This past summer, my 4-year-old turned to me while watching a parade with disgust all over her face. There was a man, on stilts, without a shirt. “Why is that man naked, Mommy?” She asked. I told her, without thinking “because boys don’t have to wear shirts”.
Oh, Mom Guilt. My old friend. Or should I say “frenemy”.
This morning wasn’t one of my most shining moments as a parent. I woke up late, exhausted (which is the new thing I do since becoming a parent), and laid in bed for too long. I woke my four-year-old up and instructed her to get dressed. She wanted to wear her pajamas to school. We said no. She asked her Dad to eat breakfast at the table, which we both knew wasn’t possible given the fact it was so late.
Hi, friends! 🙂 I’m all about the meal planning lately, especially as we head into fall. There’s something about autumn that makes me want to get my life together — even though I’m not going back to school this year (it’s so strange to think about that!). Enter the meal planner: ta-dah!
I recently posted about the bullet journal meal planning template that changed how we plan our meals. I know many of you don’t use a bullet journal, so I wanted to create a free template for you to download as a “thank you” for checking out my blog. I would purchase some removable sticky tabs so you can use it over and over, or even frame it and use a whiteboard marker each week. 🙂
Click ‘continue reading’ to download it!
This stage of life is hard.
We rush from one activity to the next. We’re trying to advance in our careers while still maintaining some semblance of sanity. We’re never fully focused at work, always anticipating that call from daycare or school. The schooling we so carefully and expensively pursued has done nothing to prepare us for this. We’re living for the weekends, which turn into disorganized chaos because we’re all so used to routine. We try to strike a balance between planning and “living in the moment”, and end up with a terrible combination of both that makes Monday morning feel like a reprieve.
Anyone who knows me #IRL knows two things about me. Well, maybe three:
I’m terrible at cooking and meal planning in general;
I love bullet journalling; and,
I’m all about saving time, especially in the evenings.
I sent a message to my two closest friends today to let them know that our child benefit credit amounts for the new tax year were now available in our online accounts.
(… Did you just fall asleep reading that sentence? I know I almost did.)
This is my life now.
There are certain pivotal moments in this life.
For me, one of those was the night I messaged you over Facebook shortly after my daughter was born, desperately seeking out someone who could understand what I was going through. It was late, and of course I was crying. I was seated in the brown armchair in my living room, struggling to entice a screaming newborn to settle enough to latch while my fiancé slept peacefully in our bedroom. I was full of rage and despair.
I’ve posted often on my struggles with depression and anxiety. Part of it, I believe, is because depression and anxiety are genetically encoded in my DNA. I have a strong family history of depression, and I unfortunately inherited the gene. Part of it may also have to do with my less than ideal childhood. I won’t get into details, here, but suffice it to say: I didn’t get the love I needed as a child.
Just the other day, I came across an article written by a well-meaning Mom who had–like so many of us before her (myself included)–fallen victim to Motherhood Martyrdom. She was looking forward to the birth of her child so she could experience a “post-delivery vacation.” In the hospital. While I admittedly don’t know what kind of hospital she was referring to, unless it was some sort of tropical resort, this is maybe the craziest thing I have ever heard. Not because she doesn’t deserve some peace and quiet (Lord knows we all do—but especially Moms who have just birthed a human), but because she felt she had to visit a medical facility to get one.
I spent the early weeks of my daughter’s life on the same spot on the couch. To this day, the cushion serves as a stark reminder of those times: worn out and significantly flattened by its many hours of use. The cycle went: wake, cry, eat, cry, eat, cry, eat, cry, sleep. Repeat. And for the first time in my life, I felt a particular type of anger bubbling up within me more times than I could count: white hot flashes of rage that terrified me, forcing me to place her in her crib while I stepped outside to remind myself to breathe.
I felt like I was having a heart attack.