The prompt today asks us to come up with a crazy business idea. I was going to cheat and just explain everywhere I’ve worked. Being a ramp hostess for rich people who own private jets. I worked in a large pink building that was supposed to help veterans, but I think it caused them more pain. For years, I spent my life in dark windowless buildings working behind the stage, literally. I’ve worked in broadcast television and news, and that universe is just a lovely bunch of coconuts. And to top it off, I have decided to spend my days teaching other people’s children how to work in broadcast, film, and news. But the idea of funding women during the first five years of motherhood or until their youngest goes to kindergarten is the craziest of them all.
Now hear me out. I know this idea would ruffle feathers, but I think society would benefit from having women at home taking care of their children, if this is the path they choose. This doesn’t mean society forces all women to stay home and never return to their careers. But we have other social programs. This would support parents who homeschool, have multiple children, or have children with special needs.
I have no idea if I could take advantage of such a program. I go stir crazy being at home. But a lot of that factors in knowing that when I leave the house, I spend money and when I was on maternity leave. I was only receiving 60% of my already small paycheck and paying for insurance out of pocket. Teachers really don’t get paid very well. I wanted to do mommy and me classes, spend time with my babies doing bonding things and fun growth and development activities. Honestly, it most likely would have helped a lot with my mental health and postpartum being surrounded by people going through the same things. Instead, I had no choice but to return to the workforce at three months and entrust the care of my child to others.
I hear people now: Well, it was your decision to have kids. If you couldn’t afford to have kids, why did you? No one made you go back. insert eye roll
Without women choosing to bring life into this world, there would be no world left. Everything we worked so hard to create would be for the birds. However, countless women sit daily, grappling with the challenge of surviving, being the best parents, and making a living. It would just be nice to have that support in knowing that there was something for those who are aspiring to be a homemaker. Because that career is not for the faint of heart.
A true homemaker, not someone who hires a nanny and goes to yoga or shopping all day, is a thankless job. They care for the children. Transporting them to school and sports. Helping with homework, taking care of the home and cooking dinner. ( Cooking is a big part of why I would be disqualified.)
Hell, if a man wanted this job, I don’t see why not. I know many amazing fathers who cannot spend time with their kids as much as they would like.
Society and taxes already pays for those who are unemployed. It may be a struggle, but it happens. Welfare provides support for working individuals who cannot adequately provide for their families. Despite hearing all my life that I won’t receive it, social security exists for the elderly as well. So why not add stipulations for those who want to stay home and care for their families?
Society has transformed dramatically in a very short amount of time. We used to have one person home, commonly the mother, and one working, commonly the father. We have placed our children in the care of others. Hoping these people are the best, to care for our little pieces of our hearts.
If maybe those who go to school for early childhood education were given the choice to stay home and raise their families, I feel like there would be another social shift. If children were the focus of their home life instead of chasing a dollar, maybe there wouldn’t be as many problems with the youth that we see now. Parents would be less exhausted and families would be stronger.
But that’s a pipe dream. We can’t even get maternity leave covered in America. How are we going to figure out a way to pay those who have the hardest job on the planet?
The prompt today asked me to describe an item from my youth that I was attached to and explain what happened to it. But I don’t have one item. I have a steamer trunk and plastic storage bins full with them. Apparently, I have attachment and emotional connection to a lot of my belongings and I have unwittingly passed this onto my daughter. Every time my mom and I would go through my belongings to make space and age up my things, I would have a hard time letting go of items that triggered memories.
My stuffed animal collection certainly could have filled an entire room at one point. I never owned that many at once, but in my lifetime, they were definitely a plethora of cute creatures occupying most of my living space. A small fluffy blue bird that “tweeted” when shook, named Peachy, has been with me longer than my memories. That bird sleeps with my daughter now. A strange-looking bear that rattles, named sisterbrother, also occupies her bed. I received this bear around two, because that would have been the age my mom found out she was pregnant with my baby brother. (P.S. he’s 30 something now but still my baby brother.) I probably named it sisterbrother because my parents were explaining to me about the newest addition to our family. I have a Care Bear my mom gave me in college. It’s Sleepytime Bear and, of course, it lives in Adelyn’s room as well. Having a daughter makes it easy to pass on all the toys that brought me comfort as a child. She even has a few stuffed animals that my mom made as a child. Those sit on a shelf because they are delicate and she knows they are for looking, not playing. But she will take them down for tea parties because, as she says, “tea parties are gentle and everyone needs a party.”
I went on adventures with my action figures. Especially the female team members of the X-men, and I kept the ones that I played with daily. My daughter has them now. They battle with her barbies or rescue animals from whatever danger she puts them in. Honestly, watching her get joy out of the toys that brought me happiness for years makes my heart swell. I felt silly for years keeping these, hoping I could share them with my daughter. A risk because there was no way to know if I would ever have a daughter. I don’t know what would have happened if she never came along, and I am not even going to entertain that idea.
She cherishes everything, knowing that they were once mine. Adelyn will bring me things to cuddle with her and tell me stories about what they have done while I was at work. She gets excited and asks if she can pass on her stuffies to her daughter that she has one day. I tell her, of course, and ask what if she has a boy? She will tell me, “Don’t be silly mommy, I’m going to have a girl like you.”
I kept Polly Pockets. She loves how little the old Polly Pockets are compared to the new ones. However, she says that she likes the way the new ones look because the old ones have funny hair. I don’t blame her. They look a bit weird. She has my old Strawberry Shortcake dolls and a Rainbow Bright doll that was passed onto from my cousin. But holding onto these toys has brought on an issue I never thought about. She wants more and I can’t get these toys because no one makes the classics. I have read her the books from my childhood, and she becomes sad knowing there are no more.
I foresee my husband and I having the same issue my parents had. How are we going to store these things that are meaningful to her? When I ask what toys she wants to keep and what she wants to donate, I see the pain I used to have. She is processing emotions and holding the toy, trying to decide if the emotional attachment is one she can part with. I won’t push her. My mom let me hold on to what was important. We would check back as I grew and I will do the same with her. Some things just mean more than others.
The prompt today is: What’s your mission? But that’s not a straightforward question to answer. I wear many hats, so how do I know which mission they are asking about? So I’ll answer for all.
As a mother, my mission is not to raise assholes. Children are only children for such a short time. They will spend a majority of their lives beyond my home and care, making it my duty to raise decent humans. I know it may be a silly concept, but I am not talking about raising people pleasers either. I want my children to know when to be respectful, when to reach out to those in need, and be able to work with others. To know right from wrong, when to seek help or when to problem solve. More importantly, I want them to know when to stand up for themselves and how to leave a dangerous situation.
Parenting is about love and care, and so is teaching. My course is an elective, a choice program that students apply to be a part of. It is considered a career and technical educational course. And for me, it’s so much more than teaching students how to use a camera and edit. I heavily focus my projects on critical thinking and problem solving. I want my students to understand how to research their topics and find credible sources. The aim is to expose the dangers of unquestioning information and to showcase the ease false information can be created. I usually go off script when students are required to engage in the school-wide Mental Health lessons. Most teachers just have the student watch the videos and answer the questions and leave it at that. The students find the lessons to be a waste of time because they include dated examples. However, I speak to the class about my personal life experiences that relate to the lessons. Many students have thanked me because they feel uneasy or need time to process the information after the lessons. After the Techsafe lesson, I have all my students take out their cellphones. I explain to them how metadata works and show them how their pictures create a map of everywhere they have gone. We then go through their settings and turn off different location trackers.
As for being a writer, I don’t have a mission for anyone aside from myself. Writing is therapy. Sometimes I use it to express emotions and negative feelings, and other times to share thoughts I don’t want to keep to myself. I have had thoughts that have been beneficial to others and have found the readers who needed to know they are not alone. However, I don’t market my work or seek attention for what I write. I write for myself, be it my blog, my short stories, or my book. I write because it is a passion, not a mission to make money.
When I first read the prompt, I thought it said what would you do differently? I pre-planned my writing to take you on a journey of how each one of my choices would have changed my life drastically. However, that is not what the prompt said. Instead it says what COULD you do differently? This is a thoroughly different answer because it deals with the present and what I can actively improve in my life. For the new year’s this year, I decided to do just that. I decided that this would be the year I would improve on my mental health.
It’s funny because I am writing this while sitting in a church pew while my daughter is at Sunday school. I overslept and missed our usual 9:30 time. Going to mass, as many Sundays as possible, is something I wanted to change for 2024. I find peace and solace in the services. It has been strange, but whatever my worries have been throughout the week, the message at mass tends to be the answer I am looking for. I leave feeling calm and able to go into my work week with a clear head. I could read the week’s service in my Every Sacred Sunday journal, but there’s something about coming to the service and being a part of the group that adds to my healing.
Journaling is another thing that I am changing this year. Not only do I have the Every Sacred Sunday journal, which prompts me to engage and process what I heard during mass. I am also journaling for myself. I have used blogging almost as a journal for most of my life. I don’t know why I have had issues with journaling since I enjoy writing. Maybe it’s because when I blog I hold back. I keep pieces to myself that I don’t want out on the internet. However, with journaling, it’s just for me. I have only done it a few times, but I have been honest with myself and feelings. It has helped me digest my emotions better instead of keeping them bottled up inside.
I know the whole it’s a new year new you thing is cliche, however I’ve never really taken part in this tradition. This year I decided all the things that I was waiting for and making excuses not to do, I would not allow myself to falter. I need to make time for myself, to care for my well being or there would be nothing left of me. All the reasons I have excused myself for not caring for me have been for my children. But after some harsh reflection, I realized if I didn’t take time away for myself, there wouldn’t be anything left of me for them.
I would like to say that as a creative person, I play all the time, but that’s not true. I am a working mom of three. By the time I get home, I am so burnt out and exhausted from work that I don’t have the same energy to play with my kids the way they would like. My daughter has a massive dollhouse field with barbies, Disney princesses and millions of tiny animals. I’ve always dreamed of having these filling my home, creating stories and wondrous worlds with my daughter, however, it doesn’t happen as much as I’d like.
I remember hours of playing with my dolls and stuffed animals, creating adventures for them to go on. Occasionally, I had friends over, but for the most part, I kept myself occupied. I couldn’t really have my brother play with me. Not that he couldn’t play with dolls, it’s just that he would not have his action figures rescuing my unicorns. Most of the time, they were the reason the unicorn needed to be reduced. I don’t think I was lonely or anything like that. I just enjoyed making up stories and having them play out the way I wanted them to.
I wish my daughter was the same, and in ways she is. She will create crime scenes for her dolls to investigate. She has no problem weaving intricate stories for her toys. However, it is a struggle for her to do it by herself. She will ask me to play. Sometimes I do, but the way she wants to play is to tell me how my doll should act, and what path they should go on. I’m not really playing; I’m more like puppeteering the dolls for her. Most of the time I am fine with it, however when I go off script she meltdown. This turns into a conversation about how when you play, you can not dictate what people do. It’s a learning moment, but not one I want to have.
I know these moments won’t last forever and I cherish them. I just wish I didn’t have to weave them between work, cleaning, sports, and dinner time.
As I got older, I savored spending more of my time outside, primarily at the beach. Surfing was my escape. I didn’t see it as playing, but more of a chance to relax and clear my mind. My daughter is following in my footsteps. She loves being at the beach, building sand castles and playing in the waves. Last summer she finally grasped her swim lessons. I’m hoping as the seasons warms I will make her a stronger swimmer. That way I’ll be able to bring her out on my longboard. I know it will be a struggle at first, but the ocean is one of the best teachers in getting up and trying again.
My playtime has been trying. I find little joy in scarfing my precious time for myself. It’s undoubtedly not healthy to look at it that way, but I’m working on it. Active 1: Instead of waiting for my kids to fall asleep or sneaking away to find time to write, my daughter and I cuddled on the couch. She’s watching a movie and I’m typing next to her. Since she knows how much mommy loves to write, Adelyn keeps peeking over at my words. She read the beginning of the post and a huge smile grew across her face when she realized was writing about her. I didn’t set out to create a total mini me; however, she already has her own stack of journals with stories filling the pages.
While playtime looks different from what I imagined it would be growing up. I know I’m doing the best with my kids. They are their own unique little monsters who I have to learn with them as I navigate what now brings me joy in life.
Please excuse any errors. I wrote this at 3am when I couldn’t sleep.
I find it easy to believe that people once believed depression or other mental illnesses were considered a demonic possession. I mean, do you really want to take responsibility for the thoughts of wanting to drown yourself and wonder if anyone would miss you? No, it must be the devil messing with your head. But I didn’t blame any evil forces for those thoughts. I sought professional help. I probably should have also sought spiritual help, but that’s for other issues entirely.
Since being on summer break, I’ve really had the chance to reflect on some of the differences in my postnatal life with Bennett compared to Adelyn. The first and biggest was being emitted back into the hospital the day after being released and told I would be separated from my newborn son. My logical side knew how dangerous my condition was, but that didn’t mean my emotional side could process what I was going through. Instead of trusting the healing process and getting better, I was bitter. I was alone in a place I detest and fear. To make matters worse, I was about to spend my 36th birthday alone. I have issues with my birthday. My cousin died on my birthday. I’ve had multiple years of people being flaky and disappointing me that I would leave the state so no one could make me feel less on an already horrible day. Physically I was recovering, while mentally, I felt myself breaking and falling apart the longer I stayed in bed with wires attached.
When I came home, I didn’t trust myself to be alone. I knew something was wrong. I loved my children and husband but felt like a shell of myself. There were a lot of moments that I know were faked. Holidays were taxing. Finances were tight. I was only bringing home 60% of my paycheck, and the extra insurance I’d been paying for the last three years just told me my coverage didn’t cover C-sections. Apparently, to them, they were an elected surgery, and they didn’t pay out the hospital stay like they would have if I had a vaginal birth. So that was 600 dollars I had budgeted that disappeared along with three years’ worth of payments.
Instead of thoroughly enjoying the time with my family, I was bombarded with emails and text messages from my students. The person left in charge was less than a glorified babysitter. He didn’t assign the detailed work I left, and the chaos students shared made me feel like I failed them. I know I couldn’t pick their sub, but good Lord, it weighed on me.
For nearly two months, I was at my doctor’s office battling an infection in my incision. Apparently, a small part of my body was reflecting the stitches. There was a laundry list of other things my body was doing, but I don’t fully remember them. I remember thinking everything was happening so fast and slow all at once. I remember, at three weeks, I was sitting in my doctor’s office telling her about how I needed something. Something to help me heal the wounds that no one could see. She said I couldn’t take anything while breastfeeding. I guess my body knew this before I did because my milk had dried up two days before the appointment.
I was nervous about taking a daily antidepressant. I didn’t want to lose myself. But the little voice of my logical self reminded me I was already lost. The shell I was presenting to the world wasn’t me. She ordered me Zoloft. I was warned about weight gain, and it possibly blocking my ability to climax, but I should feel like myself again. I had to fight with the crazy person inside my head, telling her that I could return to normal. Things would just have to change.
Slowly the unexplainable tears stopped. I was more in control of myself. However, instead of weight gain, I had to remind myself to eat. I was dropping weight fast and waiting to the point where I would get dizzy and nearly pass out. Being an appetite suppressant is not one of the side effects; however, I got it. When my cycle finally returned, my PMDD was under much better control. I was far less of a bitch those few days before my period. But I started noticing something strange.
A girlfriend, who used to be a nurse and was prescribed this drug, warned me about a side effect that the doctor didn’t address. Or maybe I didn’t think it would be an issue. I was starting to forget words. I’ve always had small moments when I forgot a word or two. However, while on this little happy pill, I forgot far more than a word or two. It was slowly progressing and becoming more difficult for me to explain things because it felt like a block between my mind and my mouth. A few weeks ago, it went fast passed word. There were moments in my day gone.
That was it for me. It didn’t matter how stable the medication was making me. What was the point if I had no memory? I no longer wanted to kill myself, and I had picked up my house that my depressed state destroyed. I felt better. So I stopped taking the pill of happiness. I was on the lowest dose, so there was nothing to ween off from.
For the last few weeks, things were good until the other day. Adelyn and I were talking, and she told me how her feelings were hurt by someone she thought was her friend. The friend said some really nasty stuff. It reminded me of the fake people I’ve encountered in myself. Only I was much older than her. I had to hold back tears because I hurt so much for her. I never wanted her to feel that way, especially at six years old.
The over feeling of sadness for others’ pain was something new and definitely not something I felt while taking the medication. I’m not sure how I would have felt on the pill. That mental state already feels like years ago.
I’ve also started to dream again. My dreams stopped after having my son. I guess being trapped in a hospital for a week was a living nightmare that my imagination didn’t think it could do better. While on the pill, I’d have dreams but not remember them. They would fade away as soon as I would wake up. Now I’ve returned to the moves that fill my head. Only they are disjointed and not yet useful for me. I wonder, once my brain is fully detoxed, what weird shit it’ll come up with.
But being off the happy pill has brought back my PMDD. I was not prepared for the emotions to be so strong. The rage is the worst. Everyone is doing something wrong by existing. I’m trying my best not to lash out. The kids do not deserve it. It’s not their fault their mother is unstable. I guess that’s why God gave me Bennett.
He’s the happiest little chunk. However, the only time he truly cries and gets upset is when others raise their voice or cry. Bennett is pure innocence. He’s a baby who only knows love, and when others are upset, he doesn’t understand why and will cry too.
I’ve had a few small outbursts that have brought him to tears. It has broken my heart, but it has also quickly changed my mindset. I can’t stay in the negative space because I have to comfort him. And it has to be me because he’s a pure momma’s boy, and Dad just isn’t good enough. Even though his first word was daddy… Which he said clear as day, yelling at Tyler.
So now I’m learning how to be me again without the outside chemical change. It’s uncomfortable, but I no longer feel like I’m fighting a demon whose main goal was to take me to the underworld. The only monster is me, and learning how not to release the angry red panda on my kids or husband. I’ll get through it. I’ve already survived once I know I’ll do it again.
On a Sunday, Adelyn and I joined a friend of mine for her birthday. She had high tea at a cute little tea house downtown. While the other parents grabbed a babysitter and enjoyed an afternoon child-free, I took her with me. Adelyn has been my tiny shadow since she arrived in this world, and I wouldn’t start leaving her behind now. Especially after how fascinate she has become with tea parties since watching the new Alice in Wonderland.
Adelyn, who is a connoisseur of fancy dresses, had originally picked out a dress with a long tulle skirt and long lacy sleeves. It was a lot of work; however, I convinced her to pick a more stubble fancy dress. It was a pink knee-length dress with a bit of tulle and a lacy tank top. She topped off her look with a teal tulle headband. Although I’m certain she would have worn her tiara if she could have found it.
We arrived at the teahouse before everyone else. There was a Victorian-looking settee in the lobby. Adelyn excitedly sat down before quickly standing up again to inspect the tea sets on the coffee table in front of us. She surprised herself when she picked up the pot’s lid and found dry flowers inside.
“Do people drink these?” she asked, returning the lid.
“No,” I told her, pointing at the wall behind us filled with jars of tea. “But they drink these, and they make some from flowers.”
She scrunched her nose. “I don’t want to drink flower water. Can I have chocolate milk?”
Just as she asked me about the chocolate milk, the teahouse owner walked into the lobby. “I think we can do that.” She told Adelyn with a smile.
As we waited for our friends to arrive, Adelyn peaked into the tearoom. “Mommy, we don’t have a fancy hat.”
“We don’t need a hat,” I told her. “Besides, you have a beautiful headband.”
That seemed to put her nerves to rest. Also, so did Rebecca, walking through the door. Adelyn got up from the settee and hugged Rebecca. Shortly after, they guided us to the table the tea party was going to be. Rebecca, Adelyn, and I were all there early. Even with kids, I do my best to arrive at places early. Also, I blame my father and husband for still functioning like they were in the military and making sure we are always fifteen to ten minutes early for everything we do. Rebbecca used to be an officer in the Army, so she is also inflected with this same mindset.
But our early arrival allowed Adelyn to inspect every seat at the table. She chose a cushioned flower seat with a white and gold tea cup. But as she bounced on her chair, I noticed she was inspecting every place setting. Even though she was happy with her seat, she was not pleased with her cup. Especially after she looked at mine. It was a forest green cup with golden details, and on the inside was a pattern of a dragon. Adelyn asked if we could trade. As much as I like the cup, she is five, and this was not a battle I cared to have. Her satisfaction with the cup did not last. She now wanted my flowered tea cup. I told her no; we have already traded once. While Adelyn was inspecting the other cups, Rebecca claimed the dragon cup for herself. Adelyn looked around at the other place settings and chose a pink cup with a golden handle and roses encircling the trim. Thankfully, she decided on her cup before everyone joined us. That would have made for a quiet show, having her switch cups with a table full of adults.
Adelyn’s teapot of chocolate milk arrived with the other guest. We would have to wait until everyone picked their teas before the sandwiches and desserts arrived. I felt bad. Everyone was hm-ing and ha-ing over their choices. I could hear her tummy rumble. Eventually, the pots of tea arrived, and everyone began talking. Adelyn did her best sitting still and acting like a proper little adult. She would lean in and ask me questions about the conversations everyone was having, and she made friends with the person sitting next to her. He was a dad of a little girl just about her age.
“What are they doing?” Adelyn asked when the tea staff returned and started moving pots out of the way.
I leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “I think they are going to bring the food.”
“Finally!” She sighed dramatically.
Three-tiered tower filled the sports on the tables that were once taken up by the tea pots. The first tier had hot cranberry & orange scones with clotted cream and preserves, they filled the second with small sandwiches, and the third held desserts. Adelyn’s eyes got big, and she reached for the desserts.
“Um, no,” I told her as I placed a cucumber sandwich on her plate.
She sniffed the sandwich and turned up her nose to it. “No thank you, I’ll just have a brownie.”
“What are you talking about? You like cucumbers.”
Adelyn lifted the bread and scrunched her nose at what she saw. “But it has the creaming stuff on it.”
“It’s just an herb cream spread.” As I peeled the cucumbers off the bread.
She ate that no problem and before she could reach for another dessert, I already had grabbed a turkey & cranberry sandwich.. She nibbled it up and asked if now she could have the better food. I finally relented and filled her plate with sweet treats. She ate them all and emptied her chocolate milk from her teapot.
After two hours of being a sweet angel baby that I barely had to correct, she leaned into me and whispered. “Can we go home? I’m tired.”
I leaned down and kissed her head and said soon.
Every wrapped up their meal shortly after her request. Not because she asked to go home but it was closing time. We hugged everyone and said our goodbyes. She held my hand as we walked to the car and I looked down at her and smiled.
“Did you have fun?” I asked opening the door for her.
“Yes!” she beamed, climbing into her seat.
“What was your favorite part?” I asked once I started the car.
She thought for a moment. “Spending time with just you.”
It made my heart feel good to hear that. It’s what I wanted for her since she has been so good with her little brother. I wanted her to feel special and the tea party did just that.
When my daughter was turning, three Facebook-targeted ads caught me in their trap. They were promoting a photographer in north Florida that did amazing unicorn photo shoots. I shared it as a pipe dream because I didn’t really have the money to spend on something so extravagant. However, I didn’t have to. A family friend offered to pay for the pictures, and I gladly accepted.
Adelyn and I journeyed up to the Cape Canaveral area to stay with a friend of mine. I was nervous about the trip. Not because of the length of the drive, but because this was the first time it would be just Adelyn and I going somewhere for this long without my husband. It may seem a little paranoid to some, but I was concerned about if we had to stop at a rest stop. Adelyn and I are both small, which makes for a very easy target. I worked in local news, and the number of stories we had covered over the years about distracted mothers being abducted or targeted lived in the forefront of my mind. But these worries were unnecessary. Aside from the quick drive-through stop at McDonald’s, we didn’t need to make a stop.
On our drive up, I wondered how Nikki and her husband would handle having a toddler in their home. They had married just a year before, and I wasn’t sure if they had even thought about having kids. Even though Adelyn was a very well-behaved toddler, having a small energetic human in your home is a big adjustment. When we pulled into the driveway, Jerry and Nikki were both there. I am truly grateful for adult friendships because even though it had been a year since we had seen each other; it felt like we just saw each other at work. While I took our overnight bag and Adelyn’s fairy princess dress out of the car, Nikki scooped up Adelyn and took her inside. Adelyn put on a quick fashion show for Nikki as they prepared a delicious toddler-friendly dinner of chicken nuggets and french fries in the air fryer. I’m not sure how Nikki and I had a conversation with how much my little chatterbox dominated most of the exchange, but over wine and a stunning sunset, we were able to catch up on each other’s lives. By the time we went to bed, all I could think of was how wonderful Nikki and Jerry did with having a three-year-old invade her space. I guess I was unknowingly preparing them for their little boy that would join them in a few short years.
The next morning, the three of us drove to the ranch where the pictures were taking place. It was May, and you never know what that means weather-wise in Florida. You could face sweltering heat or a monsoon. Thankfully, we didn’t have to deal with sweltering heat or humidity, and somehow we were blessed by the beautiful, breezy, cool weather. As we drove up the drive of the ranch house, we saw a horse barn off to the left. Behind the ranch house was a field with brown and white horses grazing. I was hoping to see a different set of horses in the fields because, in the winter, the ranch house hosted Clydesdale carriage rides, however, to trick people into forgetting they lived in Florida. Adelyn saw the horses from the backseat and wondered if those were the unicorns. I told her no. Those were just normal horses.
“Good,” she said. “Because those horses are tooooo big. They are scary.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that horses were usually that big. I had seen pictures of the horses they used for the unicorns, and even though they weren’t the brown and white ones in the field, there were still a few large white horses. Thankfully, they had a small white one named Sugar.
A little to the left of the horse barn was a wooded path. I told Adelyn to look, and there, standing in the middle of the path, was the large white unicorn. We arrived a little early, and the previous photoshoot was still going on. Adelyn squealed and wanted to run toward the unicorns, but I had to stop her. I didn’t want her to interrupt the other little girl’s magical moment. We headed to the horse barn, hoping to find something that might distract my overly eager little girl.
While we waited, we walked through the barn, and the tiny unicorn Sugar was waiting in front of the stalls. I hung back, watching Adelyn walk to the barn. Her long tulle skirt made her look as if she was floating. Everything felt magical at that moment. Adelyn was so excited to see a unicorn that she wasn’t sure how to react. There was lots of squealing, and she reached out to touch the small pony, but instead of walking towards her, the pony shook her head, and Adelyn became wary of the pony.
“Oh no,” I thought. “We did not drive all this way for her to suddenly be scared of horses.”
Tentatively, she reached out a hand to pet the pony’s nose, and it snorted at her. She giggled, and everything seemed to be alright. Which was good because it was our turn for the pictures.
I spoke with the photographer, and she asked if Adelyn would be okay with sitting on a horse. I wasn’t sure. Before this afternoon, I would have instantly answered yes. But Adelyn was starstuck by the unicorns, and my adventurous little girl had become shy. The photographer said we could try, but we won’t push anything. Along with the unicorn, there were two other locations that the photographer showed me. She asked me if Adelyn could swing by herself. Adelyn had just turned three a few days ago. While she loved swinging, she couldn’t swing by herself, but she could sit on a “Big Girl Swin.” As the photographer showed me the tea party set up, a ranch hand asked Adelyn if she wanted to go for a pony ride. I don’t know where my phone was, but luckily Nikki was there to capture Adelyn at the moment.
The photoshoot was magical. Adelyn was a fairytale princess running through the woods. Dancing and trawling through the sunlight that poured in through the leaves. While she was hesitant about the large unicorn, she allowed the ranch hands to lift her up and put her on his back. I stood beside her and kept her calm while the photographer snapped pictures. You never know what kind of attitude to expect from a toddler, and I was so proud of how well-behaved my little three-year-old was. She smiled and laughed as she sat in the princess chair with the pony Sugar next to her. At one point, they even let her hold Sugar’s reins. Lucky for us, Adelyn just stood there with the pony instead of trying to wander off with him.
When it was time to swing, Adelyn asked if I could sit next to her. I was elated that she wanted me with her. As much as these pictures were for her, I wanted someone to capture special moments between my daughter and me. Not saying my husband doesn’t take pictures, but he is not a professional photographer, and my day-to-day wear is not a lovely flowing dress.
The photographer allowed Adelyn to pick a spinning tulip from the basket as the session ended. She picked a blue one to match her skirt. Sadly, the three of us piled into the car and headed back to Nikki’s. Adelyn chattered in the backseat, spinning her tulip and occasionally stabbing me with the stem in the back of the head.
After we received the professional pictures, I marveled at how well the photographer could Photoshop the bridle off the horse’s face. She even made the ranch hands disappear. I may be a video editor by trade; however, I have no skill when it comes to Photoshop. My husband and I printed out our favorite pictures, and Adelyn picked a few that she liked best. And soon, the photoshoot became a distant fond memory. That was until Adelyn entered kindergarten two years later.
Adelyn came home from school one day very upset. She went into her room and brought out a picture of her on a unicorn.
“See!” she proclaimed.
“See what?” I asked.
“Unicorns are real!” She said admittedly. “I met one, and no one believes me.”
“Oh fuck,” I thought.
While I had been so excited about the pictures and worried about things that could happen to us on the drive to and from, I never once thought about what these pictures might do. My daughter held in her hand a picture of her with a unicorn. Adelyn truly believed that these horses were really unicorns. She even saw the pictures with the bridle on the pony and said it was there because that’s where the reins go, and she wasn’t wrong.
I did not know how to handle the situation. She still believes in Santa, the Easter bunny, and the tooth fairy. If I told her unicorns weren’t real, what kind of chaos was I about to unleash?
“Not everyone may have the chance to have such a magical meeting,” I told her, trying to think of the best way to handle the situation. “You were very lucky and had the chance to have a magical moment and pictures from it. You don’t always have to make people believe you. What matters most is you hold this moment in your heart forever. What do you feel when you look at the pictures?” I asked her.
She looked at the picture and thought for a moment. “Happy and pretty.”
“Then that’s all the matters.” I smiled at her. “Do you feel less pretty because they don’t believe?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then who cares what they believe?”
That answer seemed to be good enough because she ran off and started harassing her older brother.
There have been times throughout the year that Adelyn has brought up that the boys in her class don’t believe her. But now the girls are saying they believe in fairies and other magical creatures.
Eventually, I might tell her the unicorns she met were just horses. But I might not have to. Adelyn is extremely smart. Who knows, one day, she might pick up the pictures and see the bridle for something more than just holding the reins.
I never thought I’d have three kids. I always thought I’d have two, and in a way, I do. I birthed two and my husband came with our oldest. When we started dating, it wasn’t just the two of us, we were always a party of three, and I was fine with that. Markie is and was a fantastic kid.
So when I found out that I was pregnant, I was excited. Not just because I was going to have a daughter but because Markie would now have a friend.
I could not have asked for a better amazing little boy. Mark went from being an only child in both households to the oldest when he was home with his dad and me. I was worried about how he would adjust to having a little sister, but my worries were for nothing. He was caring and sweet, and that love has only grown as he and his sister have aged.
Adelyn is obsessed with her Markie. Everything he does, she wants to do with him. He skateboards, and she wants to skateboard. He plays baseball. She wants to play it too. But with the five-year age difference, things can get challenging. Mark wants his independence from his little sister, and I understand that. Only it’s hard to explain that to Adelyn. On the days when Mark is at his mom’s, Adelyn is waiting for him to come home. Sometimes I’ll find her in his room stealing a stuffed animal. When I ask her what she’s doing, she’ll tell me the stuffed animal is sad and lonely because Markie is gone.
I thought our family was complete with just the two of them. That was until my hormones told me otherwise, and I had a minor meltdown when I finally told my husband I wanted a third child.
While pregnant, the worries about how the two older children would adjust to a new fresh baby came flying back. I didn’t know how Adelyn would adjust to sharing her one on one attention with a new baby. Part of me wanted to have another little girl so they could play when Mark wasn’t here and gang up on him while he was here. But the universe had a different idea, and we were blessed with another little boy. A little boy that Mark and my husband were thrilled about because both of them said they could not handle another Adelyn.
We grew from a family of four to a party of five with Bennett’s arrival. And just like with Mark, my worries were unnecessary. Adelyn and Mark both dote on their little brother. Showering him with love and affection. The five, five, five age difference has worked out in our favor. When I need to put Bennett down to make him a bottle or do the dishes, he’s never alone. He always has someone talking to him and giving him attention. This works out wonderfully for Adelyn. She has a trapped audience to sit and listen to her stories or songs. Bennett coos and babbles with her. However, Mark might be screwed. He’ll be fifteen and have a ten-year-old sister and a five-year-old little brother fighting for his attention. But secretly, I think he loves it.
Mark will sit on the couch and play fight with the baby. He says Bennett is working on his ninja skills. Now that Bennett can hold things, Mark will put stuff in his hands only for his baby brother to throw it back at him. Mark is convinced that Bennett will be playing baseball the moment he can walk, which is a terrifying thought, a toddler with a bat.
While the days are long and busy with sports and trying to navigate it all with an infant, I don’t think we’d have it any other way. My kids are wonderful. It’s probably why I asked my husband for a fourth and why he has a vasectomy scheduled. There’s no way we’d be lucky enough to have four amazing kids.
Today is the first day of spring break. It’s 57° degrees and overcast. Usually, I would complain about the weather not being warm and sunny, but today I’m grateful. I don’t think I’ve let myself rest since returning to work. Between softball, baseball, and a very feisty newborn, the only time my brain gets to relax is when my eyes are closed. However, today I’m finally listening to my body and doing nothing.
It’s a struggle not to do anything. For some reason, I can’t just relax. Even now, as I lay on the couch and fight sleep, I’m trying to ignore how much I have to do. But laundry can wait. I need to listen to my body and rest. I must let go of the guilt that I don’t have any amazing adventures planned for my daughter and me. Not like she’s going to complain. Right now, she’s snuggled up next to me, watching her favorite shows.
I hoped being off social media and unable to voyeuristically watch people’s spring breaks would keep away the guilt, but it’s not working. Some of my friends are on a road trip with their families. Others are enjoying the cool weather and camping. Some are on cruises.
But even if I embraced my adventurous side this spring break, I doubt I would thoroughly enjoy it. I need rest. It was only four months ago that I was opened up to bring life into this world. My body may look like I was never pregnant, but that’s not the case. I’m physically and mentally drained. Sometimes my incision will still hurt because of the scar tissue. And even though my amazing little nugget sleeps through the night, I am not. Sometimes I lay awake listening to his adorable sleepy coos or worrying about how we’ll afford daycare when he goes in August.
I’m fighting to stay awake as I write this, but I don’t have a choice. I hear my son has woken up from his nap. That means this moment of rest is over, and I’ll need to go back into full mom mood. Hopefully, he’ll nap again, and this time I’ll sleep with him so my body can continue to heal and recover. I must remind myself that it takes nine months to make a baby and just as long to recover. I only wish the professional world in America would remember that.
