Why Tone Loc Made Me Cry this Am.

by Stella Forth

The digital scale blinks into existence as I stand on it. 201.0….198.4…199.5….199.2…199.8….200.1.

*Make mental note to record it this morning in your tracker app*

Get dressed, throw on semblance of makeup, pretend to care that my eye cream wasn’t put on perfectly. Grab my probiotic juices for fasting, my pickles for snack. And my running gear and work bag. Get in car.

Turn on radio, jam out to Kelly Clarkson – Miss Independent, Josh Groban – You Raise Me Up, and then flip around and the opening strains of Wild Thing by Tone Loc fills the car.

*neer. Neer. Neer. Neer.Neer.* (you know it, don’t even judge.)

And I’m dancing. Jamming even. It’s 530AM and I am feelin’ it. And then I find little tears in the corner of my eyes.

WTF. My heart brings this weight of nostalgia . I remember being in  my satin jacket and athletic pants, with the rest of the drill team. In the gym bleachers, in front of the school, while old school rap songs poured out over a crackly speaker, while we just danced around and had fun.

Funny word: We.

“We” didn’t dance. I remember shuffling my feet side to side. Enough to say “I’m participating”, but not enough to be noticed for actually, well….anything. But in my head, I was dancing like I was in my car this morning.  I was bursting to.

Despite being  thin in school, I will always be “bigger”. That’s not an excuse, that’s not a qualifying statement, it’s just the state of my bodily union. I am a touch below 6 foot, and despite what my scale said this morning, I was 155 in high school – a “skinny” girls weight. But I wasn’t petite, I had big feet, broad shoulders, “my large frame” as some nicely put it and I was as gawky and geeky as they came. No one ever looked at me and thought I was the type for a prima ballerina.

And the popular dance girls, they knew that. One girl, we’ll call her Jill, she made sure that I knew that I would never be a member in the social circles she and her friends ran in. She wasn’t overtly hateful – but the looks, and the giggles, and the gossip, I knew that Jill thought I didn’t fit. When you’re that age, and already self-aware of your sub-average placement in the caste, having someone else notice – and one of a “superior” level to boot – just is the nail in your confidence coffin.

So this morning, when I was jamming out, and those tears fell, it was because I regretted not dancing. I regretted not doing many things because of the nagging voice in my head that “I wasn’t good enough”.  I will never be 16 again. I will never be able to get back what Jill stole.  The ability to be what I thought I could be without the constraint of hate.

Fuck you Jill.

But I do have a son. I have a son who has the potential to be whatever he wants. But he won’t leave my parenting nest and spread his wings without understanding:

  1. That “his preference” and “his opinion” do not equal “the best one of all time”. That’s just good sense for anyone. You respect others religion, size, parenting style, gender, race, personality and well, just about any damn thing – because there is a reason they are that way. These people are THEMSELVES, you go get busy being PERFECT before trying to assess someone else’s situation.
  2. EVERYONE can do ANYTHING. I’m a big fan already of “This is Us.” The show centers around a set of triplets. The sister of the three is obese and the show is starting to touch on where she feels her weight challenges stem from. Another WONDERFUL thing the writers also touch on? The men in her life who think she’s wonderfully beautiful, sexy, amazing, funny, gorgeous both inside and out. THANK YOU. Thank you for making a lead character who isn’t Cosmopolitan-Cover-Worthy and who’s story isn’t single mindedly on her weight ONLY. Don’t judge the white girl who wants to hip hop. Don’t get ugly to a Muslim for her hijab because her God isn’t your Jesus. Don’t you dare think that someone who isn’t the media-driven stereotype can’t do whatever their soul aches for.
  3. Find your passion and OWN it. Mom will be right behind you making sure you are the happiest. Make your dreams come true. Throw caution to the wind. Listen to the voice saying YOU CAN. Because you can. and don’t ever find yourself in the car dancing and getting tears because you chose not to.

Take a Moment, go hit up one of my favorite songs in the world, Same Love by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis. This – this my readers – is what we should strive for in a world full of contempt for differing opinions and demographics.

The same fight that lead people to walk-outs and sit-ins, It’s human rights for everybody

There is no difference Live on! And be yourself!


Fa La Freaking La

by Jennifer Ryan

Every year on Thanksgiving, family members gather around an enormous feast and list all of the reasons they are grateful. Every year on the day following Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the Internet because I can purchase all of my Christmas gifts online. With the click of a button, I can avoid the insanity that is Black Friday. Inevitably, we are treated to video images of crowds stampeding into stores and fist fights erupting over the latest gaming console or this season’s hottest toy. At least one news anchor asks, “Is it me? Or is this the craziest Black Friday ever?” No.

While I can’t say for certain when Black Friday became a cage match, I can say that Christmas shopping has been utter madness for decades. When I was in high school, I remember walking into an Oklahoma Walmart and seeing Tickle Me Elmo dolls all over the shelves. Later, I wanted to kick myself for not having bought one. Apparently, the dolls were the favorite Christmas gift for children, and they sold out quickly. Rich parents on the east and west coasts were paying hundreds, even thousands, of dollars for a Tickle Me Elmo doll. I suppose putting the screws to total strangers for a Tickle Me Elmo doll doesn’t exactly embody the true spirit of Christmas, which is sort of the point. I feel like “we” (meaning the collective society “we) have lost our way.

I got a little curious about the history of Christmas gifts, and I found this interesting article about the tradition. Although many Christians attribute gifts to the story of the Three Wise Men, the practice actually originated with the European pagans, who apparently got drunk and gifted each other fruit and trinkets during their Saturnalia holiday. The Puritans didn’t appreciate the papal roots of the Christmas tradition and banned celebrating Christmas here in America until the late seventeenth century. People typically exchanged homemade gifts and food. My father stuffed oranges in our stocking, which apparently is another custom that dates back to the nineteenth century. Some people link oranges to a story about St. Nicholas. A local man lacked a dowry for each of his three daughters, so St. Nicholas dropped gold down the man’s chimney. Others believe that oranges were considered a luxury, so people placed an orange in a child’s stocking as a rare treat. Christmas was already highly commercialized by the turn of the twentieth century. Some people were so disgusted by the consumerism of the holiday that they formed the Society for the Prevention of Useless Giving (or S.P.U.G.), which counted Teddy Roosevelt and Anne Morgan as members. Anne Morgan was daughter of the famous tycoon J.P. Morgan. Right. Apparently, she needed to pinch pennies. Oh the hypocrisy of the filthy rich.

You can now see that lamenting over the Christmas shopping season is nothing new. Still, I sometimes consider shifting things in a different direction. This week, I took inventory of my son’s toys, which have somehow infiltrated every room of my house. Before Christmas and his birthday, I take a bag of toys to Goodwill in order to make room for new toys. Yes, I have “first world problems.” My child has so many toys that I have to purge them every few months. I’ve convinced myself that someone else may benefit from our donation, so I shouldn’t feel too guilty about our abundance. However, I can’t help groaning over the thought of yet more toys. I’m not alone either. This mother was similarly frustrated and had some great alternative gift suggestions that would reduce toy clutter, including museum and aquarium memberships. Making something for a child adds a little more meaning to the Christmas holiday. A particularly crafty person could try some of these ideas. I particularly liked the chalkboard town and printable dominos. Unfortunately, I’m not all that crafty.

Maybe you’re looking for a little more this year. Maybe you want to inject a little extra meaning into Christmas. Maybe you want to teach your kids something new. Or maybe, like me, you have a sadistic parenting side that even Darth Vader would find positively cringe-worthy. Why not create your own customized Christmas? Hide all your kids’ presents. Then, wrap a few oranges with an accompanying note that reads, “Wishing you a scurvy-free Christmas. Love, Mom and Dad.” Next, glue together a pyramid of Keurig k-cups. Don’t clean them out first. The spilled coffee grounds will add to the haphazard charm and demonstrate your lack of attention to detail. As your children open their gifts on Christmas morning, you can tell them about simpler times, when oranges were a luxury. Use the pyramids to teach them about the importance of recycling and toss in a little Egyptian history for good measure. Don’t give them the rest of their presents. Let them savor the moment in stunned silence. Only when their little eyes have welled with tears will you retrieve their “real” Christmas presents from their undisclosed locations….because lasting psychological trauma and a lifetime of painful memories are the hallmarks of an American Christmas. In the words of Martha Stewart, it’s a good thing.

Tantrums and Torture

 by Jennifer Ryan

This morning I experienced the mother of all tantrums. My son had climbed onto the counter and retrieved an item that he wasn’t supposed to have. I took the item from him, and he spit at me. Yes. He spit at me. Spitting is his go-to response, when he is particularly angry. He reserves “the spit” for truly special occasions. I grabbed him by the hand and sat him in his time-out chair. In order to leave the time-out chair, my son had to utter two words: I’m sorry. That’s it. I didn’t think I was making an absurd demand, but you would have thought I was asking him to admit that he had somehow participated in the Kennedy assassination. My child refused to say, “I’m sorry.” Instead, he said, “Please.” He said, “Please,” repeatedly and with varying tones that ranged from pitiful to incensed rage. Imagine a three-year-old, with a red face, shaking uncontrollably as he screams, “Please,” at the top of his lungs. Whenever he would have one of these outbursts, I would say, “Mommy, I’m sorry I spit at you. Mommy, I’m sorry.” That’s it. That’s all he had to say to release himself from prison. Did he comply? No, of course not. Immediate compliance would have been too easy. This vicious cycle continued for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of screaming. At one point, I actually got on the floor in front of him and said, “Baby, all you’ve got to do is say that you’re sorry.” Nope. The tantrum continued.

I have to give my son credit. The kid can commit. R-e-s-p-e-c-t. After twenty-five minutes of this behavior, I began to lose my grip on reality. Why were we here? What’s happening? Was I at fault? In a moment of weakness, I penned the following letter:

Dear Son,

I hereby admit defeat, and I concede that you are indeed the superior being in every conceivable way. I deeply regret any offense I may have committed during the course of your punishment. The house and its contents are yours with which to do as you see fit. I only ask that you not burn down the house with me in it.

Your obedient and faithful servant,


Luckily, the tantrum passed. I saved the letter for a later date, when he can…you know…read. I briefly considered loaning my child to a law enforcement agency as a tool for enhanced interrogation. I cracked under pressure. Any criminal or terrorist would likely do the same, but I’m pretty sure such torture would violate the rules of the Geneva Convention.

The End of Civilization

 by Jennifer Ryan

I have always prized my television programming choices. I don’t really watch reality TV. I allow myself one exception, which is Project Runway. In my defense, I fast forward through the catfights, the snarky comments, the drama. I have a toddler, and I ain’t got time for that shit. I simply enjoy the runway show at the end, when the designers march their creations down the catwalk for judging. I am often amazed by what these talented contestants can achieve in a day. The rest of reality TV can go suck an egg. You won’t catch me watching The Fake Housewives of Unfortunate City unless I am forced by circumstances beyond my control. In my opinion, such shows represent the breakdown in civilized (and, in many cases, intelligent) society.

Of course, I watch my fair share of favorite comedies and dramas. Who doesn’t watch Game of Thrones or The Big Bang Theory? The bulk of my television viewing, however, focuses on education. The History Channel. The Military Channel. The Discovery Channel. As a teenager, I was that hopeless geek, who marked Shark Week on her calendar. For those of you younger readers, calendars are primitive instruments that ancient man used to record important events before Smartphones were invented. I’m old. I know. Although The Discovery Channel still hosts Shark Week, the rest of the channel’s programming has gone the way of reality television. The endless stream of riveting documentaries about the natural world and its inhabitants has largely gone the way of the dodo bird. Tune into The Discovery Channel today, and you’ll be treated to a myriad of inane reality TV shows like Gold Rush, Deadliest Catch, and Alaskan Bush People.

To be fair to The Discovery Channel, my husband is mildly obsessed with Naked and Afraid. Almost everyone is obsessed with Naked and Afraid. A man and a woman are dropped in a remote location with one tool each. They’re naked. They’re afraid. What’s not to love about a show with two naked people running around the woods and defecating behind a tree? And, they defecate behind a tree a lot…particularly if they’ve found a bad water source. When I watch two contestants drink straight from a lake, I often think, “Have you ever actually seen the show? Do you not know that this will end badly for you?” My personal favorite moment is when the narrator chimes into the show to discuss impending doom. “Scott has found a snake and thinks it would make a fine meal. Scott doesn’t realize that this is one of the deadliest snakes in the world. The snake’s venom attacks the central nervous system, causing paralysis and eventual death within minutes. The Naked and Afraid medical team is currently on site. Given the crew’s lack of proximity to a hospital, a bite from this snake will almost certainly spell death for Scott. Let’s see what happens. Viewer discretion is advised.”

As much as I enjoy Naked and Afraid, I still miss a good ole documentary about nature. I thought my days of nature watching were over until my husband stumbled across The National Geographic Channel. “Honey,” he said, “Check this out. It’s Big Cat Week!” Oh yes. This is what I’m talking about. Lions and cheetahs and leopards. Oh my! A watering hole in an African savannah. I had a wonderful distraction while I folded laundry. A small gazelle had just given birth to her baby. How adorable! The camera panned to the right, and a cheetah was making his way through the tall grass in a crouched position. The gazelle saw the cheetah and began to lure him away from her baby by faking a leg injury. The cheetah gave chase. The gazelle sprang across the field with the cheetah hot on her heels. She’s gonna’ make it! She’s gonna’ make it! She didn’t make it. The cheetah caught her. The camera panned again to another cheetah, which discovered the baby gazelle hiding in the tall grass. The cheetah pounced on the gazelle but didn’t eat it right away. Yup, that’s about the saddest thing I’ve seen in a while. What did I expect? It’s Big Cat Week. Of course, the cats are gonna’ win, right? Suck it up Jennifer.

Then, I watched a water buffalo in mourning over the death of her calf at the base of a tree and a leopard trying to retrieve the dead calf. The leopard descended the tree, and the water buffalo charged. The leopard descended the tree again, and the water buffalo charged again. On the third try, the water buffalo was unsuccessful, and the leopard dragged her dead calf up the tree. Ok. You’re bumming me out National Geographic Channel, but next up…a documentary on lions. Surely, I would get to watch a lion “win,” and all would be right with the world. Wrong. So wrong. I got to watch a lone lioness try to raise her three cubs with danger lurking around every corner. Over the course of a half hour, I watched each of her three cubs lost to a gruesome fate. One cub was killed by a leopard. Apparently, leopards and lions hate each other. Another cub was killed by a rival pride of lions. With no options left to her, the lioness relocated her cub too close to a herd of water buffalo. When she returned from a hunt, she found her last cub terminally injured. The cub’s back was obviously broken because it had been trampled by a water buffalo. The mother called to the cub over her shoulder and began to walk away. The narrator said, “She calls to her cub one last time, and he tries desperately to follow her despite his injuries. The lioness knows her cub’s situation is hopeless.”

Well, that was just about the worst thing I’d ever seen. I looked at my son, my little cub, playing on the floor at my feet, and I felt some sort of odd kinship with this lioness. These scenes didn’t simply document the natural world. They depicted mothers doing anything within their power to protect their offspring. Maternal love is a universal constant and blah blah blah. I told myself to get a freaking grip. After all, I didn’t live in the African savannah. What could I possibly have to worry me in Houston, Texas?

Then, my son ran by me in a flash. Did he just have scissors? Where did he get scissors? What the hell? He already needed stitches at fifteen months because he fell and hit an electrical outlet. Another trip to the ER and I’m pretty sure they’d call Child Protective Services. At this rate, he’ll never make it to kindergarten. Please just make it to kindergarten. Kindergarten is safe, right? Except…didn’t that one police officer friend I knew get called out to a school because a little boy in kindergarten brought his brother’s porn collection to school. Did I remember that right? Oh well, it’s just a year, and then he’s in elementary school. Oh elementary school. Kids can be so mean in elementary school. I got bullied in elementary school. What if he gets bullied? What if he IS the bully? Then, he gets to spend three years in middle school. I was surrounded by assholes in middle school. I was an asshole in middle school because we’re all assholes in middle school. Middle school is nothing but a never-ending ocean of assholes, but that’s ok. At least they’re not having sex. Kids these days aren’t having sex in middle school, right? Wait. What was the episode of Dateline? The girls wore color-coded bracelets to let boys know how sexually experienced they were. When did I see that Dateline? Ten years ago. How old were the girls? Were they fourteen? What if they are sexually active at twelve and thirteen now? And, then comes high school. Driving. Drinking. Drinking and driving. Drugs. I can’t think about this now. I am in the throws of an introspective nightmare, all because of the National Geographic Channel. UGH!!!

I turned to my husband. I asked, “Babe, can you change the channel?” He responded, “Sure. What do you want to watch?” I said, “Um…can you change it to Bravo?” He hunted for the channel briefly and said, “This is one of those Real Housewives shows.” I said, “Great. Change it to that.” He sat in stunned silence for a minute and said, “I’m not watching this crap.” I yelled, “Change it now please!” The television flickered, and I watched a blonde with fake breasts throw a drink in the face of another blonde with fake breasts AND fake lips. Oh yes. This is what I’m talking about.

Then, I had an epiphany. I had always considered myself part of the solution, but I had officially become part of the problem.

And, that’s how the civilized world ends…not with a bang…but with a housewife.

City Planners or Sadists?

Driving around Houston and the surrounding suburbs, I often wonder if city planning meetings for road construction go a little something like this…

City Planner 1: We have road work scheduled for FM 1960, West Lake Houston Parkway, and Kingwood Drive before the end of the year.

City Planner 2: What are our options?

City Planner 1: We could work on one road in small sections and then move onto the next road.

City Planner 2: Nope. Too sensible. How can we frustrate the most people?

City Planner 1: Well, we could dig up every road simultaneously, which would affect every resident in a five mile radius…ten mile radius if we plan it right.

City Planner 2: Perfect! Let’s do that. Look! Road construction was the final agenda item. We can adjourn the meeting early. What should we do now?

City Planner 1: Wanna’ go to the park and play kickball with a basket of puppies?

City Planner 2: Hey, you don’t have to ask me twice. Count me in!

The Woman I Almost Was

by Stella Forth

This morning I was trolling on facebook. Or is it ghosting? I don’t know my urbanese nowadays. Anyway, I was looking at the pages of the family that I used to call my in-laws and my exes.

Don’t judge, you do it too.

Partially, I worry about those who were sickly and wonder if they have passed on. Partially I wonder about the little kids and how they’ve grown up. Then, truthfully, a part of me wonders where I would have ended up if I would have sucked it up and stayed where I was.

Thank goodness I had enough sense to go.

I would have had a kid. I wouldn’t have been in the job where I am now. I definitely wouldn’t have had the amazing friends around me that I do, who support and understand where I want to be and push me to achieve my goals. I definitely wouldn’t have had the partner and confidant in my partner the way I do now.

Today’s post is how to remain grateful and present in the moment.

  1. Look back. Realize where you came from. Review the old pictures. Right now I bought a kit from Legacy Box that I’m getting ready to troll through the pictures in my attic. I’m not going to forget who I was in high school, in college, when I got married the first time, when I was single later. In fact, who I am now is because of who I was then. Plus, I want to share my life with my kid, in fact this post from a A Cup of Jo really prompted me to make sure that I preserve my growing up for my own kid to relate to.
  2. Look forward. I’m a planner. I always will be. Given our relatively routine life, I can tell you what I’d like to be doing every month of the year. Thanks to Pinterest, I can now even figure out what each season holds when it comes to making good ol’ fashioned family memories with my family. As I type this, I’m thinking about the upcoming pumpkin picking, and the very Autumnal sweet potato soup I’m making tomorrow. I love having these events coming up, but I need to start realizing that living ahead of the day takes me away from living today.
  3. Look right now. This is what I want to start doing more. My kid is only this age ONCE. Heck, I’m only this age once. Stop, play with him. Read the book I want to read. Buy the dress in the window in a larger size because I’m not the size 6 I want to be right now. Take the tiny moment in between work and the next event to look at my husband’s 5 o’clock shadow and feel it against my cheek. Enjoy what I have. Get what I want, but want what I get. Take a minute to breathe in the life I planned, and the life unplanned. I need to be more in the moment.

I’m trying to do this more and more, so here’s a few tricks I’ve tried thus far.

I keep a calendar. That way once it’s all planned, tickets bought and meal set, I don’t have to think about it until it’s here and ready to enjoy.

I try to stop and take “mental pictures”. I’m a photographer, and I find that sometimes I spend too much time trying to capture the perfect frame rather than living in the frame. I still take pictures, but I also try to stop and just shut my eyes – like a shutter – and remember things in my heart instead. It gives me a moment in the moment that rewards me with the little flutters.

I try not to think 5 seconds ahead. If I plan a day out, I plan it at once, and try to just roll with the punches the day of if something goes awry. Trying to think an hour ahead about where we’re gonna be and what our needs are only takes me away from the here and now. Taking an hour to plan a trip a week ahead to somewhere new rather than just buying tickets and being spontaneous makes the day of more enjoyable for me.

I make things “routinely new”. My husband is the ultimate creature of habit. He has eaten the same breakfast nearly every day of our marriage. He likes the same brands. He’s loyal to the things that have worked in his life. I’ve actually taken a ton of comfort in his want to be consistent. So while we have many new adventures popping up in our calendar as our baby turns into a full blown toddler, I also love the days that we “revert & convert” our old before-kid standbys into family outings. Our favorite cafe has high chairs and I already know what to expect. We were zoo members while I was pregnant and are very familiar with the layout. These routines feel so second hand that now I can fixate on the moments we’re experiencing.

How do you get in the moment without thinking about the 100’s of other things going on?I do a few things, but I’d love to hear what your methods are!

Photo Credit

How to be a Working Mom

by Stella Forth

“Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith.” – Cheryl Strayed

That quote pretty much wraps it up right there. Every day of my work week, I wake up at 5:20AM, sit up, say a prayer, and groggily make my way to get ready. Then I go pack my lunch, and then walk into my kid’s room.

There he is, sleeping in some twisted fashion – today he happened to look like he was going to take a step out of his sleep, one foot planted on the mattress and the other leg curled underneath him, face smashed to the left with his little baby bird lips all melty and snoring peacefully in sleep.

Then I tell myself: This is why you go to work.

Then I go hug my husband good bye, and I get into the car.

Communication. That’s the number one thing that I need with my husband that makes this whole working mom thing…well, work. It goes way beyond using the phone apps to keep up with our calendar and to do list or shopping needs – though that is something we couldn’t work without. It’s the little notes of encouragement, the kind words, the understanding of each other that we are trying to succeed together. Sure, it fails from time to time – exhaustion, frustration, anger rear their heads – but as we continue doing the small things, validating each other, then the blow ups are less likely to happen.

“Good for her. Not for me.” -Amy Poehler

Yep. I have my kid in a baby carrier at my husband’s football game, screaming for team, photographing as a volunteer and feeding him goldfish crackers from this belt that I’ve outfitted with all of these pockets to help me be a mom, volunteer, wife, supporter, etc…ALL THE THINGS AT ONCE!

I also know that folks look at this and go, “Shouldn’t she be at home rocking the baby to sleep as it’s past his bedtime?”. Good for you, not for me.

Things also in this category, in no particular order:

  • I have fed my kid a happy meal.
  • I’ve decided that I’ll buy him a car one day, but it won’t be a brand new one and it will be only done once he secures a job.
  • I haven’t baptized my child.
  • I have fed him artichokes, olives, cottage cheese, eggs over easy, brie, uncured meats and milk before the age of one.
  • I let him fall and trip from safe heights, while walking, etc…so that he understands, learns and teaches himself.
  • I take him to generally non-kid friendly restaurants to learn how to act right in public.
  • I let him listen to rap music, 50 Cent and Eminem are favorites.

Good for me. May not be for you.

Having supportive friends who are there when I need to vent, cry, ask questions or laugh about the irony of womanhood are priceless.Those women understand and respect who I am, and help me discover the options that work for me, rather than prescribing what only works for them (and therefore, should only work for anyone else.) Surround yourself with these people, “unfriend” the rest.

Because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do. -Steve Jobs

Yep. I believe I can. I think this motherhood thing was my calling in life, not necessarily a full time job. But I’m not trying to just be a working mom. I’m not just trying to be a worker, a mom, a wife, or anything.

I’m trying to be an example to my kid that he can do anything in this world that he wants. I do that by being the multi-faceted person that I am. It’s true, I dedicate the majority of my life to being a mom, wife and worker. But what I do within each of those spaces, that’s what counts.

Learning how to be my true, authentic self in front of my kid has been a challenge for me. Motherhood really knocked me into this mid-life questioning of who I really am, and what I want my child to know about who I am.

I imagine as he starts talking the questions will come, and I have found myself sitting down and journaling about what I’d like to be as a person, and who I am as a person now. Realizing at the stage of the game I’m in, I’m not likely to make drastic changes (nor want to) but do need to come to grips with who I am, and not what I want others to believe about me.

I realize I need to speak up more sometimes. Not always just go with the flow and say I’m fine when I’m not. I need to ask for help when I need it, and stop putting 100 things on my list of resolutions for the year. I need to focus where it’s important, and conquer my impossible, not just check off a list.

I don’t think I have it better, or worse, than a stay at home Mom. I think I have it different. My time with my kid is concentrated and packed and I enjoy that, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Photo Credit