You're welcome.

More proof that Morgan Freeman should narrate everything.  Include NFL football games.

It's okay, Moms.

In the past three months, a cousin, my sister in law, and a friend have had babies.

Their second, third and first babies, respectively.

All of them started out with the intention to breastfeed.

All of them have since stopped.

This has caused feelings of failure.  Of not being good enough.  Of self doubt.  Of sadness.  Of feeling they are not a good mom.

Let me say this.

Being a mother is an amazing thing.  Holding that little baby in your arms, knowing that you would do absolutely anything to ensure their happiness, health and safety.  Never imagining you could love someone this much, and then waking up tomorrow and realizing you love them even more. 

Being a mother is rewarding.  Seeing your child smile at you for the first time.  Watching them grow, learn, achieve.  Getting hugs, kisses, unconditional love.

Being a mother is hard.

There are things that you just do.  You don't even think about it.  They become second nature.  And although we all know this, we judge each other. 

It's okay if you can't breastfeed.  It's okay if you formula feed.

It's okay if you don't do the laundry, or the dishes, or you spend all day in your jammies and your hair in a messy bun.

It's okay if you cry.  It's okay if when you cry, you have no idea why.

It's okay if you take a shower, and you hear the baby crying, and you don't rush to finish because you need that 10 minutes of hot water pulsating on your back.

It's okay if you put on the TV so you can have 10 minutes to complete something you need to take care of.

It's okay if you desperately ache for a night out with your girlfriends, only to find an hour into it you desperately miss your baby.

It's okay if an hour into it, you don't.

It's okay if you crave adult conversation. 

It's okay if you have a drink, even if you're breastfeeding, because lord knows one drink isn't going to make your baby drunk.

It's okay if you go to the grocery store with spit up on your shirt.

It's okay if you miss the days where going out did not require finding a babysitter, making bottles, preparing clothes, and it's okay if it pisses you off that your husband still doesn't have to do these things.

There is nothing wrong with you.  You are not a failure.  You gave birth.  You incubated and housed a living person in your body for nine months. You have up your body to this person.  You brought this person into the world and sometimes our bodies don't work the way we want them to.

And that's okay.  Because at the end of the day, you are a mother.  Because you can't or choose not to breastfeed, use disposable diapers over cloth, don't have them enrolled in newborn mommy & me classes,  doesn't mean you love your kids less.  It doesn't mean you are a lesser mother than those who do these things. 

What it means is that you love your baby.  It means you are doing whatever it takes to be the best mother you can be, in the way that works for you and your baby.

And that's okay.

New Beginnings...

My SIL gave birth to my beautiful baby niece on Friday.  Meet Ava!

Both mama and baby are doing well.

There's a lot of drama going on in our family.  Well, my married into family.  John & I are the stable, calm ones -- if you can believe it.  However, because of this, we are also the ones being put in the middle.

It breaks my heart.  There's so much tension, judgment, and anger between my MIL and my SIL and her husband.  I just want to scream at them to stop this, that life is too short, that you never know what may happen.  I want us all to get along, to enjoy each other's company.  

To feel like a family.

I want my kids to grow up knowing what's it like to be close with family.  They have little family on my side, and lots of family on their dad's side.  But this vendetta, this need to constantly bicker, must end.

The children end up suffering.  The amazing, beautiful, precious beings we love so much.

Let it go.

USA! USA! USA! (this should be all that's allowed to come out of Ryan Lochte's Mouth

The Fierce Five?  Amazing.

Gabby Douglas?  Fantastic.

McKayla Maroney?  Unbelievable.

Jordyn Wieber?  Classy and outstanding.

Missy Franklin, Alison Schmitt, Michael Phelps, Tyler Clary?  KICK ASS.

Ryan Lochte?  Douche bag.

Don't get me wrong.  The boy can swim.  And he's pretty to look at.  But for the love of the fucking Olympics, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.

He can't spell either. 

Tweet:

Missing my 10 year reunion for high school this weekend. Time flys :( but I guess it's okay this time ;) #Jeah

He wears these shoes:

Yes, you are seeing it correctly.  They say Lochte on his left foot and Ryan on the right.  And they have his trademark "Jeah" (that's "yeah" with a slighly tinged J sound)

I must say, I think Ryan should be on the left foot because technically isn't that your name backwards otherwise?

I'm sure you've all seen the American flag grill.

That being said.  He needs to just swim and look pretty.  In the meantime, Olympic swimmer fans, please direct your attention to

Nathan Adrian.

USA! USA! USA!

Cribless

My SIL is giving birth to my fourth and last niece or nephew sometime in the next week to 10 days.  We offered her the crib and dresser/changing table that PJ and Maggie used.

Which meant we needed to get Maggie into a big girl bed.

So we bought her bed. 

And I bought her Tinkerbell bedding. 

John disassembled the crib. 

I cleaned out the dresser.

And now, our house is cribless.

I'm not sad.  I'm happy.  My babies are growing up so fast but this age, the toddler stage, is awesome.  Especially with PJ - we can have conversations, he notice things, is aware of what's going on, remembers things, can express his feelings and thoughts.

My baby girl is now a big girl.  In a big girl bed. 

Time flies.

The Dance

I'm glad I didn't know...the way it all would end.  The way it all would go.

Our lives are better left to chance.  I could have missed the pain.  But I'd have had to miss the dance.

This song played at my mom's funeral.

Five months today Mama.

I fucking miss you.

See it in Stone

Miranda Lambert's "Over You" came out on radio play in mid-February, right before my mom passed.

My mom was cremated.  We didn't bury her ashes till June.

There's a line in the song

It really sinks in, you know, when I see it in stone.

I think of this line often.

I'm not a cemetery person.  I choose to remember those I've lost in happy ways -- not buried in dirt. My grandmother, who helped raise me, who I adored with my whole heart, passed away in 1997.  Not once have I visited her grave.

However, my husband is.

And my father-in-law, who passed 13 months before my mom, is buried at the same cemetery as my mom.

Four spots away.

So when he wants to go to the cemetery, I feel it would be hurtful and disrespectful to not go "visit" my mom.

I break down every time.

This time, as I got on my hands and knees and tried to make sense of the name carved in the marble, I saw something that looked like a piece of paper, a thick piece of paper.

I picked it up.

It was a card.  A card, with her name in a heart.  From my stepdad.  For their anniversary, no doubt.  Eighteen years on June 25.

It broke my heart.

John helped me up, and back to the car.  Upon approaching, as he does often when he sees my tears, PJ said,

"Mommy's sad Daddy?  She misses grandma."

And after I got into the car "Mommy, no sad.  Grandma's in heaven.  I love you."  Followed by a smile.

And Maggie, "NO CRY MOMMY!"

And how I want to tell them I don't only cry for my loss, but for their loss of a grandmother who would have made them feel loved and amazing every day of their lives.  A grandmother who would have done anything for them -- and did in the short time she had to enjoy them -- and who would have stopped at nothing to make them the happiest kids on earth.

One day I'll tell them.  One day.  And my heart will break all over again.