these days? I fight my propensity to be cynical with every ounce in my being at times, but there is just such an abundance of "I'm so offended right now" in this world that it is an uphill, often losing, battle.

Something that seems to be getting worse every day to me are the mommy wars. I'm not talking about the wars about whether it is better to work or stay home (let's all just assume, incorrectly, I might add, that every mother is ever afforded that choice in the first place), it isn't about whether formula is perfectly fine or breastfeeding is right. It's not about the usual suspects, this most recent war.

Nope.

This war is about cupcakes.

Really.

I'm not kidding.

The newest variety of the mom war has Pinterest written all over it, accented with handmade bows and custom outfits.

Let me explain.

Some people are crafty. Some people were born crafty. Some people become crafty when they have kids. Some people actually enjoy making 50 cupcake toppers and coming up with awesome decorations for parties. Some people actually bend over backwards to make special cakes and adorable invitations. Some people loathe it but do it anyway because they want to do it for their kids.

An actual cake I made. Haters gonna hate.

Some people can't do it, either because they just aren't crafty or don't have the time/energy/extra money to drop on making tiny cupcake flags. Some people buy cakes from the store and packaged invitations and their kids have amazing birthday parties. Some people keep celebrations small and at home. Some people forget until the day of, then hustle to get it together at the last minute. Some people always forget goody bags. (totally raising my hand on several here)

Why does what someone else does or doesn't do for their kids have anything to do with your parenting?

It shouldn't.

It doesn't, in reality. It quite literally has nothing to do with you.

It does, though, or at least it seems that way, because every time I see a friend post something kickass she did for her kids on the book of face, someone has to come along and crap all over it.

It seems like someone always has to tell this mom who is just doing something cool for her kid that she is making the comment leaver feel inadequate as a mother.

Always.

You've seen it.

Why does my kid's birthday cake make you feel inadequate?

How does anything I do in my family have an affect on your self-worth?

It shouldn't. This isn't a contest. There is no winner for best-mom-ever, but there are definitely losers...and as long as we're comparing ourselves to each other, we are all losers.

I've written before about this, about how I truly believe that we are all different as mothers. We all kick ass at something, we all go way over the top when it comes to our kids about something. Whether your something is birthday cakes or homemade pancakes or notes in lunches or bedtime rituals or whatever it is - we all are totally awesome at something.

And we all suck at something. There is some aspect of parenting that we all hate, that we all loathe with every ounce of our beings. There is something that no matter how many times we have tried, we are terrible at.

And it is all okay.

Seriously.

We live in a world now where the response to feeling inadequate about our parenting because of what someone else shares on Facebook or Pinterest has resulted in mom shaming, hence the comments being left on all things awesome. It's even gone so far that mom fails are now a thing.

And they are. We all screw up. We should be as willing to admit the times we forget about a lost baby tooth or yelled at a kid purely out of frustration or tried that new Pinterest recipe and it was an abysmal failure as we are about the things we did right.

But that isn't how social media works. Social media, for most people, is a platform for the shiny and happy and perfect and positive. All that is great, this is true, but the shiny and happy and perfect and positive is only part of the story of our lives as parents.

And none of it has anything to do with anyone else.

I joked (sort of) yesterday about how I am starting to feel like I need to make a gigantic IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU sign and staple it to my forehead.

We, as a society, and especially as the mothers of the children of the next generation, have got to stop taking everything so goddamn personally. We have to stop believing that what anyone else does is a reflection on our triumphs or failures as people, as mothers. We have to stop making other women feel as though the things they do for their kids make us feel bad.

We have to stop.

Because it is not about us. It never was about us, it was about their child. For the love. We don't get to insist that it is about us simply because it makes us feel bad.

There is a moral imperative here. An absolute crisis of conscience going on, and it's one that we are modeling for our children. We need to support each other, celebrate the gifts of our friends, support one another when things aren't shiny and happy and perfect and positive.

We need to stop making other women feel bad when they have done something they should be proud of, something special for their families, something important for their children.

And we need to do it now.

I'll make my ridiculous birthday cakes. You do whatever your thing is. We can high five each other instead of snarking, honest.

Let's do that instead.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Princess Celestia My Little Pony Rainbow cake to make....

My sweet girl,

Just after midnight, fourteen years ago today, I lost you.

Everyone else was sleeping. I curled up on the bathroom floor and cried until I ran out of tears.

I wonder who came up with that term originally, anyway. I wonder who decided that the way we should refer to dead babies was as lost, and not just that they were lost but that we, their mothers, lost them.

The word connotes something else, as though losing a baby is something transient that might be fixed someday. That if I tried hard enough, maybe someday I could find you. That perhaps I had done something wrong, I made some error, some miscalculation, that I neglected to do all that I could to keep you here, to keep you safe.

I did everything I could.

I wanted you with every ounce of my being.

It didn't matter, because it wasn't up to me. Nothing I could have done would have let you stay.

I wonder all the time what you might be like if you were here. I wonder if you'd have the same eyes I do, blue with hazel in the center, or if they'd be the crystal clear blue of your father's.

I wonder if your hair would be thick and wavy or straight and fine. I wonder would your skin be olive like mine or fairer like his.

I wonder if you would love to draw and paint like your brothers do or if you would sing and listen to music the way your sisters love to.

I wonder if you would be cautious and intentioned. Would you hesitate, or would you close your eyes and jump in with both feet? Would you have clutched my leg around other people, would you have reached for my hand or would you have craved the connections of others?

I wonder who you would confide in, who your friends might be. I wonder if you would snuggle up next to me or be a daddy's girl.

I wonder what your laugh would sound like, how the tone and pitch of your voice would be.

You would be thirteen and a half years old now and we would have just picked out your high school. You'd be navigating your way through adolescence and we would be doing it with you, unsure of it all together.

Instead, here I am and here you aren't. Instead of what should have been, I am writing a letter to you, the child that I never knew.

This is the hardest part about this kind of grief, the wondering. The not knowing. The always asking questions that can never be answered. It's also the most amazing part of it, though it took me years to understand. You'll always be new and fresh and full of wonder and possibilities. You hold so many of my dreams within you. Dreams that can never come true, but will always live on.

The pendant I wear every year on this day, in her memory.

They ask about you sometimes, your siblings. I never know quite what to say. They know that before they came, you were here and then you weren't. They know that I was a mother before I was. I can tell them what your name would have been, I can tell them when you should have been born, but I can't tell them anything else about you because I never got the chance to know myself.

Though I never held you in my arms, though I never was able to drink in the delicious smell of your head, though I never traced the outline of your brow as you slept, though I never walked you to your first day of preschool or caught a glimpse of you dancing in the hallway, you are a part of me forever and for always.

You taught me so much even if the lessons weren't ones you were here to see me learn.

You taught me that I was wrong about what I thought I wanted in life.

You taught me about unconditional love the second I knew you.

You taught me that I could overcome grief.

You taught me to cherish every single second of being pregnant.

You taught me to never take anything for granted.

You taught me to love with my whole heart today because we never know what tomorrow will hold.

You taught me to be brave enough to share your story, our story.

Without you, without having you with me for the time that I did, without your light dimming far too early, I wouldn't have the children that are with me today. You made them possible.

Thank you, from the depths of my soul. Thank you.

I love you, sweet girl.

Love,
Mom

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last year on this day, I wrote Hannah's story. You can read it here if you are interested. 

Sharing her story connected me with other women who lost children, and together, we wrote a book about those losses so that others out there won't feel as alone as we did.

In honor of the legacy my little girl left behind, I am giving away one copy of the book, which I will inscribe for the winner. If there is a chance that this book can help someone you know, please refer them to this page. The raffle entry will close in one week and the results will be announced here.

A mother's love, it knows no end. It begins with a dream, with a silent wish, and it never ever ends.

To the mothers out there, whether you hold your children in your arms, in your memories, or only in your dreams, my love.


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It's surreal at times, this parenthood gig.

While I was cooking dinner a few nights ago, someone was blaring music in the background. Little boy was riding his skateboard in the dining room again. Someone was arguing with someone else, and it hit me, this wave of gratitude.

Just moments before I had been telling the little one to take the skateboard outside for the 374th time in a row. I had already played referee between the arguers. The music was supposed to be turned down.

Then it hit me, this sudden realization that it all seems unreal.

I have four children. Four kids that are healthy enough to ride skateboards in dining rooms and argue with their siblings. Four kids who have things that they love and are passionate about.

How did this happen?

Obviously, I know how it happened, but sometimes I am filled with such tremendous gratitude at the oddest of times for this life that I have now, this life that I wasn't supposed to have.

We weren't supposed to be able to have children. If there is one thing that I have taken away from the book writing that I've been doing of late, it is this: without all the losses we've endured, without the roads we have walked, there is no way that I would be who I am now. Maybe we would have children, maybe we wouldn't, but we wouldn't have these children.

I feel sometimes like I'm a spectator to my own life. That there is no way this could all be real.

I feel like there is simply no way that I've been the mother to these kids for as long as I have been.

The oldest has been taller than me for a while now. He took his "friend-girl" flowers and a balloon for her birthday this weekend. He shaved for the first time this weekend.

Wasn't he just struggling to breathe in a NICU, bringing me to my knees with fear and hope all at once?


It seems that way, until I see him from across a room now and he looks more like a young man than a boy.

It's all going by too fast, this life of mine.

Just stop for a minute.

I'm not a bandwagon hopper, and so when the internet exploded this week over a post a blogger wrote about teenagers and the internet, I tried to keep my head down and carry on.

I have other things going on in my life right now and really can't handle additional drama to be honest.

I have been thinking about it a lot though, the original post and all the other ones that were written in response to it over the last several days. Not so much in a I need to get my panties in a wad and be pissed off about this and write some scathing response kind of way. More in a at some point I will get around to writing about my approach to parenting in this digital world kind of way.

So, here we are.

I grew up in a world of double standards. The behaviors encouraged, tolerated and even praised in boys were slutty, shameful and inappropriate for girls. No one around me ever seemed to see the blatant hypocrisy of an approach like this, that in order for those boys to be lauded for the sexual beings they were rapidly becoming, the involvement of girls was, by definition, almost always required.

I railed against double standards when I was a rebellious teenager, and I rail against them now. Ask anyone who's been reading here for any length of time.

I don't encourage my children to be gender appropriate, whatever that means. I don't think of sports as a boy-interest and fashion as a girl-interest. The jock in this house is female and the one with the most extensive collection of couture drawings is male. We don't do tiny little boxes around here, and as I type this, little boy is sitting beside me with bright pink toenails and fingernails.

My kids are rapidly approaching the era of dating and physical attraction and all that. My oldest has a Twitter account, though we've told him from the get go that he's not allowed to have a Facebook account until he's 13. Their rules, not mine, and I happen to believe they exist for a reason.

When we were this age, we didn't have all these electronic connections. If we did or said something irresponsible and impulsive, the worst that could happen was that the people who saw it told other people and the gossip mills ran their course. Today, literally everything we do is vine'd, tweeted, instagrammed and added to a status update for the world to see.

As parents, this means that we have our hands full. Really full.

As parents, this means that we have to teach our children not just how to navigate interpersonal relationships and bullying and dating...we have to teach them how to do it in a world where anything posted online lives on forever.  It makes our jobs harder, yes, but even more important.



These are the things I want my children, the boys and the girls, to understand, from the eyes of someone who has built an internet presence for years.

- It is your job to decide how you want the world to see you, and you alone are responsible for that. Only put things out there that you won't be ashamed of five minutes from now, five days from now, five years from now. Pause and decide if this is what you want the world to know about you.

- Regardless of your intentions with what you share with the world, people will do with it whatever they see fit. They will misinterpret you, they will distort you, they will use your words and your pictures for things you never imagined, and once you've shared whatever it is, you can't take it back. Everything placed on the internet lives forever, no matter how many times you try to delete it. You also can't dictate what others do with that information or with those pictures. Think about that before you post anything, every single time.

- Respect other people. No matter what they wear. No matter what they post. No matter what they say. None of that makes them less of a person. None of that makes them worthy of judgment. None of that makes them an object of ridicule. Disrepect anyone, and you'll be dealing with me. That's a promise.

- Your body is not shameful. Your body is beautiful. Your body is important, and worthy of your utmost protection. Keep it safe. Keep it private. Don't share it with people who don't respect you, in real life or online.

- The people on the internet don't respect you. They will never respect you. Some of them may say flattering things, but none of it is real. You value comes from within. You are important because you are. You are beautiful because you are. You are strong because you are. You do not need someone else to validate you. Please don't seek it out, because you will only get hurt.

- Sex is an important part of growing up. I will never tell you that it is dirty or wrong. I will not make you embarrassed about it. I will ask you to respect yourself. I will ask you not just to respect yourself, but every single person that you ever are attracted to, involved with, intimate with. You are going to be sharing the most personal pieces of you with them, and they with you. Make sure it means what it should. Make sure you are safe and protected. Make sure you understand consequences. Make sure you never do something you aren't comfortable with. Make sure no one with you ever feels uncomfortable.

- If you are ever uncomfortable, stop. Immediately. If you need help, call me. Immediately. You will never ever be punished for picking up the phone for that, no matter what the circumstances are.

- Someone, someday, will break your heart. I don't know how yet, I don't know why, but I do know that it will happen. I hope that it won't be for a long time. I hope that you will be resilient when it happens. I hope that you know that I will be there for you and that I won't be able to make it better, but I will try.

- Someday, you will break someone else's heart. Please do it kindly. Don't lie. Don't cheat. Don't use people. Be honorable. Have integrity. Be honest and truthful, but above all be kind.

- I will check up on you. I will keep tabs on what you post. I will have people watch you. I will check your search history. I will remind you of all this. Often. I do all this not because I don't trust you. I do this because I don't trust the rest of the world. I do this because I know that sometimes you are going to make mistakes, that you will sometimes be impulsive. I do this because I remember what it was like to be your age.

- I will also respect your privacy. I hope that you will come to me with questions and concerns. I hope that you will share things with me, but I will understand if there are times you can't or won't. Talk to someone, even if it's not me.

- Trust your instincts. Listen to the little voice inside your head when it tells you that something is wrong. Follow your gut. Even when other people are doing it. Even when other people are saying it. Even when other people are sharing it. I won't lie to you, this part is going to be hard...doing the right thing always is. I know you can do it, though.

- Other people will judge you, no matter what you do. Don't listen to them.

You know you're awesome.

So do I.

I love you.

Do good things.

I do my best thinking right before I go to bed, and then if I'm on my game, I remember to text it to myself before the genius departs my body forever. This time I remembered to text myself, and for that, you are welcome.

This post is intended to make light of the mommy wars. Don't take any of what follows personally. It's not an insult to anyone, and is done with the goal of raising awareness of the fact that we're so busy fighting over who is right that we are more worried about what people think OF our parenting than we are of whether we're actually making the right choices for us and our families. You know what I'm talking about, the battles constantly raging between all varieties of mothers, for every reason under the sun, stoked and poked by the media at every opportunity, making us simultaneously feel like we're doing it all wrong and like we must be doing most of it right somehow.

I'm over it. For real. Most of it is manufactured and artificial. Most of us don't go around in real life telling other moms, our friends and our foes, what they are doing wrong in our opinions. Throw in the internet and suddenly everyone has an opinion, and everyone feels compelled to express and defend it, even if it requires them for some bizarre reason to discount every other opinion in the world.

It's all bullshit.

No one wins these wars. And we all lose. Even and especially when we think we win.


I've been a mom for a while. I haven't seen a child through the teenage years yet, I haven't had to teach anyone to drive. None of my kids are dating and I don't have to worry about college or weddings or any of the stuff that will come later, but I've lived through a shitload of things that people seem to have opinions about.

So, here's what I've learned.

Planned pregnancies are great - when they work out in the time frame you want. When they don't and it takes you longer than you plan to get pregnant, something happens and you become a crazed lunatic who cries every time she sees a pregnant woman or baby and feels compelled to pee on a stick five days before you know they will be accurate. Then four days. Then the afternoon of the fourth day. And so on. Planning is great. It can also make you certifiably insane. Unplanned pregnancies are great too - once you get over the shock of it all. The oh shit I wasn't thinking this would happen but it already did and how much did I drink last weekend??? That. Not that I'd know anything about that. Nooooo.

Natural childbirth is great. I've done that. It's scary as shit when you do it without planning to, and it's ungodly painful, but if you're lucky it's over quickly. You know what else is great??? Pain meds. Fentanyl is good shit. It doesn't take the pain away, you just don't care anymore. I've had epidurals. One never worked, but one did. And thank you lord sweet baby jesus it did. I am not less of a mom because I didn't feel every millimeter of that kid exit my body. They still let me take her home from the hospital. Honest.

Breastfeeding is fabulous. I did that. Unless you are exhausted. Or stressed. Or have bleeding nipples. Or have to take an entire bottle of supplements a day just to boost your supply. Or if you are tethered to a pump 24 hours a day. Or if you have a preemie that can't figure out how to latch for six weeks. You know what else is great? Formula. Without it, my kid would have been labeled failure to thrive. Without it, one of my kids would have been in the NICU because of hypoglycemia. Without it, I would not have been able to make long roadtrips alone without stopping all the time and it taking twice as long.

Cloth diapering is awesome. I've done it too. It's environmentally friendly and the little covers are so adorable until they are covered in the explosive diarrhea of a sick kid. Then it's nasty and disgusting and you'd give anything to just throw it away, but you paid $23 for this designer cover and goddammit you are going to salvage it. You know what else is awesome??? Disposables. Especially Pampers swaddlers. I could sniff those diapers all day (before they are filled of course). I told you guys I have issues.

Making adorable little crafts to give family members is tremendously rewarding. I did that and the people oohed and ahhed. You know what isn't awesome? Glitter on your dining room floor for the following six months or paint smeared on your living room walls or clothes that got ruined or kids who eat crayons. That all sucks donkey balls.

Homeschooling is something I never anticipated doing, but did. And it was great to be the one in charge of my son learning. It was fun to help him learn when he wasn't trying to convince me all.freaking.day to play baseball instead. You know what else is great??? Him going to kindergarten so that I can pee alone for the first time in over 12 years. That's pretty fucking fantastic.

I grow a lot of my own vegetables. I would totally be the lady with backyard chickens if it was allowed. I try to buy organic food whenever possible and cook almost everything from scratch because it's super awesome to be that health conscious. You know what else is great??? Spagettios. Because sometimes the organic food that you bought at the beginning of the month totally wiped out your food budget for the month and kids don't actually care because they love spagettios.

I have a kid with ADHD who isn't medicated. I have one who is. I'm an advocate for not medicating kids who don't need it, and I'm an advocate for medicating the ones who do. It's just logic, not a reflection of the quality of someone's parenting. But whatevs. Logic bad, judgment good. Argh, argh, argh.

I have kids who aren't quirky. And that's great. I don't ever have to worry about them fitting in socially or spazzing out and freaking out their friends or being judged by other kids' parents. I have kids who are quirky too, and you know what's great about it??? Not only do I have to know them better and they have to know themselves better, but they write me stories about flying hamsters. And that's rad, even if it means that occasionally someone hyperventilates in a perfectly good department store.

I've been a SAHM. I've been a working mom. They both suck. It's not a contest, so stop acting like it is. You know who wins for the worst gig anyway??? It's not either one of those categories. It's the WAHMs. Yep, I've done that too. Holy balls, it sucks to work at home with kids...especially when they are toddlers and touch all your stuff and eat your papers and need food all.the.damn.time. They ignore you when you aren't busy but scream like dying cats when you need to make a phone call.

I could go on and on for days listing the things that we are told we have to fight about as moms. The point of this is that no one is right, we're all doing the best we can, and if we fall for the notion that we are actually supposed to give half a shit about what someone's opinion of our parenting is, we aren't doing ourselves any favors.

Do your thing, I'll do mine.

We can both trust that the other one is doing the right thing.

We cool?

Cool.

Some of my thoughts before the new school year begins.


To The Oldest,
Keep being weird. Do what you love and don't let anyone pick on you for it. Have fun with it. Hang out with kids who like what you like, but hang out with kids that are different too. 

Be kind. Reach out to the new kids, to the quiet kids, to the ones who get picked on. Show them what a good person you are. When that little voice inside your head tells you not to do something, listen to it. It's there for a reason.

Write stuff down. School is only going to get harder, assignments are only going to get more complicated, and you're only going to have more to remember. I'm not bailing you out if you turn stuff in late, and I'm hoping you learned that lesson last year.

Try new things. Read a lot. Push yourself. Sleep in on the weekends, but get up on school days without too much of a fight. Take showers and use deodorant. Every day. That stuff is important. 

Remember that you can talk to me, that you can tell me anything. Even that stuff. And if you don't want to tell me, your dad will listen. I promise. We love you.

To Freckles,
This is your last year as a "little" kid, so enjoy every second of it. Things are going to change so much for you in the next 12 months, so hang on tight to what is left. 

Be silly, be goofy, sing and dance and laugh. 

Learn how to keep yourself organized, because you're going to need it. Read whatever interests you. Then read some more. 

Don't let anyone tell you that you shouldn't love math or science or sports or My Little Pony. If you don't want to wear dresses, that's okay. If that's all you want to wear, that's okay too. I do ask that you wear socks though. Please.

Stand up for yourself. Stand up for others. You have a strong voice, so use it for good. 

Make good choices. I know you're going to make mistakes. We all do. Remember that your dad and I are here for you no matter what. We love you.

To Mini-Me,
First things first, sweetheart....I love you. Whenever there is anything that makes you doubt that for even one second, I want you to look down at your hands and remember that there is a kiss in there from me, for you to use whenever you need it. 

This year might be hard, but we'll do whatever it takes to get through it together, because we are a team. All I ever ask from you is that you do your best. We'll figure out the rest of it together.

Read a lot and find things you love to write about.  Play lots of games and hone those analytical skills you were blessed with. Have a good time learning more math and science this year. 

Play and have fun, laugh and giggle. Try not to take life too seriously and just enjoy being a kid.

Smile. Be happy. We love you.

To Little Boy,
This year is going to be an interesting one, and even if I worry too much sometimes, I am sure that you will be okay. I promise I'll try not to cry and linger too much.

Try not to climb the walls or jump off of anything. Please keep your clothes on. I know you can sit still and listen, honest. Try and do it there too.

Make lots of new friends and learn lots of new things. Sing songs and make art projects that have to hang on the refrigerator for a minimum of six months. 

You get to decide what you want the grown ups in charge to call you, and if you want to use your real name instead of your nickname, that's just fine with me. 

Be the brave and strong boy I already know you are. We love you.

Love, Mommy

Sitting in a stuffy middle school cafeteria on a hot summer afternoon, he crawls up into my lap. He wraps his lanky arms around my neck and whispers in my ear.

Love you more, mama.

He pulls back and grins, and any frustration I had inside melts away.

He fidgets and flits, he can't sit still. He turns to face forward, feigns interest in the music being performed on stage.

I quietly whisper shhhh in his ear.


He grabs my hand and interlaces his fingers with mine, sizing up the difference between his tiny hand and mine, rests his head on my chest.

His head smells like him, a faint scent of shampoo mixed in with the sweat of a little boy who was just running around in circles. I close my eyes and drink it in because I know this time is borrowed, this time that I have left with him like this.

I know because before him, the others sat here with their arms wrapped around me as I inhaled the smell of fleeting youth.

I know because on the stage in front of us was the first to sit here on this lap. Today he's taller than I am. It seems like it can't have been that long ago that it was his turn. Where did the time go?

He was just here.

He was just here.

He was just here lacing his fingers with mine, and now he's over there, directly in the middle of adolescence, trying to figure out his own place in this world. He's this person now, unique and different, with his own set of like and dislikes, his own set of things he is passionate about.

He's someone entirely away and apart from me now and I hope every day that I've given him the tools to navigate this new world of his. I hope he can love himself, he can push himself, he can trust himself, he can laugh at himself. I think he can. I hope he knows that I'll be that soft place to land for however long he needs it.

The time we are given with them is never enough. The days last forever, but the years fly by. You blink and suddenly that little sweaty boy on your lap is on a stage somewhere and you wonder how it all happened this way.


When this little one is up on that stage someday, doing whatever he loves when he's at this place, my lap will be empty. I'll be in the crowd with no one else to keep an eye on, with no one else to whisper shhh to. I'll be watching, fighting back the tears of pride that always come, cherishing that bittersweet moment, wishing for time to slow just a bit.

There won't be anyone else climbing up in my lap anymore, wrapping their arms around my neck, tracing the veins on the back on my hand with their tiny fingers.

I know that the space between now and then is shorter than it seems. I know that it will come too soon.


Our children aren't ours, not really anyway. They are their own beings that just happen to be placed in our care for a time. I say quite often that I'm not in the business of collecting children, but that I'm here to raise them and then set them free.

What no one warns new mothers about is that every day a child grows, they grow a little further away from you. They grow a little more independent. They grow a little more self sufficient. They need us a little bit less every day.


Which is the point of motherhood. If we've done our jobs, they will need us less.

As much as bearing witness to this process of growth is what we strive for, it doesn't come without a price. For every step they take away from us, there's the one we choose to refrain from taking to follow them. For every piece of independence they learn, we are required to let them go just a little bit more.

Motherhood, just about every single piece of it, is bittersweet.

And so I sat with my boy on my lap and I burned that moment into my memory banks. I tucked it away. You have to drink in those times when they come. You have to inhale all the sweaty squirmy preschool heads while you can because one day, not far from now, they'll be grown and over there.

This little boy, he's not mine. I just get to keep him for a while, and keep him I will.

You know...I'm getting really tired of people making such a big deal out of Princess Kate's round post-partum belly.


Don't misinterpret my words here.

I think she is beautiful. Just from the short amount of time that she spent in the hospital, it's fairly obvious that she had an uncomplicated vaginal delivery. She walked out of the hospital the following day, and while the entire world seemed to be focused on her abdomen, I was eyeballing her ankles, which weren't sloshing around at all like mine were right after giving birth.

She really is gorgeous, and they make a beautiful new family.

What is bothering me is the fact that it's such an enigma for a woman in the public eye to be seen out and about with a round belly after giving birth.

It shouldn't be a big deal.

This is what new moms look like.

It takes six weeks for a uterus to shrink back to normal size after birth. For anyone's uterus to shrink back. Being famous, being rich, having personal trainers and chefs, having all the binders and wraps in the world can't change basic biology. 

It takes six weeks for it to shrink down, and that's just your uterus. It's often said that it takes about a year for your entire body to get back to what it was before pregnancy.

Except we live in a world full of celebrities that refuse to be seen publicly until their stomachs are flat again. Who refuse any kind of public appearance until they are thin again. Who believe that we'll somehow think less of them if they, god forbid, look like they just had a baby.

They did just have a baby. They aren't supposed to be back in their skinny jeans the next day. Honest.

The polar opposite of Kate's perfect public post-partum pooch is Kim Kardashian, who actually refused to be photographed again after the baby until she was "photo worthy", presumably because she thinks she has some image to uphold. Some false, house arrested, shut-in-until-perfect image.

It's not real.

It's no great wonder that so many women, myself included, beat ourselves up for looking like we just had a baby when we did just have a baby.

In other words, looking like we are supposed to at a time in our lives when we are supposed to look that way.

But we reject it. We push it away. We tell ourselves we are fat and sloppy. We see this artificial image that Hollywood throws at us, in this imagined world where every new mom hides in her house until she's runway worthy again and compare ourselves to it. Never mind the fact that we aren't rich or famous, don't have personal trainers and chefs and binders and wraps. We still compare ourselves.

We need to stop.

Real life isn't like that.

Real new moms have to go to doctor's appointments and grocery stores. They might even leave the confines of their houses to take older kids to school, to have coffee with friends. And they take those still-round bellies with them.

Kate, I applaud you for wearing a dress that didn't hide your mommy belly.

Kate, I commend you for making all us commoners feel normal.

Kate, I thank you for portraying real motherhood for all the world to see.

Kate, I appreciate you for proving that motherhood is beautiful, even and especially when it's still round.

Yesterday I wrote a guest post for the crumb diaries about my girls, both of which have ADHD. They have different types, different symptoms and are entirely different people to begin with, which means that how we cope with their conditions is also completely different.

I knew that writing it would most likely elicit some negative feedback, but I'm at this place in my parenting tenure where I really just don't care what someone else thinks about my choices. They don't know my kids or my situation, they don't understand the complexity of our issues and can never fully grasp what we contend with in this house because they don't live it.

Of course, that will never stop others from condemning the choices we make for our kids.

Which is fine. Honestly.

I just don't care.

The thing is this, though: I used to. I have a lot of friends and family members who care an awful lot about what other people think about how they are raising their kids. Society is full of new parents, nervous and unsure of their skills and decision making, being thrown to the wolves of the judgmental people out there who will proclaim that everything they are doing is wrong.

The parenting industry is huge and thriving, full of books and classes and more, all of which will tell you the one best way to do it all.

It all relies on our insecurities, and it's a billion dollar industry.

I have this theory about those who tell everyone else how to raise their kids. It's that they want so badly to believe that they are doing it all right, that they make the best decisions, that they are the most deliberate and thought out, planned parents, that their children will be just fine, that anything that deviates from how they've chosen to raise their kids is incompatible with that illusioned perfection.

That's just what it is, though.

An illusion.

No one is a perfect parent.


No one is a perfect person.

We all make mistakes. Yep. Even you.

We all adapt to our situations. We have to.

You can only ever be the best parent you can to the children you were given.

Our children are each unique creatures that bring with them their own set of challenges and talents, struggles and skills. There cannot be one proper way to parent them all for the simple fact that they are all different. And they all come with a different set of parents, in a different situation, in a different culture, in a different income bracket, in a different birth order, and so on and so forth.

You could have a dozen children and you'd end up with a dozen very different people.

It's not just the kids who vary, it's us too.

Sometimes we are just in a different place with one child than another. Sometimes life gets complicated. Sometimes tragedy strikes. Sometimes mental illnesses show up. Sometimes marriages end. Sometimes new families merge.

Being a parent requires and demands flexibility in a way unlike anything else in life will, so why labor under the false assumption that there is only one way to do it right?

There isn't.

To all the people out there who preach to others about whatever path they've chosen, stop. Take a deep breath. Look in the mirror. Accept that you are flawed just as much as any other parent out there is, that what works for your family almost certainly won't work for someone else, and that's okay. Live your life and let everyone else live theirs without feeling like you're judging them from afar. Channel that energy into your own family instead of projecting it onto others.

Be strong in the conviction that you are making the right choice for you, but don't burden other people with the choices you've made as though they are the only possible correct ones.

If there is ever a time when the phrase well, I'd never _________ with my kids starts to come out of your mouth, snatch it up before you let it out. Maybe you wouldn't do whatever it is, maybe you would. Maybe you just haven't been in that situation yet. Maybe you have no idea who or what you are judging.

Just stop.

To all the parents out there who've questioned themselves, who've doubted themselves, who've cried out of frustration at 3am, who've sat in a parking lot and sobbed, who've read every book on whatever diagnosis their child has, who've done the absolute best they could, I say this:

I support you.

To the adoptive parents, to those who let their babies live with a chosen family instead,

to those who struggled to conceive, to those who didn't,

to those who had natural births, to those who had surgical ones,

to the parents who can kiss their children goodnight, to those who said goodbye too soon,

to those who breastfed, to those who used formula,

to those who home school, to those who send their children to school,

to those who are vegan, to those who love bacon,

to those who can afford lavish vacations, to those who cannot,

to those who work, to those who stay home,

to those who volunteer, to those who don't,

to those who are single parents, to those who are married,

to those who are divorcing, to those who are widowed,

to those who are bringing their first baby home from the hospital, to those who are sending their last to college,

to all of you, I say this:

I support you.

I support you. I don't know your life. I don't know your struggles. I don't know your children the way only you possibly could, and I will never presume to. I trust that you make the choices you do for the reasons you see fit.

Imagine the world where we built each other up as parents instead of insisting that we are right at the expense of everyone else.

Imagine a world full of children raised by adults who are okay with doing the best they can, who do what they think is right, not because someone else told them to, but because they followed their heart.

Imagine a world where we lived our lives for ourselves, not out of fear for what others would say or think about us.

Imagine a world where we accept. We accept.

Princess Kate Middleton is in labor, as you'd likely know if you've turned on a television or been anywhere near Facebook this morning. I want to believe that the paparazzi will allow her and her husband this time with privacy and discretion, and I have to hope that the cameras won't chase them all over town when the baby emerges, elbowing each other for that first picture.

You have to wonder when being famous automatically meant that you consented to being followed by total strangers 24 hours a day, to having flashbulbs go off in your face at every opportunity, to relinquishing any sense of privacy.

Obviously, I make the argument that it shouldn't. I don't just make that argument, I also refuse to buy tabloids because when you buy tabloids, you are encouraging that very behavior.

Anyhow, I wish them calm and peace, joy and love on this day.

It also got me thinking.

I've been thinking a lot about babies lately.

I had a bit of a revelation in a therapy session a few weeks ago when it comes to my experiences with pregnancy, childbirth and parenting newborns.

My first pregnancy was a true miracle. I've never been so happy in my life as I was then, feeling as though the entire cancer diagnosis and all that had led us to this moment. Then it ended in the middle of the night in a medically forced labor two days after an ultrasound told me that the baby had died.

My second pregnancy, a miracle as well, but a cautious one now because the joy was gone, ended in shock and panic when he came too early and was whisked away to the nicu and intubated. The pregnancy had been easy, and he was an easy baby once we got past all that, but those were the scariest 9 days of my life.

My third pregnancy, mostly uneventful, ended in an anticlimactic birth in a room full of too many people and cameras, but with a baby girl who was healthy. She would soon develop nightmarish colic that would last well over six months.

My fourth pregnancy was hell, from the moment of conception. I knew I was pregnant immediately and was sick within days. I lost so much weight and was so dehydrated that I needed IVs more than once. Towards the end of the pregnancy, I developed an irritable uterus, which basically just meant that I had contractions almost constantly. For six weeks. Then I tripped chasing one of the kids and strained every ligament and muscle between my knees and my chest. In excruciating pain, contracting constantly, I was just happy when it was over. And she was the sweetest, easiest baby. I developed PPD that was almost border lining on psychosis. It lasted over a year.

At this point, my therapist stopped me, knowing that I still had one child to discuss, and she pointed out something that I had never considered.

You had to combine all four of them to get one good experience. To get the joy of pregnancy, an easy pregnancy, a good labor and a healthy happy baby, all four of them had to be grouped together. Something bad, very bad, had happened each time, and I had never really allowed myself to think about that way.

Instead, I always just sort of felt like something was missing but couldn't make sense of it.

Even though I am a doula and help other women work through their experiences all the time, my own weren't making sense to me.

I can see it now, though.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, my fifth pregnancy was easy. He was early and tiny, but perfect. He was a good baby, but he was also not planned, and that fact set in motion an entirely different set of events that would tarnish all the memories that could have been good ones. That should have been good ones. I've written before a little about how, purely as a coping mechanism, I don't remember most of it. What I do remember acts as a trigger for my PTSD. My own child, a trigger for something that he had no fault in.


I know that it may sound odd, but as a woman who has been pregnant five times and who has four children now, I don't have many good memories of those moments in my life. Just playing the numbers, you would think I should.

I became a doula in the hopes of helping other women build those memories, but every once in a while, I wish that things had been different for me.

This is the part where I ask you not to lecture me about being grateful for what I have, because I am. I'm fully aware that society, women especially, expect and almost demand that we only remember the good pieces, that we never talk about the bad experiences because they mistakenly think that it somehow diminishes our love of our children. It doesn't. It just makes our experiences as mothers more real, more genuine, more honest.

I wish and hope for other women to have what I didn't.

And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I'm a little envious when it all happens for them.

Good luck, Princess Kate. I hope another chapter in your fairytale comes true today.

Of all the things I have realized about parenting in the last few months, one of the most significant is this:

A few days ago, I reached down for my purse while I was stopped at a red light. I rifled through it a bit, looking for a piece of gum. My husband had just bought me a couple packages a few days before hand.

I didn't find one. Not a single piece.

When I got home, I went through my purse.  This is what I found.

- my wallet (thank god)
- three inhalers
- three single dose containers of benadryl liquid
- two unwrapped tampons, covered in crumbs
- two tampon wrappers that had been folded like origami
- one tube of chapstick with bite marks in it
- nail clippers
- three pens
- a bottle opener (don't judge)
- two hot wheels cars
- a tiny dinosaur
- three army guys
- two pairs of earrings, neither of which is mine
- fourteen receipts
- four expired coupons
- two completely empty packages of gum

I am, apparently, the keeper of all things. Except the things I would ever want or need, like a fresh unwrapped tampon or chapstick that hasn't been chewed on or a piece of gum.

Then I got to thinking about all the things that I can't have anymore. Forget the nice things, we all know that once you have kids you resign yourself to living in Target clearance rack clothing, vacationing at the local pool and considering anyplace you didn't cook as "going out to eat".  My furniture is all beat to hell, the walls aren't faring better, and don't even ask me about the floors in my house.

It's not just the nice clothes, fancy vacations and lavish dinners that we're missing. It's not just customized "distressed" furniture and stained carpets we have to live with.

It's the fact that I can't ever find any of the things, the totally ordinary things, that should be in my possession. Either I can't buy them, I can't ever find them, or I have to hide them like a ninja.

In no particular order...

* Gum - I like to chew gum, as horrid as a habit as it is, and as bad as it is for someone with a history of TMJ to do. Especially when I've made a run for the border and have onion breath or drank a pot of coffee and smell like a middle school science teacher, I'd like to have a piece on hand to mask my dragon breath.  But no. A package of gum lasts about as long as a can of Pringles in this house, and it doesn't matter where I try to stash it. They.Always.Find.It.

* Tape - I could buy six rolls of tape A DAY and there would never be any in the house. I'm fairly certain that the kids have a sixth sense about tape, and they can smell it when it's in the drawer. Ohhhhh, tape.....what can we tape???


Two minutes later, the tape is all gone.


* Pens - I buy pens in bulk. Monthly. I buy pens all the freaking time. We have a pen container on the side of the fridge which is where the pens are supposed to live when no one is using them. The pens? They grow legs and walk away. I NEVER have a pen, I can NEVER find a pen, and I can never find anything to write with that isn't a dull crayon when I'm on the phone and actually need to write something down.

* Scissors - What the hell happens to the scissors??? This is another thing I buy way too many of. I'm convinced there is an office supply troll under the stairs in the basement hoarding all the things. If you're lucky enough to locate a pair of scissors in this house when you need one, odds are the blades will be coated in dried ice pop goo and crusty yogurt from small people using them to open tubes of ooey goodness.

* Drinks - If I have any beverage in a cup with a lid and a straw, somehow the kids believe it belongs to them. My diet cherry cokes are pilfered, stolen, whisked away and sucked down like there are no drinks anywhere else in the free world and there will never be another soda for the rest of eternity. No, go ahead kid. I was totally done with that....and now that you backwashed, it's ALL yours. Have at it.

* Hairbrushes - Considering how rarely my daughters actually brush their hair, one would think that brushes should be easy to find. Not so! There have to be at least 20 hairbrushes in this house, but good luck finding one. You'll have to excuse the rat's nest.

* Girl Scout Cookies - I've hidden them in bathrooms, in the basement, under the kitchen sink, in the freezer, inside of other boxes in the pantry. To no avail. SOMEONE always finds them, and NO ONE ever knows who. Amazing how that works.

* Chocolate Chips - Candy, cookies or any other treat-like-food-items are fairly obvious, and when any of that finds it's way into my life, it quickly vanishes. Chocolate chips, however, were more surprising. More than once I have bought a bag to make cookies, and more than once I've found an empty bag stashed behind a box of crackers in the pantry, random chips rained down on every shelf below. It's your fault I don't make you cookies, you little chocolate thieves.

* Anything you'd actually need in the bathroom - Tampons, pads, ointments, creams, powders...you know....any of that stuff that you would like to be able to keep in the bathroom, but can't because if you do their radar will activate immediately. You'll find all the pads stuck to the wall or an entire box of tampons flushed or the cream and ointment squeezed all over the sink. Oh, and powder....that stuff gets everywhere. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can put that stuff in a sensible place. Noooooo. Plan accordingly. Or waddle. Either way.

* Good leftovers - This one might sound crazy, but just trust me. My children have been well trained to eat leftovers. Too well trained. If there is something good in the fridge, you'd best rise early and hide it.  Now that the oldest is in middle school and the cafeteria has microwaves, everything is fair game. Oh, all the times I have been giddy with anticipation at the idea of having leftover homemade pizza or something else awesome only to realize it was swiped hours earlier by some kid feasting it up at school.

What about you all?  What things can't you have anymore?

Originally, the title was "Parenting: It's Not For Pussies".

Yeah, yeah, yeah....I know my title is offensive.

It's also true.

I laugh and laugh and laugh these days when a friend of mine is overwhelmed with potty training, or they're tired because the baby isn't sleeping, or they are struggling to move from two naps to one.

I remember those days. I do. They suck, for sure, especially when you're so tired that you barely make it through each day living on coffee.

I also remember thinking to myself, it'll just be easier after _______ happens, filling in the blank with whatever crappy stage or transition I was contending with at the time.

I know now how wrong I was.

Parenting doesn't get easier.

Sure, the hands on physical involvement part does get easier. Maybe. It's not like you're still wiping an eight year old's butt three times a day or anything. For all the stuff that you get to stop doing, though, there tends to be something else that comes along and takes that place. The emergency runs to school because someone forgot their trumpet. The I need a posterboard for a project today requests. The hey mom, by the way, I signed you up to make tacos for my entire class tomorrow admissions at 10pm the night before.

In addition to all that stuff, you have to deal with other things you never had to when they were little and tiny, when they were confined to playpens and car seats, when you knew exactly where they were at all times and with whom.

Back then they needed you to do everything for them, but you didn't have to worry about friends or bullies or test scores or playdates or sports teams. 

You didn't have to deal with parents who parent completely differently than you do or the children they raise or the inevitable conflicts between the two.

You didn't have to deal with helping kids navigate relationships with teachers or coaches. 

You didn't have to deal with a child who cries for thirty minutes before soccer practice, convinces you that you are ruining her life, only to have her floating in the clouds an hour later because she now loves soccer again.

You didn't have to deal with mean girls, drama queens and habitual intimidators.

You didn't have to deal with giving them tiny pieces of independence, never knowing if they'll be responsible enough with it to keep it.

You didn't have to deal with broken hearts.

You didn't have to deal with social anxiety, with fear, with depression. 

You didn't have to deal with kids who'd been kicked out of their social circles for reasons they can't even understand.

You didn't have to deal with trying to guess which school was going to be the best fit for them.

You didn't have to deal with puberty.

You didn't have to deal with trusting your kids to go out into the world and be the good people you've taught them to be, knowing that you actually have no control over whether they live up to that most of the time.

Last weekend, on Mother's Day no less, I checked my son's grades. 3 D's, all because he had missing assignments.

His mother was not pleased.

This happened a few semesters ago, but only in one class. I didn't call the teacher, I didn't email the teacher. I didn't write him reminder notes. I didn't.

I told him that it was his responsibility to get whatever was missing turned in, and that he had to get it in before grades were final. I told him that there would be consequences if he didn't, and that I was not fixing this for him. He did it, pulled all his grades back up.

At conferences, one of his teachers asked me what had happened. I told her that I forced him to take care of it alone, without my help.

She thanked me, then asked when I was going to teach a class on middle school parenting.

At the beginning of the year, we made a list for him, in order of priority for the activities he wanted to participate in. School first, then trumpet practice, then extra curricular sports he signed up for, then scouts, then guitar, then everything else in the known world.

If he wanted to do the things at the end of the list, he had to do everything before it first. Most of the time, he has. But not always.

He slacked again. I caught him again. His grades are back up now, save the one that the teacher hasn't entered the grades into the system yet.

He worked his ass off this week to do it. He didn't get to do much of the fun stuff he normally would have. There were some tears when I told him that I wasn't discussing his birthday party until after his grades were final. He knows I'll cancel it. He knows he will get that guitar taken away. He knows that he'll lose the video games. He knows I'm not kidding.

He'll be a responsible adult someday if it kills me, but not because I made things easy for him...because I force him to deal with the consequences if he doesn't do what he's supposed to.

Consistency blows. Following through hurts. Forcing them to learn these lessons is hard.

Then again, no one ever said parenting was easy.

I've stopped believing that it's ever going to get easier.

I'm about get all deep and thought provoking, so just hang tight with me for a second.

The last few years have been, to put it mildly, tumultuous.  People have been lost, things have been discovered, conditions have surfaced, changes big and small came, often without warning.

For most of that time, I've been riding out the storms in the middle of it all, wondering when the seas will calm. Stuck in the proverbial sandwich generation, doing the best I could to take care of my parents and my children, being pulled in every direction, feeling like I'm failing at it all.

No. Not this kind.

Through it all, I've learned a great many life lessons and have gained perspective that I didn't have before. I'm more aware of the subtle nuances in life, of the lingering effect that words from the past can have. I'm more conscious of what I do and say, more considerate of how my words and actions can affect other people.

I think more. I feel more. I cry more.

I try not to linger in the past, but I've learned that sometimes we need to because it's the only way to really understand the now. It's the only way to avoid making the same mistakes in the future, of transferring the troubles of the past to tomorrow.

The most telling lesson I've learned in these past few years is one that seems to coincide perfectly with this holiday we approach. Mother's Day.

It is this.


Just let that sit for a minute and be with it.

Our parents aren't perfect. Our children aren't perfect. We aren't perfect. None of us ever lives up to the ideal, and it would be impossible to avoid disappointment and failure. We are all flawed, and all those flaws make us who we are - inevitably different than what others had envisioned for us, what we had envisioned for ourselves, what we had envisioned for them.

We can't change where we came from, we can only make the best possible sense of it, learn, grow, and move on. We can't alter the past, we can't change how the experiences of our parents dictated how they parented us. We can't expect that someone heading into the sunset of their lives can change. We can only take them for what they are, for who they are, and be the children we choose to be to the parents we were given.

If where we came from was a flawed place, as it inevitably was, we need to accept that we cannot change that origin. What we can do is be cognizant of it, we can be enlightened about it, we can explore it and process it. The only way we can avoid reliving that past and urging it forward is to be aware of it and of ourselves. To make conscious decisions to do things differently.

In doing so, we will inevitably discover things about ourselves and our parents that are less than ideal. We can choose to lay blame. We can choose to be frustrated and sad. We can choose to wonder what if and why not. Or we can embrace the reality that our parents were just people, flawed people, doing the best they could with what they had, living in a different world and a different time. We can choose to be bitter and erect walls or we can choose to embrace who they are, knowing that things may never change, knowing that they will never change, and open ourselves to the possibility of whatever relationship we are capable of having with who they are right now.

We have to be the children of the parents we were given. We don't get to choose where we were born or to whom. We can't separate ourselves from that reality. We can't escape the place we come from, at least not in any substantive way. They are where we come from. They are who we were given.

As much as we cannot change who our parents are, we cannot expect that we can choose who our children are.

We can't put in a request for perfect children, for easy children. We can't even ask for or demand healthy children. We get what we are given, and in order to mother them the way they deserve to be mothered, we inevitably need to adjust our sails. Change our expectations. Reassess where we are with who they are. Then we need to accept, shift, and set forth on whatever course life has set for us, regardless of whether it was the one we thought we were headed for when we got in the boat.

Every child brings with them their own set of challenges. There are as many ways to raise a child as there are children in the world.

Some of them are healthy.
Some of them are not.
Some of them have uneventful childhoods.
Some of them have lives full of turmoil.
Some of them have chronic conditions.
Some of them have mental conditions.
Some of them have different ways of learning.
Some of them are stubborn.
Some of them are happy.
Some of them are filled with rage.
Some of them cannot control themselves.

Every single last one of those children belongs to us. Came from us. Who they are may be different than who we expected, who we hoped for, who we wanted them to be, but none of that matters now. We must parent the children we were given the best we can, as the flawed parents we are now, doing what we think is right.

We'll make mistakes. We'll get some things wrong, certainly, regardless of who and what they are, regardless of how hard we try. Our biggest mistake, though, would be parenting them as though they are the children we wanted instead of the children we were given.

Mothering demands flexibility and change, adaptation and adjustment to the children we were given.

It requires unyielding hope.

It is built on a foundation of unconditional love, love that doesn't come with an asterisk or qualifier, somehow less because this isn't what we signed up for.

Know this:


We must mother the ones we were given.

Tomorrow is International Bereaved Mother's Day, a day to remember why the Mother's Day that is traditionally celebrated came into existence.

I'm writing about it this week, along with many other talented bloggers. You can find them all here.

Though Anna is widely credited with the establishment of the holiday here in the United States, she came to resent the commercialization of it all, and the resulting societal exclusion of the very women she intended to include - those who had lost their children.

With that history, this new date was created.

In past years, I have written about how Mother's Day marginalizes all those women.  How they need to be remembered too.

We are reminded to buy flowers and jewelry, to make phone calls and send cards. Those of us with children now are urged to enjoy runny scrambled eggs and dandelions picked by tiny hands...and we do.

For too many of us, and for too many of our sisters without the children they should have, there is something missing though.


A mother's love comes from her heart. 

It begins long before she even becomes pregnant for the first time. 

It lasts forever, even if she says goodbye long before then.

It is her will to create life, to nourish it, to raise it up and let it go, that makes her a mother.

It is not her uterus, or how long it was occupied or if it ever was.

It is not her breasts, or how long they fed an infant or if they ever did.

It is not her arms, or whether they are full now or if they ever were.

It is her heart.

As a woman who has lost a child of my own, I know the void. I know something is missing, someone is missing. I know the pain. I wonder all the time what could have been. What should have been. I wonder what her eyes would have looked like, what color her hair would have been. I wonder what she would have loved, who she would have been. I wonder how she would have interacted with her siblings, then I wonder if they would be the same people they are if it wasn't for her absence.

I know that things would surely be different if her life had never been a part of mine. I know that I loved her even though we never met. I know that she changed me as a person, changed everything about my life, and that she changed it forever. I know that I'm not the same person that I was before her.

I know that losing her stole the joy for so many things in my life, joy that I would never get back. I know that I never again naively assumed that everything would be okay. I know that when I would find comfort that my following pregnancies were going as they should, the panic would always find it's way back into my heart again. I know that I worried because I knew how horribly wrong things could go. I know that in some ways I attached myself more to them our of fear, and that in others I distanced myself more out of that same fear.

As a woman who endured infertility, I know the pain that comes every single month. The mourning something that wasn't ever there except in your heart. I know the games you play in your mind, like maybe it was just a day too early to test, or if I just bought every brand one of them would tell me what I wanted to hear. I know how it feels to envy all the women in the world who are able to do this when I can't. I know how it seems like every woman in the world is pregnant or snuggling a newborn. I know that pain is real and genuine and valid. I know that there is no utility in comparing pain with that of anyone else. I know that sometimes all I need do is look into the eyes of another woman and I know that she understands. I know how crippling hope can be when hope isn't enough.

As a doula, I have helped women through losses. Some early, some late, some after babies were here and in their arms for a little while. I've sat in a hospital room with a mother and simultaneously celebrated the healthy life within her arms and mourned the one who was gone. I've held that mother's heart in my heart.

As a friend, I have seen women faced with horrible choices where there wasn't really one at all. Who want more than anything to have a child that they cannot. Who have put their bodies and their minds and their hearts through hell and still cannot. Who were tied up in pending adoptions, who had outfits selected, who had nurseries ready, only to have it all fall apart at the end, leaving a hopeful mother with empty arms again as the future she imagined slipped silently away.

As a writer, I have come to form amazing connections with women who've endured losses the rest of us could only imagine. Who've lost multiple pregnancies. Who've delivered stillborn babies in sterile hospital rooms. Who've held onto those babies for a day or a week or a year or five years, only to have them taken. Who've fought with those babies against diseases for minutes or years. Who've done every single thing they could think of to save them. Who've had to decide that it was time to let them go. Who've laid beside them when they left this earthly existence.

These children:

the ones who were here, then they weren't

the ones we never met

the ones we held for too short a time

the ones that only ever existed in our hearts

all of them make us who we are. 

They all make us mothers, whether it seems like anyone else ever understands it or not.

Let us celebrate them, and us, in this moment. Let us reach out to one another and share our stories. Let us tell other women that we love them, that we appreciate them, that we honor them, that we value them, that we grieve with them.

A dear friend of mine popped up in an instant message on Facebook last week. In the past few years, our lives have walked paths all too similar in so many ways. There aren't many people who know the ugly details about things that have gone down in my life, but she does. I get the sense that sometimes she tells me more than she tells most people too.

We've helped each other through a lot lately. Deaths of both of our fathers, struggles with other family members, coping with too many things life threw at us in too short a period of time. We've helped each other through navigating our kids through whatever is going on with them, whatever they were diagnosed with, with seeking help when we know we need it, with forgiving ourselves for our sensed failures as mothers.

We've reassured one another that we're doing the best we can. That there is nothing wrong with asking for help. That we are doing the right thing for them, even if it's hard for us to confront it. That it's okay to be frustrated.

Then she asked me to write about something.

She asked me if she was doing the right thing by not telling her sons what they are diagnosed with.

She asked me if she was lying to her kids.

She asked me if that was wrong.

My immediate gut reaction was that only she, as their mother, could know the answer to her questions. She knows them better than anyone else does. She knows and understands her situation and theirs far more than anyone else could ever imagine to. Anyone sitting on the outside would be unqualified to tell her whether what she is doing is right or not.

I have been open with my children about their conditions. In many ways, it was a choice that wasn't mine to make. They know when they are struggling in school, they know when they are frustrated, they know when they are suddenly seeing more doctors and talking to more grown ups. They are older, more aware. Our pediatrician was very open with my kids as well, wanting to make sure that everyone was on the same page.

I completely understand the reasons my friend has never told her sons. They were both very young when diagnosed, much younger than my children, too young to have really understood it. At this point, it's just part of who they are and there is nothing new about it. She doesn't want them to feel limited by those conditions. She doesn't want them to be judged by other people. She doesn't want them to feel discouraged because of it, or to use it as a crutch or an excuse for not doing their best. She doesn't want them to think they are different, she doesn't want them to feel like they are different, so she just doesn't tell them. And you know what?

They are thriving.

Like I told her, at some point they will find out, even if she isn't the one to ever tell them. At some point, they will realize that the medications aren't vitamins. At some point, they will figure it out when they get older. She knows this, but wants to protect them for as long as she can.

It's hard to find fault with a mother wanting to protect her children.

She wants to protect them because she is an good mom. She isn't like so many parents, living in denial of their children's conditions, pretending things are all fine, refusing to seek help for them. I can't even begin to tell you how many people I see like that. People who want so badly to believe that everything is fine, or that it's just a phase, or that it's just this classroom environment, or that it's just what he ate yesterday, or that she's just tired. Parents who refuse to open their eyes to the fact that something is going on. People who may not want to admit that whatever is going on with their kids might be the same thing that is going on with them.

God knows that I had a hard time seeing that with my own kids. Those apples don't fall far from the trees, and we don't just pass on our positive genes to them. We pass on our struggles too. Seeking help for them often means admitting there is something going on with us as well.

She hasn't avoided that. She hasn't told herself that everything is okay. She knows it's not just a phase. She has always been proactive in seeking treatment for them, in finding the best school settings for them, in seeking therapy, in using medication when necessary to help them.

The amount of effort this woman puts into her kids is nothing short of amazing, it really is. I've told her more than once that these boys are lucky to have her as their mama.

The most we can ever do as parents is our best. Sometimes that means that we make decisions like the one she has.

I honor her choice, I support her and I am proud to call her my friend.