Let’s deconstruct what really goes down when you’re raising little kids and your partner takes a trip:

Imagine a big hillside of sliding dirt exactly like what you see in all the digger books you’re forced to read to your toddler boys all the time. Together, my partner and I work steadily from 530am until 830 pm scooping the dirt that is sliding down and placing it back on top of the mountain. You would never know we are working as hard as we are. The house is always a mess, and the continuous laundry looks like we never have actually completed a single load or accomplished much of anything, yet day and night we work and we also try to spend time with each other and show up for each other.

If one of us is struggling that day and is extra tired, mentally taxed, or emotionally drained the other will pick up the slack by diverting attention away from struggling partner towards literally anything else. That person will do double duty during the evening hours mitigating fights, washing all the kids during bath, doing more books for the older kids at bedtime. Together we are tired, but we muddle through the weekend and try to give our partner breaks before our partner raises the red flag. Together we seamlessly move between roles of a ship director and an executor of all the things.

When one of us is gone on a weekend day. We tell ourselves it’s only one day and we put on our extra big patience pants filled with all the empathy we can muster to referee fight after fight without losing our cool. Typically, one of us gets a break for 2-4 hours to go do something solo but returns either before lunch time or before dinner time with a positive attitude the other partner can ride the coattails of until bedtime.

When it comes to work travel, Larry typically leaves on a Sunday and comes back usually a Wednesday or Thursday night. This means at least 1 child out of 4 and up to 2 children out of 4 will be in school while he is gone. We never leave each other on the weekends because that is when all hell breaks loose. But we had some good friends get married in Chicago last Friday and I knew it would mean a solo Saturday (I enlisted help for Sunday) as well as 5 solo nights/early morning shifts 530-800am before our nanny arrives. I encouraged Larry to attend the wedding to represent us. I wished I could go. Also, I’m an experienced mom at this point, I can survive my own kids for one day. It’s not like it’s a big deal…

Solo Saturday arrived and by 830 am I wished I had a solo cup in my hand. I’m not a religious person, but if I was, I’d say I believe God has put me to the ultimate test with my first born. How strange it is to fight with a mini version of yourself. He’s articulate, a fast processor, stubborn, has unwavering focus on anything he’s motivated to do and is undeniably driven. On Saturday, morning it was like he smelled my fear of the day and became undeniably driven to grind me into a nub of my former self.

My first mistake was I telling myself I needed to stay home for the baby’s morning nap when the deeper truth was, I feared being out in public and losing it on all my kids or breaking down crying. That was a mistake. Baby should have been dragged along for the ride and would have napped at least for a little while on the go. A morning outing is key to setting the tone for the day. I know this! Why did I let fear paralyze me? I hate myself.  Mila had a dance class that morning. Usually, Larry and I split our crew in half and I take 2 to dance. I should’ve just taken all 4 there and hoped for the best. Literally, ANYTHING would’ve been better than staying home.

After a less than stellar morning my attitude was that of a defeatist. I’m not proud of it. I typically keep it moving with activities and try to keep a positive outlook but inside I was withering, wondering HOW has it only been 3 hours into this day I’m ready to quit?!? So, I did all the things I know to do to turn my attitude around: I played my favorite music, I made sure I ate and drank enough water, I went outside hoping for some sun (news flash there hasn’t been sun in LA in a year). But none of my usual strategies worked because I let my oldest get to me.

I was so bothered that he was the root of the unrest and discord in the house. I felt resentment that he has been grinding me to a pulp for 5 years and then portraying the best sides of himself to the world and at school. I thought by 4 years old he would’ve turned a corner with me. Everyone says, oh once they turn 4 they’re so helpful and rational etc etc. Here we are at 5 years old and not only does he not help out when I ask him to, he makes life harder for everyone. I let his crying, whining, acts of aggression like a toddler rattle me to my core and by 630pm that evening I completely broke down.

I had gotten the baby to bed and my oldest was still causing discord. I yelled, I cried, I went outside alone and took deep breaths. I felt terribly guilty. Then I came back inside and apologized for my outburst and explained why I was so frustrated. As demanding as little kids can be one thing to love at this stage is how easy they are to forgive. I then got their PJs on, books read and everyone in bed by 830. I went upstairs to my room feeling terrible about myself but determined to face Sunday with a clean slate.

The past week has taken the same emotional toll as when I used to be in a fighting phase with an ex-boyfriend. I feel like I’m operating on a depleted battery. That was my signal it was time to put the ex into ex-boyfriend. Life shouldn’t be this hard I’d tell myself at the time. BOYFRIEND BE GONE! Note to self: I cannot apply same strategy to child.  It took until Larry returned three days later, when I got respite from early mornings and chaotic evenings that I was able to see things more clearly: My oldest isn’t fighting me to anger me. He’s fighting for more one-on-one time with me.

He is changing and I failed to see him for who he is: This capable individual who wants to excel and feels incredibly frustrated at being held back by his younger siblings. As soon as I saw a way through the chaos I had been feeling inside I took action. I spoke with him. I validated how hard it is to be oldest child and have to wait and be patient, and help and be told, for example, we can’t go on an airplane or learn how to ski until your little siblings are older etc. I suggested we start to make plans for all of the fun things we want to do together and then in August when we do have time to spend together, we can work through our list. The list hasn’t totally solved our current head butting but the validation of “Hey, I see you and what you’re struggling with,” has given us a base to build on instead of being at odds with one another.

It doesn’t how many kids you have. If one child is having an off day it can throw the entire ecosystem of the family off. And as caretaker of the tribe if you’re depleted or understaffed, the things that you can usually let roll become triggering.  Sunday was a better day, but death by solo Saturday shook my confidence as a parent. I didn’t understand my own kid. How troubling. I didn’t understand my own needs because of the overstimulation was real. Additionally troubling. I had multiple points to recover throughout the day and to right the ship. I didn’t. I wallowed in my own self-pity, and I let the ship sink and then lit it on fire with my emotional outburst that evening. Am I even a good parent? Am I messing up my kid? Am I turning into my own father who I believe left me with unhealed wounds?

My truth lies here: I know I’m a good mom. I’m actively trying to learn from my mistakes and to not let them shake me. To remain confident, I will have to find ways to shut off the noise that comes out from my own childhood when I encounter parenting challenges with my kids. I am not my father. My children are not me.

If it’s true everyone has a go to emotion, my BFF emotion is certainly anger. I’m Irish, German, and Chinese so the odds of being hot blooded were always in my favor. Over the decades I’ve become more enlightened about my favorite emotion and learned how turn it into constructive decision making more efficiently.

A therapist once told me anger provides a false sense of power. I’ve never done cocaine, but I imagine that anger provides me the same high and sense of invincibility cocaine would. My senses are heightened and the adrenaline that fuels me makes me feel like I could pick up a car and throw it. I still don’t agree with this therapist. Anger is not a false sense of power. Anger is powerful. It courses straight from my beating heart, through my veins to every part of my being. Anger starts wars and finishes them. Sure, anger unchecked can be problematic. But what if the emotion is the misunderstood kid in class?

In my angriest moments as an adult, I’ve gotten really stuck in an angry loop. Anger was eating me alive. Working with a different therapist she told me anger is a mask for sadness and to overcome it I’d have to dig below its surface. I learned how to peel back the mask, label the emotion underneath as sadness and begin to “unpack” that. It is an exhausting amount of work and not for the faint of heart but getting to my truth has allowed me to make an informed decision about what to do about the relationship.

As a work in progress, I robotically practicing rephrasing my anger statement into the sadness statement that is the actual feeling underneath. It’s highly uncomfortable but I’ve seen it work before so I push through the discomfort. This week I spent time with one of my best friends of 15 years and described a big fight I got into with my brother. This brother and I are cut from the same cloth. We both run hot blooded, and we fundamentally see the world differently. As I described our recent fight to my friend, I found myself repeating: He made me so mad, he made me so mad, so mad, just… mad. I was gripping a fist and had so much adrenaline flowing through my body I could’ve knocked out someone twice my size with one punch. It was like putting the phrase out in the atmosphere again and again would lead me to the truth of it. I released my fist and watched as my white knuckles began to receive blood flow again. I’m hurt, I told my friend. I’m really hurt. I’m really hurt. What he said really hurt me. Sure, it’s my feelings he hurt but it might as well have been a physical wound because it felt like a small piece of my heart broke off when he said it.

We’re socialized to believe while anger is a natural human emotion, it can be felt but should not be expressed. Anger is always the emotion people judge and take distance from while sadness garners empathy and is embraced more easily. A person acting angry gives others the feeling of superiority because they have remained in control of their emotions. When did control over one’s emotions become synonymous with emotionally healthy?  In their superiority soup they start to add the labels next: “Look at her, she’s crazy.” “Angry bitch.” “She needs to calm down.” Or worse the angry person is avoided completely. Label and avoid. Avoid and label.

Have you ever just let it rip in anger? It feels good. It doesn’t solve the problem in that moment until you do the work of digging and unpacking yadda yadda. But you know why anger is my favorite emotion? Feeling angry has shown me I still care about the person I’m angry with. If I’m angry with you, I still love you. I care about you. Please don’t be worried if I’m angry with you. Be worried if you can do nothing to anger me anymore. In that space of calm, I’ve done the work on my end and made the decision to move on.

I love anger because it brings me to the edge of my own sanity, and it forces me to solve the puzzle: Why do I feel this way? You see, anger demands to be dealt with. It cuts to the front of the line holding a hand grenade and threatening to pull the pin if ignored. In my most depressed times anger reminded me I am still alive. It pulled me back onto land. It showed me I still cared.

I love anger because it’s versatile. I feel it and I know it’s time to make the logical connection to the sadness. The more I connect with and identify sadness the less I fear it crippling me. I’m cutting down the time I can pivot to positive action without falling into the abyss of sadness. I can also choose to table any follow up action and just free myself from being held hostage by anger. I once told my therapist I can’t take the elevator to the basement where sadness lies unless I must have time off from life to recover from the pain. But in anger I can operate. Hell, I can even multitask. I can meet life’s demands and roll the conflict marble around in my head at the same time. Anger doesn’t ruin my makeup like sadness does.

 I implore you to embrace your own anger the next time it shows up. The worst thing you can do is ignore your anger, repress it, tell it to drop the weapon and get to the back of the line. Let the bubbles rise to the top and enjoy the roar you feel rise from the pit of your stomach into your lungs and out into the world. Congratulations! You are still a participating character in this video game called life. You haven’t given up yet and you can use the strength and power you feel in a constructive way.

 Please trust that exploring your anger will lead you to the heart of why you still care. From there, you can decide to take distance if the relationship needs a pause, triage the wound if the relationship is worth saving, or permanently move on in the name of protecting your own health. And if you find yourself on the receiving end of anger from someone you love (justified or not), please understand you are receiving sadness & frustration personified. The fastest way to disarm an angry person coming at you like swarm of hornets is to give them the reason they feel unseen. Give them the reason so they can access their sadness and put the damn grenade down.

In January, I volunteered to do a potsticker making demo in my oldest kid’s preschool class. After witnessing a group of twelve 4-year-olds make potstickers I’ve learned that an individual’s approach to dumpling making tells me a lot about their personality.

There were a few serious creatives in the room who took my instruction and casually decided umm yea…that’s not really going to work for me… I secretly love these students. They do whatever the EFF they want. They’re young enough that their imagination hasn’t been devalued or shamed out of them by the institution that is American schooling. I wanted to high five them and be their hype woman.  YES, that dough definitely looks like a spider web! YES, just keep your dough dinosaur! Put it in your pocket for later. Ooh YAS, you drip that top dough on top! Who needs to pinch it all together? Integrity of the potsticker is an illusion man. If it falls apart in the boil it’s most definitely what nature intended.

There were some standout rule followers who approached potsticker making with a thoughtful focus. They had a high-quality production rate and did not want to be swayed from the track they were on. It was full speed ahead and they remained at the table the longest. I bet they’ll achieve graduate degrees in tracked professions. These are the kids my family hoped I would be. I understand their drive, reliability, and the sense of comfort they feel staying within the lines. I appreciate these students.

There were also a few who clearly liked the idea of making potstickers more than the practice. Instead of pinching the dough together around the meat they’d just fold it over the top like they were tucking a little meat baby in bed. Goodnight sweet meat baby! I don’t want to get a finger cramp doing all that pinching. They were unapologetic about their disinterest in the work and quickly moved onto their actual interests. I appreciated that they actively chose to move along to something more interesting to them like superhero imaginary play and blocks.

Finally, there were the salespeople. They sold their skills by talking themselves up in a big way despite the low quality of their final product. “I’m so good at rolling!” “Look at mine!” “I’m doing a really great job!” Self-esteem: Check. Work ethic: Minimal. You cannot discount these personalities. They may make millions by doing the bare minimum or they may end up like Anna Delvey. Either way, the power of persuasion is important in adulthood. Sell it and sell it well!

My takeaway after observing my 4-year-old in his other environment is he’s actually cool…sometimes. He appears to save the whiniest most obstinate version of himself just for me. I watched him unpack his backpack and hang it in his cubby, line up his water bottle on the shelf, and place his morning snack in the class snack bowl. He was organized, kind, and quiet. Was this really my kid?!? My first feeling was pride. My second feeling was like I got ripped off. Why don’t I get this compliant, sharing, child who is contributing mature ideas AT HOME? At home he’s constantly challenging everything I say or do. Even when I say it nicely. Here’s an example:

“I think it’s going to be chilly today so make sure to bring your sweatshirt.”

“No, it’s not. It’s going to be hot.”

“Okay, well I don’t have time to drop off your jacket if you change your mind.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, maybe I do, but I don’t see any reason to have to if you just bring your jacket.”

“I DON’T FEEL COLD!”

“Open the door! Do you feel cold now?”

He opens door with a sour face. “No, I don’t feel cold.”

“Fine, freeze at school. You’ll live.”

“Can you go get my Spider Man jacket?”

“Sure.”

After doing quality control pinching and boiling up a few dozen, I brought the cooked potstickers back to the classroom for tasting. The kids liked them and I could see my kid was super proud his mom came into his little world and did something other than yell at him to stop kicking his little brother.

I packed up my stuff and felt warm and fuzzy leaving the school. Then Mila’s teacher popped his head out of the 2-year-old classroom and said, “Heeeeyy, you need to come into our room and do potsticker making.”

I took a deep breath and thought to myself, 2-year-olds?!? Ugh. I can barely handle my own two-year-old and we have a new one every year in our house. Two-year-olds are erratic little funnel clouds. Mine is currently all about screaming at her younger brother and blaming him for all the marker drawings on the floor and cabinets she did. She also has the attention span of an overly caffeinated gnat.

“Oh sure. Great. Um yea, no I think that would work. When works for your class schedule?” I replied to the teacher.

“Anytime you’re available we will make it work.” The teacher responded too quickly. I was trapped like a rat. I felt my heart rate increase.

I reluctantly chose a random weekday morning while slowly dying inside because what I really want to do is anything but this, AGAIN. After setting the date and almost making it to my minivan, I turned around to reschedule. It’d been 20 seconds and I already felt the impulse to reschedule. I rescheduled for two days later because I had extra meat filling that would last until then and save myself some work.

Two days went by way too fast. Larry that morning:

“Ready to wheel your food card down to preschool?”

“Laugh it up, Chuckles. This one should be fun… I cut down the volume because hashtag 2-year-olds.”

As fate would have it, the 2-year-olds surprised me in the best way. I judged them too harshly. I felt sorry my thoughts included that the best way to get back at an enemy was to drop a bunch of 2-year-olds at their front door.

It turned out they were better at rolling out circles than the 4-year-olds. Nobody really got the pinch it closed memo but that didn’t matter because what stuck out to me was the joy they experienced throughout the process and how they only existed in the moment.

They went to town rolling out circles and gave each other major ups while doing it. It sounded like this: Hey girl, that circle is good! Hey, I really like your circle! They were a small but mighty circle support group and I found myself wishing I had that kind of camraderie in my life just for making it through the morning. Hey girl, you unloaded that dishwasher with grace and ease. I really like the way you picked up dog poop in the yard this morning. Keep it up!

The 2-year-olds I had dreaded the most were joyful, encouraging and then all of a sudden… GONE. Their focused but short attention span was everything I never knew I wanted! After fifteen minutes of circles, I was back to boiling, serving and bounced out of there with an hour of free time for myself before having to get back to my other two kids.

At home we stick to our same script, and it feels like I’m repeating the same phrases from now until the end of time: Did you wipe your butt? Did you wipe it enough? Why is there poop on the toilet seat? Bring your plate to the sink, please. Pick up this toy before you move onto that one. Get your jammies. Get dressed. Get your shoes on. Brush your hair. We don’t hit in this house. What happened? The truth lies somewhere in the middle. Hug your sister. Stop hitting your sister. Hug your sister. Stop excluding your sister. Did you poop? Get over here so I can change your poop. Get your water bottle. Get your lovey. I’m not getting your lovey, that’s your responsibility. I’m not getting your water bottle, that’s your responsibility. Should we walk again? Who wants to go on another walk? Get your scooter. Get your helmet. You can’t wear Minnie high heels to school. No, you cannot wear that sweatshirt to school it’s dirty. We’re going to need to find a compromise…

I never anticipated that being a guest fish in my kids’ fishbowls would give me a different light to see my own kids in as well as a stronger appreciation for both age groups. In my own kids, I liked seeing how capable, creative, and confident they were away from me. I also got a kick out of their classmates swimming by with different opinions about, enthusiasm for, and approaches to problem solving. Then it dawned on me why the experience was better than anticipated…  I was not in charge of managing the fish!  As guest chef fish I could chill, observe, and fall into the flow of their day that was being managed by their incredibly patient teachers. I’d highly recommend being a guest fish in your kid’s fishbowl if given the opportunity. I’m now plotting how to be a guest fish at home.

It was the day of the big party for our oldest. I remember it was unusually hot for LA a full 80 degrees and no breeze.  Would we get a good turnout? Locals here are spoiled with a temperature range typically between 65 and 75 degrees, anything above or below that and people have the tendency to cancel social plans and not leave the house. Thirty minutes into the party, I got a text saying Apple Jacks had arrived. I felt like skipping out onto my driveway as I walked to meet her! I had done it! The clown was real and clearly she was professional as she arrived right on time.

My first impression of Apple Jacks was that she was neither “cute,”nor “bouncy,” nor “adorable” but definitely tried her best to be friendly and approachable. Apple Jacks was 6 ft plus flat footed. She had big green clown shoes, and bright green bob wig and traditional/scary white face paint and  the classic/scary red bulbous nose. Remaining optimistic, I thought, okay so her look is traditional and she’s tall but if she has a sweet voice the kids will see through the makeup. Wrong. When she began to speak and immediately I thought of an old boss I had. She was a hard partier and sports fanatic and could best be described as tall, aggressive, with a low gravely voice. AJ’s general affect didn’t seem well suited for preschoolers. Prisoners maybe,  but not 4 year olds. Wanting to make sure my newest guest was as comfortable as possible, I set her  up in a nice chair at the patio table got her ice water and offered her pizza or Costco snacks. Then I removed myself to the periphery to watch her work her magic. Her first move was calling out the birthday boy like a referee carding for physical contact on the court. BIG MISTAKE.

Apple Jacks: Did I hear there was a birthday boy turning 4 at this house?!? Is his name Mateo?!?!?

As soon as the spotlight came upon him, Mateo dashed from the backyard inside to the safety of his own living room.  His younger sister quickly followed him. It was as if in a split second and without words, they decided ain’t nobody going to die by clown today. Uh Uh… NO WAY!  I bet they would’ve gladly given over their 1 year old younger brother as sacrificial lamb to save their own hides. It all felt like one of those old Mastercard commercials: Apple Jacks the clown? $120. Scaring the shit out of your own kid on his birthday? Priceless.

Most all of the 4 year olds, i.e. my target audience, were scared of Apple Jacks. Could I blame them? She was winning. no one over with that Demi Moore with laryngitis voice. Think Marge Simpson’s smoking sisters. Only the older siblings in attendance dared approach for face painting. So she spent most of her time painting the faces of everyone but the kids in Mateo’s class. I felt bad for the kids, bad for AJ who I’m sure also didn’t want to be there so I tried to gently nudge her along.

Me: Hey, Apple Jacks. Any chance we can do the magic show so everyone feels a bit more comfortable?

The magic show was dominated by one older kid answering all the questions and but the little ones did stay to watch. After the magic show, back she sat down at the patio table to paint faces again. I heard a gasp and the next thing I knew Apple Jacks was flat on her back! She had tipped backwards in her chair. Some of the dad’s hauled her to her feet.  I grabbed her more water asked her if she was okay if she needed an ice pack? Suddenly I felt really bad for her. This poor lady sweating her butt off in our backyard in full clown makeup wig and polyester costume. It wasn’t her fault. She’s just trying to make some money for herself. Our chairs are flimsy and if you lean back even a little bit the high backs pull you backwards. I felt terrible and decided she deserved a big fat tip. If not for the discomfort she endured, then for my immediate judgment of her and the hilarity that ensued.

Later that evening, Larry starts cracking up out loud thinking about the the earlier event and the gasps we heard when AJ went down.

Larry: Oh Apple Jacks. HAHA! That was a good one babe.

Me: Laugh it up Chuckles. I’m booking her for YOUR birthday next year.

Have I learned my lesson that you get what you pay for when it comes to entertainment? ABSOLUTELY NOT. I believe that going for the deal and holding on tight for what may come is the spice to life. Right before our wedding I paid a random guy named Frank from and Asian cultural center $300 to put on a traditional dragon dance at the reception. I had no idea what it would be like or how long it would last but the price was right and it was awesome! Roll the dice, and if it all goes sideways? Well, you live to tell the tale.

This past spring was a new experience for us. It was the first time our oldest was invited to classmates birthday parties. We attended out first 4 year old birthday party at the end of March and it felt strange socializing out into the world again. Pandemic was starting to loosen its grip on the community after the winter surge and everyone was feeling more comfortable going to gatherings (most still masked). We had all gotten the Omicron variant in February so we were also feeling a bit braver attending group settings. As parents, we were excited to see Mateo attend birthday parties because turning 3 was in lockdown.

The first 4 year old birthday party we attended set the bar high. The family rented space by the carousel on the pier and threw a Little Mermaid themed party for their daughter. The classmates got wristbands for unlimited carousel rides and there were all these cute little toddler sized tables with turquoise table clothes decorated for under the sea vibes. Damn, I thought. This is well done. I have a couple of months to figure out Mateo’s party.

I love to entertain and I love party planning. In a previous life I worked as a wedding event planner’s assistant in Chicago.  By the time my own wedding came around a decade later,  I had a reference point of what wedding flower rates, venue rates, entertainment rates etc were for this kind of affair. It turns out children’s birthday parties in West LA often are professional events in their own right and it appears there is no budget cap.

There we are, under the sea and I found myself mesmerized by the color coordination and overwhelmed at putting the same amount of work into a party. No sooner had I gotten my head out of the clouds and back in the ocean where it belonged, in walked Ariel. She looked like a Disneyland Ariel and sounded like a Broadway star.  Mila and I were mesmerized by her voice. I had an immediate flashback to all the sad sack Santa’s at the mall we used to visit as kids. Most of them smelled like cigarettes and booze. Now that I think about it, I’d never seen this level of children’s entertainment,.  After the party I asked the parents where they found such magical entertainment. She directed me to a youtube channel where you can see and hear all the characters voices before booking. It felt like I was reviewing audition tapes. I went home that night and started down my youtube rabbit hole of Disney entertainment. I went to the website. Ariel made $400 for one hour!  I began to wonder if there was any need for a tired, chubby mom who could sing so I could have a side hustle like Ariel. STAY FOCUSED, HANNAH!

Slowly it began to sink in that I had unknowingly entered the parenting rat race. I did what I always do when I panic. I searched for my rock. WHERE’S LARRY?!?

Me: We need to talk. What precedent do we want to set by throwing a super lavish party for our first child when we have 3 more kids who will eventually expect the same? What kind of parents are we? What are we willing to pay more for and what just seems absolutely ridiculous?

Larry: Not looking up from his computer. What kind of prices are we talking about?

Me: Pulls up professional kids bday all inclusive websites and shows prices

Larry: Ummmm no. Not happening. Goes back to looking at his computer.

Me: Right?!? It gets better. How much do you think Ariel made for 1 hour?

Larry: $100

Me: Try 4x that.

Larry: WTF! A wide eyed owl who now makes direct eye contact and holds the stare. 

Me: I’ve got your attention now don’t I?

 

The answer in my heart was, this is all ridiculous for a 4 year old. I don’t know what I’m going to do for an older kids who really really wants something and will remember said something for the rest of his life. But for now, this seems too extravagant for such a young age. Party planning naturally happened from there. I was not renting a venue. I was offended upon finding out you have to pay to rent cement picnic tables at any local park. Backyard party it is.  Do I love professional fondant cakes? Yes. But if I didn’t have a fondant cake for my own wedding, my 4 year old is definitely not getting one. Generic rainbow Costco sheet cake it is; complete with Paw Patrol figurines I found strewn about the house. Food? Probably dominoes and Costco juice boxes and snacks. Alcohol? Yea let’s be cool and have beer because it’s at our house and being a parent at a 4 year old bday party is torture in and of itself. The parents will appreciate a beer. Balloons? I can do them myself. That turned into an even bigger YES, when I learned there is a helium shortage at every balloon store in Los Angeles.

The final section of planning I was stuck on. Entertainment or no entertainment? What I had observed was almost every birthday party we attended there was some form of entertainment– Ariel, a bubble magician, bounce houses, someone facilitating ceramic painting. I realized that when you group a bunch of 4 year olds together outside of their classroom routine they really don’t mingle.  Okay so maybe an hour of entertainment would be worth it. So $400/hr Disney singers are out. But wherever I looked in my area everything was so expensive. Finally, I got a lead on a reasonably priced clown company. According to their website I could book a “cute, bouncy, friendly, approachable and adorable girl clown” as the website described for $120 for 1.5 hrs. Tell me more! I called the owner. She said yes, indeed it was true. This too good to be true female clown would arrive and do balloon twisting, face painting and a magic show for that price tag. Hot damn, I thought. Now I just have to sell the biggest clown hater of all: Larry.

Me: Babe, so remember how I told you Ariel was $400 an hour? I looked at a bunch of other entertainment and it’s all minimum $300 for an hour whether it’s a dressed up character, a singer, a magician etc. But, I found a very multitalented ENTERTAINER who will drive here from OC and do face painting, balloon twisting, AND a magic show for $120.

Larry: Can you show me a website?

Me: Why?

Larry: I’m more of a visual person.

I pull up website

Larry: It’s a clown. Am I understanding this correctly?

Me: Points to description

Me: But did you read it? It’s a “cute, bouncy, friendly, adorable and adorable girl clown”

Larry: I don’t think you mentioned a clown in your opening sales pitch. Does Mateo like clowns? I mean does anyone like clowns? I dunno, babe. Clowns are scary to small children.

Me: I can sell Mateo on this clown. Trust me. We will NEVER find a better deal than this clown. Let’s try it out and I’m tracking budget items so we can see where we land having thrown our first birthday party for the outside world.

Larry: You do remember I’m reading It right now? Is that where you got your inspiration from?

Both laugh

Larry: Okay, discount clown it is.

 

At breakfast the next morning:

Mateo: When is it gonna be MY birthday?

Me: One more month and it’s Paw Patrol backyard bonanza! I hired this really neat entertainer who is coming to make balloon animals, and paint your face and put on a magic show for you and your friends.

Mateo: What’s an entertainer?

Me: Like a person who comes and has a lot of talent…

Mateo: Marshall from Paw Patrol is coming to my party to make balloon animals?

Me: Well not exactly

Mateo: Who is the entertainer?

Me: A “cute, bouncy, friendly, adorable and approachable girl clown”

Mateo: NOOOOOO!

Me: It’ll be so fun. Your friends will love her!

Mateo: I DON’T LIKE CLOWNS!

 

 

Okay so there’s 3rd trimester discomfort and irritability you read about all the time: Your belly is big. No amount of pillows can allow you a good nights rest. You have heartburn all day and night. Your hemorrhoids can get so nasty they make you cry from the pain. Varicose veins pulsate in the backs of your legs. Your low back hurts just being in a vertical position. The list goes on and on….

I’m her to tell you there is in fact a level up from this: If you have ANY number of existing kids you have to take care of while experiencing all the standard discomforts of third trimester then welcome to 3rd trimester rage mode. Yes my friends,  I am a sniper waiting in the grass and there is only one individual I set in my crosshairs during this period of pregnancy: My husband.

Literally everything is his fault. I get a pass on healthy communication in my relationship right now because the expectation is he should be a mind reader of the highest order. He should be a hug machine, a masseuse, have a negative sex drive just like me and most of all: He should ANTICIPATE MY NEEDS. Oh and I am the only one allowed to crack jokes because at this point in pregnancy his jokes do nothing but offended me. (Don’t hurt me I’m a delicate flower).

It was a regular Saturday morning. He was finishing morning duty (5am-7am) which he does every morning because he’s a great dad but that is besides the point right now. I roll downstairs disgruntled and out of sorts at 7am. He takes the kids upstairs to our room so he can get ready for the day while they jump on our bed and throw the pillows everywhere and then start jumping off the bed and hurting themselves. Great, I have some time to drink coffee and grumble to myself. I anticipate they will all be upstairs for at least 20 minutes. Plenty of time to call an old girlfriend for a life catch up session. I call her. She answers! Clearly this conversation is meant to be. We’re catching up and I’m feeling like my peppy old self laughing at her stories etc. Then the 2 year old trickles downstairs with a demand to help her get dressed. I follow her into her room and am on my knees dressing her while refusing to let my kids demands end my phone conversation before I’m good and ready. Then through the wall I hear the youngest waking up from morning nap and starting to escalate. Okay I’ve got a good 5 more minutes before he’s full blown screaming. Gonna ride out my high and stay on the phone. Then my husband rolls by the room and says, “Are we letting the baby scream it out now?” Crosshairs on. Target acquired. Enemy will be taken out in 3, 2, 1…

BOOM! Clearly, you see I’m on the phone while changing our daughter and will be moving to get the baby while still on the phone once I’m done because I am a god damned multitasking super hero! You have not only caused excess chatter distracting me from my call but you have failed to read the situation. There were two paths that could’ve saved you  a) taking over dressing the 2 year old without talking to me OR  b) picking up the baby out of his crib and taking him far far away to another room where he cannot see, smell or hear me, still without talking to me.  How can you right this wrong? Read the room. Act accordingly. Anticipate my needs. Oh, you need an example?!? We have no food in this house. We are going into a week with no dinner meals planned or ingredients acquired. In fact I’m hungry right now just thinking about how we have literally NOTHING tasty to eat.

And that my friends is how Saturday beach day became a Saturday family trip to Costco. 🙂

For the record I’ve never been a car snob. All I wanted for my 16th birthday was a red Jeep Wrangler with a soft top wrapped in a giant bow. I mean, was that too much to ask? The fancy girls drove Volkswagen Jetta’s in my town.  Instead, when I got my license, I received an old black Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme (IYKYK) low rider sans bow. I leaned into it and decked it out with fuzzy zebra seat covers and black fuzzy dice. All I really wanted was freedom from my seriously embarrassing family and some space to make out with da boys! Nobody made out with me in the Cutlass Supreme much to my disappointment, but if they had we would’ve been comfortable with those zebra seats cranked all the way back and a Boyz II Men CD on repeat. Then my mom really upped my pimp game (insert head shake here). She surprised me and put custom plates on that read HNA BNA 1. She said it stood for Hannah Banana which was a childhood nickname. JFC mom you did not just put that on my pimp mobile! Now I had to explain every day in the parking lot of my Catholic High school in Davenport, Iowa what my license plates stood for. My perceived cool factor plummeted further. Every time someone asked what the plates stood for I could feel my face flush. I was born a geek and I’ll die a geek.  Let’s just say there was definitely no making out  happening in HNA BNA 1. Thanks a lot mom!

My point is, I’m  generally a work with what you’ve got type of person. So did I have a fantasy of a mom mobile going into parenthood? Not really. The west LA standard mom SUV I see driving around is BMW, Audi, Alpha Romero, Porsche and Mercedes. I mean if someone gave me a Porsche SUV would I accept it? Definitely, and make it a creamy light gray please. I’m not above vanity.  But the more I got lost in the fantasy I felt like driving a higher end car meant more pressure to be put together in general. Could I really slob around in my elastic waist pants and old Disney T-shirts with my postpartum hair growing straight up out of my head like a feather tufted parrot and drive one of those? No, the Hannah driving the Porsche SUV will need a neutral manicure, beach waves everyday, maybe a blonde job, certainly more diamonds and pants with a legitimate button and fly. Maybe when the kids are older? IDK. Until I become Bravo’s next Real Housewife with full glam team, I would absolutely crumble under the pressure of owning a luxury SUV. So the Luxury SUV mom mobile  was OUT. Check.

When we had our first kid we got an awesome hybrid Toyota Highlander. I love that car. It drives with some muscle behind it and I like sitting up higher. It sips gas and it has a nice roomy trunk. That car would’ve been perfect for 2 kids. Having 3 kids put us over. We could squeeze a very small carseat into the tiny 3rd row but we would lose so much trunk space we’d barely be able to pack anything other than a stroller in back. Forget luggage, sand toys or my HomeGoods impulse buys. So our options were full sized SUV or minivan. Did I like the idea of a big sporty gas guzzling boat-truck? Well,  more than I liked the idea of the dopey minivan. So why did the minivan win? Because it’s practical as hell. I can easily load 3 kids in and out of carseats without lifting them up and in, jacking up my back. The recessed trunk makes for way easier double stroller or wonder wagon loading because you’re loading down and in, not up and back. It has a vacuum for the millions of puffs and tiny shreds of humanity that are thrown around the car daily.

And just like I leaned into my pimp mobile at 16, I’ve really leaned into minivan culture on the road. You will never find a driver filled with more rage/IDGAF attitude than a minivan driver. They don’t just roll through stop signs. They roll through stop signs while applying mascara, talking on the apple play hands free phone, and yelling at their kids all at the same time. These parents do it all. They are reaching behind them to pass STFU snacks while simultaneously dislocating their shoulder, driving and spilling coffee on themselves. They are operating a moving vehicle on minimal sleep and with crying so loud no volume level or amount of open windows will drown it out.  And they are headed to one of 3 places on a weekday: Coscto, the park, or the nearest coffee drive thru in hopes that consuming additional caffeine will brighten their souls enough for the day that they’ll appear partially human again. Minivan drivers are a danger to society and I like living on the edge.  I get in with my messy hair don’t care, could be Pajamas could be athleisure wear, topped off with an old beige belly support band (that got me through the last 2 kids but now the velcro doesn’t stick so well on one side) on the outside of my clothes, and I LEAN INTO the culture. These are my people cranking Dre’s Chronic album tooling around town while daydreaming about the time they did get a hot makeout session in a vehicle that didn’t have goldfish ground into its floors.

Do I still hate it that I drive a minivan in my half dead/half caffeinated soul? Yes, yes I do. I want to drive something I can put a surfboard on top that screams maybe there are kids in there or maybe just a surf Betty with her sporty dog on the way home from the beach. Maybe she’s stopping for an avocado toast or acai bowl before catching a flight to cliff jump among the waterfalls in Costa Rica. Age has nothing to do with cool factor. There are highs and lows of cool factor in life. I’m in a valley, not a crest and I’m acutely aware of my ranking at any moment. I suppose I’ll do what geriatric millenials do: I’ll add it to my vision board and blog about it instead.

My relationship with my Honda Odyssey is like Kat Stratford’s final poem in one of the greatest 90s teen angst films of all time: 10 Things I Hate About You.

I hate your dumb slow eco mode

and the way you’ve changed my mind

I hate you so much it makes me sick

It even makes me rhyme.

 

I hate the way that you take corners

and lack any pep at all

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you

Not even close, not even a little bit

not even at all.

 

 

Wow! I can’t believe I haven’t revisited this page since my oldest was 8 weeks old?! After spending way too long being self-critical while re-reading this old blog. I decided I need to see it for what it is: A time capsule of a newly married, way fitter and younger self who was excited by and then overwhelmed by new motherhood.  My first thought was to impulsively rip all the old blog posts down and change out the cover picture. But after calming down I think the cover photo is providing me with a nice anchor to a former self. Y’all, I NEED to see this picture right now! I know it’s not an accurate reflection of my physical self at the moment but I look at it and I feel her inside of me again. She loves to laugh, be silly, move her body, be outside,  feel free,  love, connect and create. I don’t want to lose her. I want to reignite her in more ways. The cover photo was taken on my honeymoon in Kauai. That woman was dreaming and excited for a big crazy family and a loud household. That woman was mentally and physically strong.  That woman had no gray hairs. That woman thought her body needed work. THAT WOMAN WAS WRONG! I had it goin on… why didn’t I see it?

It’s only been 4 years since my last post about 8 week old Mateo, but I’ve probably aged about 10 years since then. In 3 weeks I’ll be a mom of four and will have fulfilled a lifelong dream: To have a loud chaotic house filled with babies… to have a complete family of my very own. I currently have 6-8 gray hairs at the moment and I hunt them down and pluck them at night like a stalker after I impulsively squeeze my blackheads with my fingernails. I’m also doing mad research about all the face filler I hope to inject after I have my last kid.

For a while I didn’t think it would happen for me. I was super social and definitely a serial monogamist but I just didn’t experience a deep enough love and level of trust with a partner to be like BINGO that’s my baby daddy! I had a great life filled with beach, friends, fitness and a good job in education. Then I found my baby daddy and somehow tricked him into falling in love with me. Then I waited AND waited for him to be ready to get married so we could have kids before I got too old.  Then I almost said forget it and set out on my own again. Then I got to plan and budget a dream wedding we paid for ourselves.

Then we finally tied the knot and bam we were faced with infertility. That made time slow down a lot. I was convinced if I could keep going through trying and failing to get pregnant and then getting pregnant and miscarrying, time alone would allot us maybe 2 kids if I was a lucky one. Going through infertility had a funny way of making me very desperate and spiritual. I’d take any damn kid! Gone were plans on how far to space them apart of if I wanted boys or girls. I didn’t have that luxury. I just needed to get one cookin’ past the first trimester and safely exited from my body old enough to survive in the outside world. When I time travel back to that sad, desperate woman during infertility I remember promising the universe I would never take getting pregnant, staying pregnant, or having kids for granted no matter how hard parenthood got.

Here I am 2 fertility treatment babies and almost 2 natural pregnancy babies later and I remember my promise to the universe. But that doesn’t mean I have to eliminate the funny! I’m yearning for some creativity back in my life and I’m about to be unemployed after this week so it’s time to share some REAL truths because parents need other relatable parents. Let me be clear, I don’t solely define myself as a mom. I’m not totally lost on where the hell the rest of me went. I’m just leaning into what’s needed right now. I have to expend almost all of my daily energy to keep these tiny humans from killing themselves. Why not let them be the subject of some laughs?  Someday when they don’t want to hang out with me anymore you better believe I’m getting more dogs and building my artists she-shed out back. But for now, I’m deep in the business of mom-ing so why not share what I know?

As I write this, I’m sweating and pausing every 10 seconds to rock my child back to sleep in his stroller. This is a hostage situation where I am the victim. I’ve been taken and I have very little time to write this letter to you about what life with a newborn has been like these past 8 weeks.

So here it goes:

It’s been 8 weeks on the other side. All you moms who were reading my blog post while pregnant thinking, gurrrl, you don’t even know what’s comin’. Well of course I don’t! I’m just over here flyin’ blind! But now I’m wise AF about what the first 8 weeks means. I KNOW what it means in the darkest parts of my soul. I assumed that by 8 weeks I’d have some perspective and even some sweet nostalgia re newborn life. But after 8 weeks of hardcore mom-ing both perspective and wisdom elude me. I’m left wondering how women do this more than once? Will this feel like this forever? Will my body resemble extra soft tofu forever? I always thought women were the stronger sex but now I know it to be true. Women run this world and the smartest men know this. If there’s one thing I vow to teach my son, it’s to respect and love women.

The first couple weeks home from the hospital, our very civil world got flipped upside down by a 7 lb baby. Gone were the lazy Saturday mornings of lounging with Frankie while making french toast. Gone were the mornings having the free will to decide if we should brunch with friends or go see a movie instead? The second night home from the hospital, I remember turning to Larry as the sun was rising, hooked up to my pump, topless, postpartum belly hanging over my pajama pants sobbing and saying, “Larry, what have we done?!? We had a good life, right?” It’s not that I really wanted a take back but being fresh off an emergency C section feeling like a filleted fish and suffering from a chicken pox like postpartum rash I actually did want a take back or at least a pause from the physical pain of healing and the relentless torture of sleep deprivation. Thankfully, this was my lowest point.

As my body started to heal, my mental toughness returned and so did my sense of humor. When Larry leaves for work in the morning, I have a pep talk with my child, “Listen, you’re a baby and I’m a grown a$$ woman. You’re not gonna beat me today.” Half the time we have harmonious co-existence of a day where we’re flowing (albeit sleepily flowing) through life. The other half, I am completely owned, swimming up river, trying not to drown. I try and hone in on my survivor mentality. I tell myself I’m going through 3 months of military ops training consisting of severe sleep deprivation and a depletion of physical resources that does not let up. I tell myself it’s a marathon not a sprint. I like endurance sports… I can do this.

For those of you who think maternity leave is vacation, let me enlighten you: I left a paid job that had structure, set hours, lunch breaks, adult interaction and ended at 5 pm each day. I have a new boss now. He’s tiny, tyrannical, shits his pants a moment’s notice and will scream relentlessly (baby raptor style) if not being rocked and left to sleep in my arms. He doesn’t believe in lunch breaks or bathroom breaks for his workers or sleeping in his own bed. When he gets tricked into sleeping in his own bed I try to sleep too, but by the time I fall into a deep sleep I’m jolted awake to hop to my role as wet nurse slave. Every now and again he smiles and I think he’s smiling at me. I think, here is my rainbow of hope in a cloudy day! A HOPE FOR A BETTER TOMORROW! As it turns out he is smiling at his own fart or poop explosion in satisfaction. The pediatrician says this is all so normal and healthy, and I’m grateful for normal and healthy, I really am… I also want to punch my pediatrician in the face.

Dinner time means I wear him in a front pack to cook and to sit down and eat. I’m the lady sitting down doing weird front/back and side to side rocking like a mentally ill patient trying to self soothe. I don’t taste my food these days. Food is fuel to refill my milk supply for it to get sucked dry again. I often stuff my face so fast with dinner that I get a lot of it on my baby’s head. You should see his head on taco night!

Bed time means another short nap. At bed time I jump into bed hoping sleep will come quickly to me because in 2 hours we go again: Play, Eat, Nap.  Bed time is stressful because now I have a noisy time bomb of a roommate. I’m expected to fall asleep as quickly as possible next to a farting, grunting, sucking, Papa Smurf on a timer. Our baby “sleeps” in a Pack N Play which we drag out into the living room during the day and back into our bedroom at night. At “bed time” Larry moves the Pack n Play back into our bedroom and I cry out, Nooooo!!!! I want a new roommate! As I lay down and thank God for getting us through another day, I give my baby the side eye and say, Goodnight Joffrey Baratheon.

There are so many things I love about my baby. As I get stronger and more confident as a mom, I no longer want take backs, but I also don’t understand how I can be a mom to more than one child at a time? It’s that chapter I haven’t reached and won’t truly understand until I’m lucky enough to get there. For now, finding ways to make fun of my child with my husband over a beer are the best moments in the day. I’m not sure what we’ll do when he starts understanding he’s been the butt of our jokes this entire time. Thankfully, we don’t’ have to worry about that yet. These 8 weeks have been a crash course in love, communication, and patience. In my moments of wanting to Andy Dufrane my way out of this self-created prison, I get to step away for an hour without my baby and find myself missing him and wondering how many poop diapers he’s exploded in my absence. Is he thinking about me too?

Next week will be one year since our ectopic loss. A year later, I’m still brought to tears remembering the experience. However, I think it’s important to share because when I was struggling; reading other women’s stories of loss and how they endured really helped me. I also want to share it for the women I know who are currently trying to conceive, experiencing infertility or have experienced a loss or continued losses. I used to think physical strength was impressive, but I’ve learned it pales in comparison to the grit, perseverance and emotional strength needed when going through infertility. Lastly, I want to share it because if I’m privileged enough to share common pregnancy complaints, I know I also need to be brave enough to share the struggle to get to this point.

I’m not one to spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. I typically have my moment and put together an action plan and move forward. So when conceiving naturally wasn’t working, we dove into the fertility clinic world. Anyone who has experienced this world of daily before work blood draws and ultrasounds, tests, procedures, drugs with side effects and exercise restrictions can tell you it’ll truly test your metal. Suddenly I was having regular conversations with God which I haven’t done since I was a little girl and battling some serious moments of self-doubt. I’m talking about deep ugly, wailing, crying; the kind that brings you to your knees.

There’s a defeatist feeling I got from the physical set up of the Chicago fertility clinic in relation to the OBGYN clinic. It’s on the ground floor set back away from the Chicago River and the OGBYN clinic is on the second floor. I started in the OBGYN clinic upstairs and was then demoted to the fertility clinic downstairs. When that happened,  all I could think about was being able to graduate from fertility clinic and be allowed back upstairs. Goal set. Game on.

Our first fertility procedure worked! I didn’t even know what the hell a beta was or what the numbers meant when I went in for 3 beta blood draws every 2 days. “We want to see the number double,” the nurse said. The number doubled during the second test and then only rose slightly by the third. After a few extra blood draws, they were fairly certain it was an ectopic pregnancy, (meaning a pregnancy growing somewhere outside of the uterus). Because it was still early, they prescribed me Methotrexate (a drug typically used to aggressively treat cancer) in pill form to take to essentially kill the pregnancy before it ruptures the organ it’s not supposed grow in. After receiving this news I felt defeated. I walked into CVS with my prescription for Methotrexate in a daze. The pharmacist called me over in private to discuss the medication with me. She said, “I’ve never had to fill a prescription for this much methotrexate. You need to take these instructions very seriously.” I almost leaped across the counter and beat that pharmacist to a pulp. Was she really going to make me say what this was for out loud?!? She then said, take the first 20 pills together and an hour later consume the remaining 20 pills. It felt like a suicide mission. I got back to our building and got in an elevator with a beautiful couple cooing to their newborn in his stroller. I bit my lower lip so hard on that elevator ride it started bleeding.

After downing the pills, I mentally prepared for intense cramping and bleeding over the next few days as forewarned by my nurse. Thankfully, I had two close friends coming to visit for the weekend, so I mentally prepared to bleed and walked my bloated body around with my girlfriends all over the city enjoying the warm weather. Except I never bled and my bloat continued to grow. Come Monday, I had another ultrasound to check my fallopian tube. The techs face turned white and she positioned the screen so I couldn’t see it. I demanded to know what she was seeing. I just knew, there was a life inside of me. She showed me the little gummy bear with a heartbeat flashing. What is that flashing? I asked in a raised wild voice. She looked down and said, “It’s a heartbeat. I’m so sorry the baby is continuing to grow in your right fallopian tube.” What?!? I took 40 cancer pills and it developed a heartbeat OVER THE WEEKEND?!?? The tech asked me to wait in the office for the nurse who was coming to speak to me but I was worried about being late for work so I walked out and went home to log onto my computer and start my workday. When I walked in the door I got a call from the nurse asking me to sit down, not walk around (for fear or rupturing my fallopian tube) and head to the Northwestern ER and check myself in. I was going to need emergency ectopic surgery. It slowly dawned on me that I really had become attached to the idea of this life growing inside of me and now I was being told she couldn’t stay.  At that moment, I became completely unraveled. I called Larry in hysterics barely able to form words. He was on the east coast for work and upon hearing I was being sent to the ER for emergency ectopic surgery, was on the next flight back to Chicago.

I don’t remember the Uber ride to the ER. I do remember, getting a skeptical look from the woman at check in desk. Like, WHY are you here? I had to say ectopic surgery. Jesus, why were they making me say it? I squeaked it out as best I could and sat down in the waiting area. I spent hours in the ER getting palpated for pain and monitored from 9 am -2 pm. Then I was told a spot opened up for me at Prentice Women’s Hospital where I would have my surgery on the 4^th floor. I got wheeled via gurney from ER through a series of hallways and elevators until I waited to get checked in at the surgical ward. As Dr. V arrived to discuss my surgery, Larry arrived at the same time with my glasses, PJS and flip flops in hand. Through bleary, red, tear streaked eyes I tried my best to listen to Dr. V. She was incredibly empathetic, smart, kind and positive. When all was said and done, she said, “I can’t wait to see you on the 8^th floor (Labor and Delivery) when we will deliver your baby together. You can do this.” Then she held my hand. I remember feeling so grateful for her compassion and understanding. I cried some more and said I was ready. Let’s get this over with, doc.

Larry took care of me around the clock for a week. He made sure I never missed taking my pain medication and was eating well and resting. A few weeks later, I was up and moving but still in pain if I walked around for too long. I got him a little ice cream cake from the corner Baskin Robins and felt bad I couldn’t do more for his birthday that year. Recovering, showed me how much I needed my partner in life and how grateful I am for his love and care.

We were told we had to take 3 months off from trying after that because the methotrexate could still be in my system potentially causing birth defects if we were to get pregnant again too soon. I hated this idea at first. When I get my sights set on a goal I’m like a dog with a bone. But, it turned out to be the best rule ever impressed upon me. It was a forced timeout that saved me from not completely losing who I was. We took some weekend getaways, I drank lots of wine and we just returned to being us without burden of the third person (infertility) poking its head in our relationship.

The loss shook me to my core and changed me. I now completely understood that becoming a biological parent is a gift not a right. I also understood that no matter how careful you are in trying to do things in the right order, there is no control you have when it comes to fertility. You get on this ride and you simply have to see it through. Nobody owes me anything and I am not more deserving than the next woman who cries herself to sleep wondering if it’ll ever be her turn. There is no loss greater than another. A loss is a loss and a little piece of your heart goes with that baby every time. I am so grateful to be having a baby this spring, but a piece of my heart went with the baby who couldn’t stay last spring. I no longer dream about her but I miss her to this day. I’m so excited to graduate to the 8^th floor (Labor and Delivery) this spring and have a shot at delivering this baby. I hope I see you there, Dr. V!