Oh Blog Dee, Oh Blog. . . Blah

I began this post a while ago.

It was going nowhere; I wasn’t even enjoying writing it.

The first draft was a list of reasons why I haven’t posted in so long. Each numbered reason went into long, meaningless detail about all these recent distracting nuances in my life—all of which have apparently prevented me from updating this site.

I deleted all the blabber. And, here you go, I saved you about 2,000 words of your time:

THE REASONS (abridged)

  1. I lost my sense of smell and taste.

          It’s back.

      2. My cat died. (RIP, Elle!)

          I adopted two new ones.

      3. My kid was diagnosed with a rare auto-inflammatory disease.

          But he’s perfectly fine.

     4.  I’ve been taking online courses.

          They finished in November.

     5.  I turned 40.


     6.  My laptop keyboard was broken.

          It was replaced in November.

      7.  I’ve had ghostwriting gigs.

           Well, one. And it’s done.

      8.  Strangers on the internet bashed one of my last pieces. Like really tore it apart.

           But . . .  they read it.

      9.  I don’t have a proper writing space.

            Find one.

     10.  Pieces on a blog are hard to get published. Editors want original material.

            So post something. . . anything. Post this.

These aren’t reasons. These are pretty bad excuses.

It got me wondering what the real reason is? Which one of those ten reasons has put me at a screeching halt? None of them really seem give-up worthy. They all really seem like no big deal at all, quite honestly.

Well, after much soul searching, the votes are in. . .

It was Number Eight. Go ahead, go back and look.

Number Eight was published by a very popular mommy blog (here) . Not once (February). Not twice (August), but three times (October). Can you say thrice there?

It’s not my favorite piece, nor my best. I was actually rather surprised when my submission was accepted.

In the essay, the narrator (me) bashes what she sees on her social media feed.  What these moms and families are portraying, she perceives as fake and unrealistic. She’s angry. She’s tired. She’s jealous. She’s lost.

“Oh, and then there’s the obligatory happy family pictures at adorable places. You’ve seen it. Look at us! We are so happy and coincidentally wearing coordinating outfits at the beach. Look at us! We are so happy and laughing hysterically at this trendy restaurant where our children are behaving perfectly. Look at us! We are so happy and just in love with life at this park. Look at us! We ski. We vacation. We snuggle. We hike. We smile all f*cking day long.

Stop it now. Because no, no you don’t.”

She’s drowning in her new role of motherhood, unsure of her ability to be a good mom.

Her perception of these Facebook friends gradually shifts as she comes into her own in her role as “Mom.” She becomes less uptight and more self-assured as the essay ages.

I intended for her relationship with social media to be a metaphor of her emotional state through different phases of motherhood.

But I guess that’s not exactly how most of the readers interpreted the piece, now is it?

These readers obviously took my words very personally and they didn’t hold back. They attacked. They abused. They diagnosed (I need to seek help. This was suggested over 300 times), but not in a sympathetic way, in a cruel, demanding way.

They stomped and spit on person they’ve never met. And it was published thrice! So, it just kept happening.

I didn’t even read the comments in the most recent posting.

I’m just a girl standing in front of a screen trying to make a metaphor. Anyone?

It dawned on me that none of the trolls commented on the writing (and that’s really all I care about). They commented on the content. But they read it. . .

Oh, they read it alright. And, it impassioned them. It infuriated them. It affected them.

Then I guess I might be doing something right then after all, huh?

Until next time. . .

10 Things I Think I’m Supposed to Care About (But I Don’t)

Maybe I’m weird. Redact maybe.

People seem to care—like passionately —about things that don’t really matter to me. Like at all.

I’ll feign enthusiasm with a wimpy “like,” or a pointless comment like, “That’s crazy! Let’s get together soon! Xo.”

Why can’t I hop aboard the Excitement Express?

Maybe I’m just an introvert.

Maybe I’m more socially awkward than I thought.

Or maybe I’m just an asshole.

Below is a list of things that I think I’m supposed to care about, but I don’t.

  1. Anything dealing with moon phenomenon.

Yeah, no. How many times in my life have I heard, “Tonight’s moon is going to be [blah]. The next time will be in 200 years!”? I understand how this can build up hype and make it feel like a must-see event, but I never even remember to go outside and look. And when I’m reminded that I forgot, I never even really care. Zero FOMO. But people really do care about this moon stuff! And I’m baffled. They throw parties (I mean, I guess I’d go to that), upload moon countdown widgets on their phones and they all post those endless photos on their social media with the little yellow moon dot at the top that proves that they remembered, they witnessed, they documented, they shared. They care.

  1. Vacation Pictures

People vacation for the memories of special time with loved ones and being immersed in beautiful/exotic places. Through their photographs they can relive their travels. But guess what? I wasn’t there. So, I’m pretty much just looking at terrible photography. That sunset/building/flower/hilarious bartender/crab/sculpture/painting/sign doesn’t mean anything to me. And, let me guess? Will there be a (somewhat) lengthy story to accompany each shot? Great!  Grab a bottle. Let’s get started, this will be a while.

  1. State of the Union Addresses

I’ve voted in every election since my 18th birthday, but I’m not very into politics. I remember watching the results of the 2008 election on my honeymoon (want to see pictures?) when Obama won his first term and I felt excited. Change We Can Believe In! I don’t know what I was so eager to change. My life has been pretty status quo since birth, but what the hell? He seemed very friendly. But, with presidents comes those pesty State of the Union Addresses. Oh for God’s sake! The ups. The downs. The handshakes. The effing applause. Shoot me. But they make these damn addresses hard to ignore since they are one every single channel. Then I’m left with moon phenomenon-like guilt. Like, I should care and watch this because I’ve entered adulthood and what he’s saying should matter. But nah. I’ll just flip on Netflix instead and read the highlights tomorrow. Once a Cliff’s Notes girl, always a Cliff’s Notes girl.

 4. Stories about Babies

Babies. Babies. Babies. They are everywhere. I even had two myself. Everyone loves talking about babies—and they do make for some interesting stories. But, maybe I’m an asshole, but I don’t really enjoy stories about other people’s babies. I think only spouses, grandparents and the occasional overly invested aunt/uncle really gives a shit. First steps? All babies take them. Teething? All babies get them. Diaper blowout? We’ve all been stained. I don’t care what your baby’s first word was, but I do want to know how you really feel about motherhood. Do you like being a stay at home mom? Or do you work? What’s that like? When was the last time you yelled so loud your throat hurt? Do you ever dream of getting a hotel room all by yourself for a night or two and do absolutely nothing? I’m sorry I’m not interested in your baby’s milestones, but if you want to compare motherhood battle wound stories. . . let me pull up a chair.

  1. Road Rage Stories

Bad drivers. We’ve all been victims of their stupidity. When you’re driving and someone almost kills you, or makes you late (equally as frustrating), it makes your blood boil. You drive past slowly, twisting your neck in their direction, delivering your best death stare. With just your eyes you say, “You moron, learn to drive!” (They never look as you envisioned, but that’s beside the point). Your heart is still racing. You are eager to vent your story to the first person you see. Yeah see, the thing is that these stories do not make good storytelling. First of all, when I’m told a road rage story, I can never accurately envision the road/intersection/parking lot where it occurred, but I usually go along with it anyway. The intensity of these stories alone gives me anxiety, so I pretty much stop listening altogether. Good stories get retold. Road rage stories are never retold because nobody cares. Accident stories? Tell me more. . .

  1. The Super Bowl

I know that I’m in the minority on this silly event, but really? Sunday nights are for putting the kids to bed early and watching Homeland. Not getting drunk with a bunch of rowdy people, consuming 3,000 extra calories, betting money on random numbers in tiny boxes that confuse you, watching commercials that you can’t really even hear and rooting for a team you’ve never even heard of. My husband tells me it’s part of American culture and not to be such a loser. Whatever. Football in general has always looked silly to me. It’s a bunch of gigantic men lining up, moving around a little bit, someone throws the ball and everyone gets in a big pile. Rinse and repeat. Football is dumb to me all year, but the Super Bowl is super dumb. I’ll be in the kitchen polishing off the wings. With champagne, because I’m classy like that. Call me when the halftime show comes on.

  1. Award Ceremonies (Big and Small)

My mom had to beg me to go to my high school graduation. And my college one too. I didn’t understand why so many relatives come out just to hear a bunch of speeches and my name called. They already know my name. Isn’t the achievement equally as impressive without the hoopla? Fast forward to actually being a mother. So far, I’ve had to attend three graduations: pre-school twice and kindergarten once. Yes, it was adorable. Yes, I might have gotten choked up at how big they’ve gotten. Yes, I might have thought about getting pregnant again immediately after in an ass-backward way to slow down time. But some families went to fancy restaurants after the preschool graduation. Fancy! Why? Some kids were dressed in new three-piece suits. Mine were lucky to be bathed, wearing the best of what was clean.  Don’t get me started on Hollywood award ceremonies. I used to feel obligated to watch each one, to be up on my pop culture. Now I’m 39 and I can’t even stay awake during a movie. I don’t recognize anyone in Hollywood anymore besides like Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt and, of course, Morgan Freeman’s voice.

  1. Concerts

I enjoy going to concerts. But, I hate thinking about the process, the crowds and the effing exiting. Once I’m in my seat and the beers are flowing and that first chord hits and you know exactly what song it is. . .you know the feeling. I hate other people’s concert stories/Instagram stories/Facebook posts. Here’s why: I know why people post these videos. They are IN IT. They are inspired. They are entertained. They genuinely want everyone to experience what they are seeing and hearing. It comes from a good place. (They do receive many likes and comments, so I’m thinking this is an instance where I’m just an asshole.)  But, I once had a friend tell me the entire set list of a band that I had never heard of. There’s no nice way to say, “I don’t care about what you are telling me,” so I endured it.  Moral of the story: like vacation pictures, concerts are for you. Enjoy them privately.

  1. Social Media

I am a Xennial (that newly named generation born between 1978-1983). I had a word processor in my college dorm room and knew the Dewey Decimal System all too well. I got my first cell phone at age 24 and was a little late on the Facebook craze. People seem to really care, like really, really care, about their social media channels: Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Tumblr, Twitter, Google+, etc. I can’t keep up. I can’t be bothered. I just can’t. It’s way too many apps to install and passwords to remember. As a freelance writer, I really should care about this more. Maybe then people might actually stumble upon my work. I don’t know if my social media defiance stems from laziness, assholiness, apathy or fear. But whatever. If you’re reading this and you like it, post it on your shit and maybe one day I’ll catch up with the times.

  1. Trendy Restaurants (and food in general)

Wow. This one people seem to take very seriously; and I’m honestly a little jealous of these people. But alas, I still can’t get myself care enough. Trendy restaurants are popping up everywhere with weird menus, weirder ingredients and a whole lot of hashtags on their Instagram posts. Before taking a bite, everyone snaps a quick picture of their plate #whaleburger #liverslaw #candiedanchovies #glutenfree #duh #yum #foodporn. But like, is that really what you want for dinner? Waiter, can we please have a bread basket? I’m envious of these adventurous palates, but I am perfectly content in a reliable chain restaurant. Who doesn’t love fried appetizers, giant blue cocktails with hilarious names and a jovial rendition of “Happy Birthday” being sung in the background. Oh, wait. My husband, that’s who. He doesn’t want any part of my chain restaurant obsession. If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be at happy hour at Chili’s, or sword battling with breadsticks (they’re endless!) at Olive Garden with my kids. Husband, go enjoy your snake pâté with rhubarb ganoush in a citrus reduction. I’ll meet you at home.

I’m not a bad person, I swear. I love my family and friends. I just don’t care about much. I recently took a 120 question personality test and my #1 personality trait is forgiveness. See? That’s how little I care about things. Screw me over, I don’t care. We good, yo. (I don’t really speak like that, but it’s Friday night and I’m drinking tequila and that brings out my hood). I’m pretty sure I could have made this a Top 100 list, but then I’d be a bonafide a-hole. I know I’m not alone. What are things that you are supposed to care about but really don’t? Maybe this article? You can admit it. I’ll forgive you.


Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this, check out FIVE REASONS I’M NAILING ADULTING









Spider-Man, Please Save Us

When I started this blog three months ago, my goal was to write one post a week. As pieces are now being published and traffic increases, I’ve been stricter with that goal, to keep momentum and the blog current.

Last week, however, I wrote nothing. There was nothing I could say.

It just didn’t feel right to sit here writing ridiculous Top Ten pieces for this pseudo mom blog while there are seventeen moms in Florida who are burying their children.

I felt that if I posted my usual whimsical musings about motherhood that it would seem trite, like I was ignoring the situation.

However, I don’t feel it’s my place to write about what happened in Parkland. What can I possibly write that everyone isn’t already feeling?

I know people are writing about their take on gun laws and mental illness. I’ve read them all and I have my opinions. I hate guns and I don’t know enough about mental illness to weigh in on that. So that sums that up.

I started thinking about why this shooting is so much more than just a headline. Why am I feeling it so much more profoundly than all the other terrible headlines in the news?

Is it because I send my own kids to a school every day? (Click here to read about when I heard sirens and thought there was a shooting at my kids’ school).

Is it because my maternal empathy gets greater as my children get older?

Is it because the students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas are kicking ass and making it impossible to forget them?

Is it because shootings a have become so commonplace that it’s just a matter of time before it intimately affects my community?

Am I experiencing some misplaced form of survivor’s guilt? Not guilt as in “I am lucky to have survived,” but guilt as in “it wasn’t my turn now, but it will be soon.

I live in a suburb of New York City. After 9/11 everyone had a story. Everyone either had known someone who had been lost in the attack, or knew someone who knew someone. Everyone had their own personal tales of terror that day, whether they were in the city covered with soot, or standing across the Hudson, watching.

Are shootings becoming that prevalent that soon we will all be connected to them by six degrees of separation?

One of my Facebook friends, Jill, lives in Parkland, Florida. Her children are too young to be in the high school, but old enough to know that something terrible happened.

When I tucked my boys in last Wednesday, I read them a Spider-Man comic book. Fictitious villains did screwed up things to innocent people and Spider-Man swings in and makes it all better.

Jill, however, had to tuck her girls in and tell them a true story. A story that little kids shouldn’t be hearing.

A story that even Spider-Man can’t make all better.





Just Keep Scrolling: Social Media & Motherhood

This post was featured here on Scary Mommy on February 20, 2018.


Shut up. Just shut up. I am this close to unfriending you. And you. And you and you and you.

Social media has a way of making people—namely mothers—feel inadequate. Feel like failures. Not creative enough. Not involved enough. Not fun enough. Not motherly enough. Just not. . .well . . .enough.

And it pisses me off because motherhood is HARD. We all do our best. We all just do it differently.

I was completely overwhelmed my first three years of motherhood. I read every single article shared by other mothers on my social media feeds. Reading these articles—these supposed cold-hard truths—didn’t make me feel more knowledgeable or confident. They made me feel like shit.

These articles, statuses (what’s on your mind?), crafts, recipes—hell even crafty recipes–made me feel like crap. Because I had never thought to consider these things—and worse, reading these posts won’t make me change. Reading these articles will educate me that red food dye might cause cancer. But, reading the article will also guarantee to make me feel guilty every time I twist around in my car to hand my son the red lollipop at the bank drive-thru.

Oh, and then there’s the obligatory happy family pictures at adorable places. You’ve seen it. Look at us! We are so happy and coincidentally wearing coordinating outfits at the beach. Look at us! We are so happy and laughing hysterically at this trendy restaurant where our children are behaving perfectly. Look at us! We are so happy and just in love with life at this park. Look at us! We ski. We vacation. We snuggle. We hike. We smile all f*cking day long.

Stop it now. Because no, no you don’t.

When I was a new mom, my husband made me quit using my favorite website that had endless baby information and forums for moms with babies the exact same age. I was obsessed. These stranger moms were my go-to gurus (even though they were brand new like me) on any topic. I don’t know why, but I trusted that they knew more than me on everything.

“Stop going on that website, Emme!” my husband would beg.

“But I love it! I always learn so much,” I’d argue.

“You always think that our perfectly healthy baby has a terminal illness,” he’d point out.

He was right. Who were these women anyway? Why was I so brainwashed that their opinions were fact? Why do they have so many opinions anyway?

I never posted answers, or opinions. I only asked questions. Was this website a social experiment between the dominant and the submissive? Where was my own intuition? I must have it. . .

I deleted my account and began to parent using my own tools: my gut, my heart and my fucking brain. If I had a concern, I’d call my mom or a friend. I wouldn’t reach out to a million strangers who were eager to bark advice and make me feel incompetent.

I soon realized that I needed to do something about the passive-aggressive Facebook advice that draped my newsfeed daily. I knew the posts weren’t intended to offend, but they did, in their sneaky back-alley ways. I knew it was mostly my own insecurities making me feel inadequate. These posts weren’t from strangers; they were from friends, or Facebook friends (there is a difference) probably just looking to inform. Head’s up: GMOs. Head’s up: Dry drowning. Head’s up: Sugar. Head’s up: Human trafficking.

I’m the first to admit that I love social media. I love the quick moments of escape it allows. I love seeing weddings and new babies. I love a funny anecdote, and I’m sucker for an inappropriate meme.

I tend to ignore the political rants. I brush by the sport fanatics. The network marketers don’t bother me, and I can’t resist donating to a GoFundMe page, regardless the cause.

So, I knew what I needed to do; I needed to engage only in posts that brought me pleasure. I became certified in scrolling. Just keep scrolling. Just keep scrolling.

Within time not only did I find that I was spending less time trapped in the vortex of Facebook, but I was becoming a better mother. I stopped comparing my messy, loose parenting style to this perception of perfection portrayed on my screen by others. I started to just be a mom. I became less anxious, less unsure of every move I made. If I screwed up. . .eh, who cares? And more, who’s going to even know? My kids, my business. Nobody else’s.

Social media and the internet has made motherhood maddening. We are too informed with loads of data that is often contradicting and/or frightening. I envy the pre-technology moms who pretty much gave birth, hoped for the best and then sent their kids to college.

No matter what image we portray on Facebook, we are all basically the same. We are all exhausted. We all yell sometimes. We all second guess. We’ve all had days when they’ve had way too much screen time. We’ve all woken up with hangovers and thought, “FML, how am I going to do it today?” We’ve all sometimes let them eat too much crap, or caved into their nagging just to shut them up.

And it’s all okay. Whatever kind of Facebook mom you want to be, go for it. We’re in it together. So, let’s truck through the next 10+ years then meet up for a drink when we’re empty nesters. We can reminisce about how much we miss their younger years. We can wake up with wicked hangovers and go back to sleep. Hell, let’s even take some selfies and put them on Facebook. But, make sure I look good. 😉


If you enjoyed this, check out In Defense of the Mom Blog. Thank you for reading.

Ten Realizations of a 30-Something

This piece was featured here on Sammiches and Psych Meds on 2/8/18.

I just turned 39. Hold on, I need a minute. . . Deep breath. Compose yourself.

Okay, I’m back. I don’t remember turning 29 with any feelings of dread for my next birthday. Twenty-nine was a non-issue, just another candle to blow out and reason to drink too much.

At twenty-nine, the decade I had been dreaming about my whole life was right at my fingertips. The decade of the husband. The decade of the white picket fence. The decade of finally meeting the little people who would one day call me “Mommy.”

I busted into my 30’s a new last name and a fervor in my spirit, eagerly awaiting the decade ahead. Bring it on.

But instead, I was punched in the face by a fist of life’s wake-up calls.

Here are ten examples of the realities faced in the life of 30-somethings.

1.You realize that you have fancy new titles, but no clue how to do your job. You’ve lived your whole life as a daughter, a sister, a girlfriend and cousin. Those roles came naturally, with little navigation required, just part of the fabric of your being. Now BAM you’re a wife. Now BAM you’re an in-law. Now BAM you’re a mother. No matter how great your new family is, it is still more personalities to learn, birthdays to remember and holidays to split. And some days you miss life in your 20’s, living alone watching Sex in the City in your underwear with a bottle of wine and a cat. Meow.

2. You realize that there’s nothing “big” to look forward to for a while. Nothing in life quite rivals the anticipation for a wedding or the birth of a baby.  You are not just excited for yourself, but everyone around you seems to genuinely share the same sentiments, even strangers. It’s the love, I suppose. It’s the hope that love really can last forever. I’m still not sure why people are so excited about the baby part. If they only knew. . .

3. You realize that you’re losing touch with old friends, and your new ones are weird. Sure, social media and texting makes staying up to date on your old friends’ lives so much easier, it also makes picking up the phone that much easier to put off. Texting a quick meme is the new way of saying, “I’m thinking of you.” You get more face to face time with your new friends—and they are terrific—but there is no better high than reminiscing with an old friend about how idiotic you were in your youth; and confessing about your recent occasional bouts of extreme stupidity, 30’s style.

4. You realize that your wardrobe does not reflect your age, and you’re not sure if you give a damn. My closet is still filled with American Eagle and Abercrombie & Fitch. I haven’t been on a job interview (or anything remotely professional) in over a decade, but if I did, I’d be totally screwed. I wore my senior prom dress to a wedding recently because it still fit and I just don’t give a crap about buying clothes. I managed to live through my 30’s still feeling more like a girl than a woman. But, there is nothing about turning forty that sounds girl, and that is depressing to me. Forty sounds all woman. And this woman will be rolling into her forties with a graphic tee, ripped jeans and high-top Converse. Maybe I’ll grow up when I’m fifty.

5. You realize that motherhood is NOT what you fucking thought it would be. It is not clean. It is not easy. It is not even really that fun. You look like hell. You feel like shit. You want to cry. You want a break. You lose your temper. You lose your hobbies. You never sleep. You eat too much. Your boobs hurt. Your head pounds. . . But your heart is full. It is easy to lose sight of it, but there are pockets. There are pockets of pure love that exist if you wipe away the muck.

6. You realize that youth is fleeting as the fingers of aging are starting to poke.I will never get any work done. I want to age naturally. Said every perky, perfect 20-something, including myself. While I haven’t yet taken the plunge into the world of “work,” I can’t say that I haven’t considered it. I color my greys and diligently apply my eye cream daily. However, I have a giant, deep wrinkle on only one side of my forehead that appeared after my second kid, which leads me to believe that I’ve spent much of the past six years with an eyebrow raised and a WTF expression on my face.

7. You realize that life as a stay-at-home-mom can lead to issues with self-identity and self-worth. What am I going to do when the kids are both in school? What have I missed? Will I need to go back to school? Do I remember how to use a computer? Do I even remember how to speak to adults? Can I just write Top Ten lists the rest of my life in my yoga pants? What if my kids need me? How do the working moms do it? If they can do it, so can I! Wait, what? Can I? I’m scared.

8. You realize that you’ll never have that all-consuming, loin-aching, right here, right now, horniness again. Ever. Ahhh, the beginning of a relationship. Everything is so new and exciting. He’s like a drug, an addiction. I was lucky. This phase with my husband lasted over ten years. While married sex has its amazing moments, let’s be real. . . it’s mainly half-asleep, leg stubble, bad breath, who just farted, just hurry up before the show comes back on, sorry you just swallowed breastmilk kind of passion.

9. You realize that you are sending condolence cards and attending wakes for your friends’ parents. The grandparents are almost all gone. Growing up, it was sad, but normal, to hear that a friend lost a grandparent. You didn’t expect—or even think it was possible—that our parents would ever get older. Wouldn’t they always be playing bridge around the kitchen table drinking Schlitz beer and smoking Merits? As the years pass, more and more friends have lost a parent. Two of my friends have lost both. My own husband has lost his mother. Death so close to home just makes you more aware of your own mortality. If I were God, I’d say Schlitz and Merits for all eternity. Cheers.

10. You realize that you are fortunate to have had 30+ years. You accept its challenges, be grateful and keep living. There was a mom named Bridget in my kids’ preschool who died of cancer. She was only 37. I didn’t know her; I had never spoken to her. Yet her death shook me to the core. A sweeping sadness permeated the school. Every mother and teacher carried a heaviness in their heart and it was hard not to get choked up when you saw Bridget’s children and husband. She died three years ago, yet the tears are falling as I type this. I’m going to stop bitching about turning 40 in honor of her.

I suppose I am pretty lucky. Not everyone gets 39 years here. Not everyone gets to laugh with old and new friends, wear age-inappropriate clothing, deal with the muck of motherhood, decide whether or not to get Botox, have lazy sex with their husband and watch their parents get old. I am one of the lucky ones.

So, c’mon 40. . .bring it on. Oh, and bring some Schlitz. 😉


If you liked this, perhaps you’d like FIVE REASONS I’M NAILING ADULTING

Thank you for reading.

9 Reasons Pre-School Mom Friends are Game Changers

It wasn’t an immediate thing. It evolved gradually, at its cautious pace. A polite smile here. Eye-contact there. Each morning, seeing you in the lobby, made me more curious about you: about your life, your family, just really who you are outside of this building.  I noticed that you got a hair-cut. Maybe highlights too? It looks pretty.  I noticed you don’t wear your wedding ring. Why? I kind of want to get a drink with you. I could never. You’d think I’m a stalker.

Wait a second. . . I know what I’ll say. . .gulp. . . I’m going to ask her. . .  for a playdate.

I have my childhood friends, my college friends, my old work friends and now, . . . my Pre-School mom friends, my PSMFs.

I’ll call it the Little Years. Those long, long days when 8:00 am feels like 10:00pm and the minutes drag and the days repeat and repeat and . . .BAM! A year goes by. How the hell did that happen? How’d my baby get so big? Oh, how I miss the days he was so teeny-tiny. Insert single tear emoji.

My memory of the Little Years feels like this: Labor & Delivery -> a lot of crying (like everyone)-> Preschool Years. Of course, there were a lot of pictures taken, naps in weird locations (stopped at red lights, pedicure chairs, during sex with the husband, etc.)  and birthing other children too. . . but it’s all just such a damn blur.

The vetting process for finding a PSMF during the Little Years is not extensive. Do our kids get along? (This helps, but is not required). Are our kids the same sex? (Actually, nope, not important.) Do you seem relatively normal, yet also appear to be a bit of a disaster? Okay cool. This could work.

The desperation during the Little Years stems from a yearning for adult conversation and commiseration of the female plight. That desperation is so pathetic that any woman who doesn’t throw tantrums, shit her pants, or bite your nipples off is pretty much fair game for friendship recruitment.

A stay-at-home-mom sending her first to pre-school is like letting a caged animal into the wild. She steps slowly and carefully, overwhelmed by the possibilities and freedoms ahead.

I registered for preschool anxious for a few hours of peace a week. Although not even looking, I found friendships that I had no idea how badly I needed.

Below are nine facts about PSMFs.

1.They get it. Like truly get it. Not all moms are created equal in their perception of motherhood stages. A mom with an infant might predict that the pre-school years will be much easier with clean little people, weaned from the breast, dressed hip in GapKids, and able to communicate their needs. However, a mom with older kids might reminisce longingly upon those years, thinking of a time when her kids were adorable, didn’t talk back and made her the center of their world. PSMFs? Oh, they get it. They know EXACTLY what your life is like right now. And it ain’t pretty.

2. Nothing from your past matters. I don’t collect resumes when meeting new friends, so I don’t give a damn if you were Ivy League or GED, just be real. Just say one real thing about how hard motherhood is, and you’ll have my attention. The unspoken side-effects of motherhood do not discriminate against class, race or education. We are all delirious with exhaustion. We all lost our tempers recently at a little person who didn’t deserve it. We all don’t have enough sex with our husbands. We all miss a little piece of the women we once were.

3. You expose what you want. Since nothing in your past matters, these new friends only need to know what information you choose to divulge. Pyromaniac? They don’t need to know. Criminal record? They don’t need to know. Tenth marriage? They don’t need to know. If there’s anything blazingly wrong with you, they’ll figure it out on their own and run the hell away.

4. They inspire you without realizing it. Motherhood is fraught with uncertainty and the constant fear that you’re fucking up. You always feel like if you made little changes that life will improve, but you don’t know what to change. Then you get in their car and it’s neat, it’s vacuumed, it doesn’t smell gross and you think I can do that. You’re at their house and their kid grabs an apple BY CHOICE and then heads to the fridge to a healthy food chart and he makes a big checkmark and you think I can do that. Her kid just freaking lost his shit and even you want to scream at him, but she squats down to his level and in the most soothing voice you’ve ever heard says, “I know, I know. Honey it’s okay. Let’s just calm down. Shhh. Shhh. I love you. . . “ and blah, blah, but also I can do that. The husband calls and she is totally un-sarcastic and polite and you think I can do that.

5. They keep your pebbles in place. You’re finding your tribe, and while you’re not as close and weird as sister wives, you trust them. But what’s more important, you can count on them. Motherhood is like filling a jar with pebbles and vigorously shaking it; that’s the responsibilities in your head bouncing around with no sense of place or priority, and no prediction when the pebbles will settle. Dropping off your kids with a PSMF allows you to bang out some errands, attend a doctor appointment, or just take a goddamn nap to procrastinate real-life a little longer. No matter what your reason for needing help, they get it and will happily watch the kids. And you’re happy to watch theirs too.

6. Cherry pick personal details. I loved all the moms I met during our family’s four years at the preschool, but there are five that inspired this piece. We came from different towns, questionable backgrounds (see #3) and even different races and religions. Although I was able to be myself with all of them, I was deliberate in choosing with whom I’d share certain personal information. This one is atheist, so I can confess to her that our kids are interfaith, but we haven’t really chosen a religion and probably won’t. This one is frigging nuts, so I can share my experience with various sex toys. This one wants a nose-piercing? Count me in. I’ll get new ink too. This one is health obsessed, so I won’t scarf down and entire bag of chips when she’s around, maybe like half. This one is oddly innocent and says things like, “Oh gosh,” so I’ll find vulgar pictures and text her them at random hours to put some bad in her bones.

7. Every before-children story will sound exotic. There is a certain look in a mother’s eye when she’s telling a story of her life before kids. It’s a look like trying to recall a part in a movie with a character whose life she envies. It’s a look like she’s telling a story about a stranger, or fictitious character. She’s using words that she never really uses because it’s been so long since her past life was cared about that she wants to dress it up special. Even as the words are leaving her mouth, she cannot believe she is talking about yourself. She sounds so interesting. One moms’ night out, a PSMF said she had worked for the New York Post. I spit out my drink and fainted. I can’t handle so much exotic.

8. Preserving these friendships will take effort. PSMF friendships can be fleeting. The Little Years is just a pocket of time, it goes by fast and before you know it, you’re all going in different directions, being separated by life’s demands. The kids aren’t invited to each other’s birthday parties anymore because they have new friends, and quite frankly might not even remember the pre-school days. Maintaining a PSMF requires more effort than addressing a Christmas card once a year. Plans need to be made—and kept. Maintenance requires more than a flaky, “We should get together soon.”

9. They will always remind you of such a precious time in your life. Oh, the kids seemed so big at the time with their oversized backpacks that went from their necks to their knees, eager to share their new knowledge (usually in song). But they were just babies who smelled like glue and Goldfish crackers. I look back and struggle to remember exactly what my kids were like during those years, but I’ll never forget my PSMFs. They are my unsung heroes of that pocket of motherhood. I don’t know how we’ll fare with maintaining our friendships, but I will always look back at those years so grateful to have found my (temporary) tribe.

My Pre-School Mom Friends. . . They were there to kill time on days it felt like bedtime would never come. They were always there to cheers to birthdays, during a decade when adult birthdays are often passed over. You meet some interesting characters on your journey through motherhood; but so far, my PSMFs are my favorite characters in the book.


The Weight of Adult Secrets

“I’m having an affair with Jason,” Rebecca abruptly confessed as I was walking out the door of our town’s post office. She said it quickly and quietly. She looked guilty.

Rebecca is married with three kids. Jason is married with four kids. I am nobody in this situation; but now she’s made me involved. I have no idea why.

Rebecca and I are somewhere between acquaintance and friend status. I really don’t know her well. We live in the same small town. We see each other on occasion at school functions and kids’ sports. We rarely text and I don’t know her birthday. We’ve had too much wine together at various house parties, but that’s the extent of our friendship. I certainly wouldn’t feel compelled to divulge any deep dark secrets to her.

Yet, here she’s handed me this massive load.

It’s funny the difference between the weight of adolescent secrets vs. adult secrets.

Looking back, I was a terrible secret keeper as a teenager. No matter how many promises, pinky swears, and cross my heart and hope to die vows I took, no secret was safe with me.

And I’m pretty sure my secrets weren’t safe with those who promised to hold on to them tight.

Adolescence was hard. It was hormonal and painful. It was emotional and lustful. Girls were nightmares and sometimes we didn’t even treat our own friends with kindness.

Adulthood is hard. It has the façade of seeming stable and status quo, but it’s a fucking mess. Adults are also nightmares filled with hidden desires, bottled up resentment and a nostalgic yearning to be a carefree adolescent again.

The spilling of an adolescent secret feels like the end of the world.

The spilling of an adult secret can actually be the end of the world.

In that moment—in a small-town post office—I was handed incredible power. I held the fate of two families, two oblivious spouses and seven innocent children, whose worlds could easily be turned upside-down with just one simple whisper from me.

“How long has it been going on?” I asked.

She looked down at her feet and replied, “A few months.” She glanced up at me, almost wincing, expecting to see judgment on my face.

Who am I to judge? I know absolutely nothing about the factors leading up to this. Maybe Rebecca’s husband cheated on her? Maybe he’s abusive? Maybe she just fell out of love? Maybe her husband knows and doesn’t care?

“Promise you won’t say anything,” she added, as if it weren’t obvious. Not many people confess their affairs with hopes of being caught.

“I won’t,” I promised.

Even though I don’t necessarily condone infidelity, I did feel sympathy for her. She looked conflicted. She looked confused. She looked sad. Yes, her actions don’t show the greatest of character, but I sensed there was more than meets the eye.

I sensed that she confided in me—not because she wanted to talk about Jason—but because she wanted to tell me about what lured her into his bed.

Maybe in time I’ll learn the whole truth. But probably not. It’s not my truth to know.

Since that day in the post office, I have occasionally felt tempted to expose this gossip to other friends in the town. Friends with whom I am closer to. . .  friends who I trust.

But I know I can’t do that, as tempting as it is. I know that I can’t trust anybody.

The weight of an adult secret has insurmountable consequences if uncovered. I was handed the power to ruin lives and start a small-town scandal.

I’ve learned that keeping a secret can feel just as satisfying as spreading salacious gossip. Guarding this secret is protecting those spouses and children from humiliation and heartache. For me? I’d rather use my power for protection than destruction.






Interfaith Kids This Time of Year

Before I became a mom, I naively thought that Christmastime with children would be filled with magic, peace and amazing memories. I thought I’d happily wrap all the presents, decorate the house, get the tree, bake cookies, address the Christmas cards, and host a shit ton of people in the house.

But now? Now I’m actually a mom.

Now I know about the Elf on the Shelf. Now I know about volunteering at the holiday parties in the boys’ school. Now I know that I’m supposed to buy a small token for the teachers. And the aides. And the art/gym/music/Spanish teacher. And the crossing guard. But not candles! (They have too many.) But not gift cards! (Too impersonal.) But not ornaments! (That’s too personal.)

ENTER: Jewish husband.

Before I became a mom, and after I married a Jew, I pictured the holidays with a beautiful blend of both traditions, exposing the boys to as much of our childhoods as possible. (I even thought about starting my own online interfaith holiday decoration website, because there really aren’t any.)

This beautiful blend of tradition. . .let’s do some math.

Eight nights of Hanukkah times two kids is sixteen gifts. That’s sixteen new things before Santa even comes. F to the M to the L.

This beautiful blend is gluttonous. Most parents are trying to get kids to cut down their lists. Me? I’m begging for more so I can fill both holidays. Let’s not even talk about the kid with the January birthday.

Now, I know how this sounds. It sounds like I’m raising two greedy, spoiled a-holes who aren’t even learning the valuable messages that are abundant this time of year. That’s not true.

They know the story of the Maccabees and the miracle of the oil lasting eight nights. They know about the persecution of Jews throughout history and that our family exists because of sacrifices and the hell that their ancestors endured. They wear yarmulkes when we light the menorah. So what if they call them “Hanukkah hats?”

They know the story of Jesus. They know that he put other people before himself. They know that he was kind. They know that he always helped. They know that he is the son of God. They think decorations of baby Jesus when he’s naked are downright hilarious.

They also recently found out that Jesus was killed by the Jews, which made the freak out a bit. Then I mentioned that Jesus was actually Jewish. This fact simultaneously relieved and confused them. Such is life for interfaith kids, I suppose.

It’s a new year and the confusion and chaos of the holiday season is behind me. Now that the tree is down and the menorah is packed away, I can reflect on my boys’ perceptions of the holiday season.

They didn’t see how overwhelmed my to-do list made me feel. They didn’t sense that I was secretly praying for it to all be over.

They saw a home filled with decorations from both their parents’ childhood traditions.

They watched as friends and family from both religions gathered around the menorah to light the candles and say the prayer.

They got excited to get the mail to see whose holiday cards we could add to our wall of friends and loved ones.

They got bundled up so we could walk in the dark (6pm) to our town fire station to select our Christmas tree and pull it home on their red wagon.

They sang along to the holiday music that was always playing in the kitchen.

They loved watching the pile of gifts for family and friends grow under the tree.

They gathered old toys that they don’t need anymore so I could donate them to GoodWill.

They smelled the oil from the latkes I fried and the sweetness of the cookies we baked.

They helped find extra pillows and blankets for all their aunts, uncles, cousins and grandma who spent the night on Christmas Eve.

Yes, they receive a lot of gifts in December. Yes, perhaps they are a tad spoiled.

But, it’s my December to-do list that is giving them the gifts they’ll carry with them forever. Togetherness. Family. Love. What else matters?








The Day My Sad Turned to Mad

From my kitchen table I can see the street. A few houses up the street is a school. It’s the school where I sent my two little boys this morning. They are in first grade and kindergarten.

We live in a small town, very family-oriented. There are good people in this town, raising good children. The school is pre-k-8, with only about 250 students in total.

From my kitchen table I heard the sirens, which made me lift my head from my laptop. Racing in the direction of the school, I saw one, two, then three police cars followed by two first aid vehicles. All speeding. All speeding to clearly take care of something serious. Serious usually means tragic.

School shooting. That was my first thought. My first damn thought was school shooting.

Once upon a time, sirens meant that somebody got hurt, perhaps a car accident, or an elderly person fell down, or a woman was in labor and alone.

Once upon a time, I would have had a brief moment of curiosity and then continued working.

Once upon a time, I would have forgotten about the sirens and the rushing vehicles.

But, not today. Today I started trembling, thinking the worst. And I am not that person. I am certainly not that kind of mother.

But, today I slid on my boots, grabbed my son’s Super-Man umbrella and left my warm home and big workload to scurry down to the school in the pouring rain.

From down the street, I saw Mr. Sheeran’s car pull into the school parking lot and panic overtook me. He’s a retired veteran, very involved with the local law enforcement. He had no reason to be at the school. I thought that undoubtedly he must have a police scanner, or inside information on this emergency.

But no. I was wrong. He was simply raising the flag from half-mast after Veteran’s Day.

Approaching the school, I peered around the corner and that’s when I saw them—all the vehicles I had hoped were headed toward a resident’s home or a minor traffic accident—were all flashing their intoxicating blue and red lights in front of the main entrance the school. The sirens were silenced.

No other parents were around, so I diagnosed myself as a paranoid, crazy mom and I scrambled back home, not fully shaking the feeling of uneasiness.  As I was entering my front door, my neighbor, Kim, pulled over in her beige SUV.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on at the school?” she asked, with a shaky voice and a mother’s worry in her eyes.

“Not a clue,” I replied. “I heard the sirens and saw the cops rushing that way, so I kind of freaked out,” I said, pointing toward the school.

“Do you think everything’s okay?” she asked, desperate for whatever reassurance I could offer.

Feeling just as anxious as her, I replied, “I think if it were a shooting, there would be more help here. There’d be cops and ambulances from other towns racing to the school. Maybe a kid choked on a grape or broke an arm. The cops have nothing to do in this town, so they all show up to every situation.”

Not buying it, she said, “Maybe it’s mothers’ intuition that we both felt compelled to check it out. Should I call the school?”

“Yes,” I said, without hesitation, “please call.”

“Hi Kathy, it’s Kim,” I heard her say to the school secretary, “I saw the commotion at the school and some of the other moms and I are worried. Everything okay?”

She nodded while listening to Kathy’s response, thanked her and said to me, “It was just an accident and all the students are fine.”

“That’s very vague,” I said, “But I feel better.”

I still don’t know exactly what happened today at the school. It’s still two hours until pick-up. Here’s what I do know:

I remember hearing about Columbine, I was shocked, yet intrigued by the nuances of the story. Living across the country, I felt removed from it, but fear was my predominant emotion. But not fear for me personally. From the security of my college dorm room, I couldn’t stop thinking about how scared those kids must have been.

I remember hearing about Virginia Tech, and again, I felt removed. My college days were over, but I thought about the students who attended that school. I wondered how they’d be able to walk around campus, or even the rest of their lives, ever feeling safe again.

I remember Sandy Hook. Struggling with two young babies, as well as losing our home in Hurricane Sandy, this tragedy put things in perspective for me. It made me feel grateful for, in comparison, the absurdity of my situation. My babies were safe. My family was together. What else mattered?

I do remember seeing the sweet faces of those lost in Sandy Hook. And I remember finally crying. It was my first shooting to occur since I became a mother. I cried for the babies of mothers I didn’t know. I cried for those parents, those siblings, those classmates and teachers. I felt that one. And it hurt bad.

The Aurora, Colorado movie theatre. Multiple church shootings. Pulse Nightclub. Las Vegas.

What the hell is happening?

All these tragedies have always left me feeling overwhelmingly sad. As I’ve grown through different stages of my own life—from college to career to motherhood—the severity has become more palpable. My compassion has increased. My sympathy has increased. My fear has increased. But, I was still plagued by the “it could never happen here” syndrome.

Today my sad finally turned to mad. I hate that a series of sirens that could have been headed ANYWHERE, convinced me that my children were in danger. I hate that a series of sirens prompted me to head out in the pouring rain, ignoring my work and letting my coffee go cold. I hate that a series of sirens, that I once would have ignored, made me tremble, thinking the worst.

I hate that my motherly instinct now includes protection from mass shootings.

Today my sad turned to mad.






Listen, I don’t have it all together. Not even close. But the thing is. . . people think I do, like really think I do. And, I’m not sure why this is. I am a total disaster. The hottest of messes. Ask my husband.

Here are some reasons why I suspect people are fooled:

1. My house is neat. I didn’t say my house was clean. I said neat. Neat meaning that 75% of the typical four sides in your view are clutter-free. My kitchen counter tops are tidy and wiped clean. However, my desk in the corner of the kitchen? LMAO. Bomb. More like air strike. But, my feeling is, if the majority is clutter-free, the apocalypse in the corner just looks like an ambitious organization project, not a procrastination graveyard.

2. I bring wrapped presents to kid birthday parties. The gift table at a kid’s birthday party circa 2017 is filled with envelopes (gift cards) and colorful bags with wisps of tissue paper sticking out, which was probably assembled in Mom’s trunk three seconds before the party. But kids, especially little ones, want presents to open. They don’t give a fuck what the hell is inside. You can wrap up a doll of Gwyneth Paltrow’s head for all they care. Arriving with a bright package encased in matching ribbon with a bow totally says, “I’ve got my shit together.” Including gift receipt? You’re adult AF.

3. There is always champagne in my fridge to celebrate. Anything.  A few hundred years ago, on the 3rd of July during a firework celebration, my husband proposed to me. We were living in a townhouse community on a river and all our neighbors were outside. We didn’t really know anyone well, but word got around that we had just gotten engaged. A woman, Mary, ran into her unit and came out with a bottle of champagne and a giant smile. She popped the cork and said, “I always keep a bottle chilling in the fridge. You never know when you’ll need to celebrate!” That night, a stranger named Mary, was the first to cheers to the future of a young couple who she hardly knew. She made me feel so special. I’ll always remember her as classy and generous, with a bit of a wild side. Just because she had champagne. I want to be just like her.

4. My husband and I have a weekly date night. People find this extraordinarily impressive, and I’m not sure why. Find a sitter. Tell her to come every week. Presto. But nonetheless, people think we have the magical secret to keeping the spice alive in a marriage. Umm? No. My kids just have a mommy who needs to get the hell away from them once a week so she can drink too much, complain about motherhood and then irrationally beg her husband for another baby.

5. When I host a gathering, I host the shit out of it. When I host either a family holiday, kids’ birthday party or my annual summer girls’ night, I leave no stone unturned. Welcoming others into your home—especially when it’s planned—is a no-brainer way to fool them into thinking that you have your shit together 365 days a year. Put out a big spread. Something a little fancy, like shrimp cocktail or anything with goat cheese. Or brie. Fancy people love brie. Something a little healthy, like a veggie platter and a bowl of nuts. Healthy people love nuts. But NOT peanuts. Something that was time consuming to prepare, like 7 layer dip or anything hot that requires a toothpick. Something for the kids, like cocktail hotdogs, or anything that’ll spoil their appetite for dinner. And something a little ghetto, like Doritos dumped in an ugly bowl. Or better yet, potato chips and dip. I guarantee the potato chips would be eaten before the veggies. Because everyone’s a little ghetto, yo.

There you have it. The holy grail of how to fake your way through adulting. Just throw your crap in a corner, wrap a present, buy champagne, go on a date and have a party. Maybe adulthood isn’t so hard?




I’m a Wife with No Name


My husband is somewhat of a local celebrity. He owns a local bagel joint that has become a bit of a cult in the area, with long lines of people oozing out the door and around the corner on weekend mornings. Even sometimes on like a Wednesday at 11am. It’s really random and pretty amazing.

Now, he’ll read that last paragraph and get angry and say, “Emme, it’s our store, not mine!” He’s always been very good about handing me some of the fame. But, I don’t want it.

Everywhere we go he is recognized. Sometimes, outside of his apron, people can’t quite place him. Where do I know you? You look so familiar! It’s everyone. It’s everywhere. Once we were even on a remote island vacation and he was spotted.

He bought the business nearly 20 years ago when we were just casually dating, not even monogamous. Well, at least I wasn’t (hi honey!). He was a young, smart, ambitious 28-year-old ready to take on the world. And man, has he crushed it.

I cannot take any credit in the success of the store. He’s the one who works insanely long and early hours. He’s the one whose phone rings at 2am from an employee calling out sick. He’s the one who bears the burden of equipment failures or power outages. He’s the one who does the books and tracks wheat trends in the US to estimate his cost per bag of flour. He’s the one who stresses, probably even more than he lets me know.

His success (yes, his) has given us a home to live in, a car to drive, food to eat and clothes to wear. But most importantly, it’s gifted me the privilege to stay home and raise our boys.

I do complain about stay-at-home mom life and its drudgery, but doesn’t every job come with some bitching, no matter how grateful you are to have it?

My gripe about my husband’s our business is that, even though I have little involvement in it, it is how people define me. I am often introduced to people by my husband’s occupation, rather than my name. I don’t feel this would be the case if he were. . . say. . . an accountant.

“Hi, I want you to meet my friend. Her husband owns BagelKillers.”

This has become my identity.

As if a 30-something woman who has chosen to stay at home to raise children isn’t having enough of an identity crisis.

It’s not that I’m resentful, or envious. It’s nothing like that. I’m wicked proud of him. It’s just that his success has diminished my self-worth, at least in the eyes of others.

My husband’s career has apparently become the most interesting thing about me.

This is the typical inquisition that follows someone being introduced to me:

Do you eat a lot of bagels? Um yes? No? I don’t fucking know. How many is “a lot?” I have maybe one a week? Is that a lot? I don’t really know how to answer this. Can you please reword your question?

How early does he have to get up? Sometimes 3. Sometimes 4. Sometimes 5. Sometimes I just don’t know. He lets me sleep.

What’s your favorite bagel? Oh, for fuck’s sake! Do you really want to know this? Is this really what we are talking about?

It’s not that I mind talking about BagelKillers (totally not the real name, but I kind of wish it was), I just wish it wasn’t the only thing people wanted to know about me. Oftentimes conversations are so overpowered by curiosity about my husband and the store that people don’t even ask about my kids.

I suppose my question is: Is it really that hard to make conversation with a stay at home mom, or is my husband’s business that interesting?

I often wonder if the topic of BagelKillers would dominate my life if I had a legitimate job. Like a paycheck receiving, commute worthy, shower taking, leave the house kind of job. Then would people have more to talk about with me?

Would people still want to know if I eat a lot of bagels?



If you enjoyed this, check out The Weight of Adult Secrets. Thank you for reading.

10 REASONS I WANT A THIRD KID (even though I hated babies)

*This post was published here on Sammiches and Psych Meds on 1/11/18.

People think that I’m joking when I tell them that I hated my babies. I mean, of course, I didn’t hate my babies, I just hated the person I became during those years. I hated thinking about how boring my day would be, and how tomorrow would be exactly the same. Yes, the love is intense, but the sheer tedium dominated my ability to genuinely enjoy those early days of motherhood.

My husband got snipped, so why the hell do I secretly wish for one more?

  1. I want to experience pregnancy one more time. I might not have liked them when they were born, but, oh but I did love them when they were growing inside of me. I didn’t even mind not drinking! Well, I did house a whole six-pack of non-alcoholic beer at a BBQ once, so maybe I missed it just a little. I loved the rolling knobs and random jabs. I loved the trippy feeling of being so close to them, but not being able to see or touch them, but I loved them, yet I didn’t know their gender, but I knew that unlike friends, pets or even husbands, these babies would be in my life forever. Nothing in life compares to the acid trip that is pregnancy.
  2. My first two kids turned out okay, I guess. Guys, I think my husband and I actually know what we’re doing. Our boys are funny, moody, silly, angry, curious, lazy, kind and truly a-holes only like once or twice a week. Good enough for me.
  3. I know now to ask for help. Dude, why didn’t I do this the first time around? #helprules People love to help (in moderation) and people love babies (also in moderation). If I had my pretend third child, I would totally respond to this statement, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” with this reply, “Okay thanks. Be here at 10am on Wednesday. Plan to stay until around 12 or 1pm. Bring me a coffee. And maybe like a meal or something I could heat up later for dinner for the fam. If we could make it a weekly thing, that would be great. Thaaaaaanks.” Help. Boom.
  4. More kids=more grandkids. Believe it or not, I won’t always be this fine, ten pounds overweight, 38-year-old vixen you see today. No, my friends, this sexy bitch will be old and gray one day. Tick tock tick tock. A bigger family ensures a larger younger generation. That means a bigger audience to laugh at me while I lose my memory and tell stories of how much I hated my babies.
  5. I want a re-do. While I don’t want to erase the two gems (see above) that I already made, it would be nice to have a blank slate, a tabula rasa, if you will (I totally had to Google that, I don’t use that term on the daily). Undiagnosed post-partum depression really screwed me up (ya think?) and I would like the chance to leave the hospital with the wisdom that I have now: Yes, these baby years are going to suck, but they will also be filled with wonder, discovery and magic. I didn’t see it then. But I see it now.
  6. I would be able to filter out the whispers. “You’re going to breastfeed, right?” Shut up. “You’re not going to co-sleep, are you?” Go away. “Oh my God, please tell me that’s organic.” I can’t hear you. People and baby advice suck. But the hypothetical third time around? Talk to the hand.
  7. It would preserve my older kids’ innocence a little longer. My boys grew up FAST. I know I kind of wished it, so now I’m coping by writing Top Ten pieces about fake third babies. But, they are only five and seven years old. Their innocence drips away with every new friend they encounter, or every weird family they want to join on YouTube. A new little baby of our own might recapture their pureness, or stall their innocence for just a bit longer. Or, at least until they find click on the photo icon on my iPhone.
  8. I miss the simplicity of a baby’s routine. I remember the feedings and the naps and the tummy time. I used to equate the mundanity of this cruel cycle to Chinese water torture. But now? Now it sounds delightful compared to the shit show of sports and homework that is just plain impossible to spin into anything that remotely resembles a routine. I know that you’re thinking that I’d be nuts to throw a baby’s routine into my current shit show routine. Fear not! My third baby is pretend and pretend babies sleep through the night as newborns, rarely cry, potty train themselves and even do their own laundry.
  9. I want to be the older mom. There was an older mom in my boys’ preschool. I used to gaze at her with a look of confusion (Is she really the mom? Nanny? Grandma?), curiosity (Why is she so old? Infertility in her past? Just an oops? Been there, sister!), and admiration. The older mom holds a place of honor in younger moms’ eyes. The older mom seems calmer, wiser and WAY more patient than their decade younger counterparts. Currently, moms who are my equals view me as just an f-bomb dropping hot mess, typically with a hangover, trying to find someone to come over for a drink.
  10. I want to really soak it in. Those baby years were so, so hard. How can I feel such palpable nostalgia, longing for a time when I was at my darkest? Because I forget the doom. I look back at pictures, even pictures when I remember I had been feeling despair, and all I see is love. I see an exhausted, young mom just trying to get by. I forget the doom, but I remember how their scalps smelled like toast. I remember going on walks and talking to them about everything we’d pass. I remember singing songs in the car. I remember allowing myself to put off anything if they unexpectedly fell asleep in my arms. Maybe I have been soaking it in all along?

I know I’ll never have my pretend third baby. Maybe my desire for one more is just another part of letting go. Maybe all moms wish for just one more chance. All moms except maybe Michelle Duggar.


If you enjoyed this post, perhaps you’d enjoy In Defense of the Mom Blog

Thanks for reading.