You’ve heard that before.

2 under 2

3 under 5

Whatever your number, your combination.

 It’s hard.

You will run ragged cutting the crusts off of sandwiches and wiping noses.  All after waking up 7 times the night before.  Each time a different child.  A different need.  A bottle.  A reassuring back rub.  A hand in the bathroom.

It’s hard.

But you’ve heard that before.

I thought I’d beat the crowds to Costco today.  Thought I’d get there while everyone else was still lounging around the house this gorgeous Sunday morning.  Maybe the crowds would be at church.  Or on the soccer field.

At 8 am I set my imaginary goal to leave by 9:30.  An hour and a half to get ready and out the door.  Just 1 adult and 3, kids since my husband has been away for work.  Or should I say 3 on 1.  Because that’s what it feels like most of the time when he’s gone.

I poured the wrong cereal, stepped on 4 toys and had wiped 2 butts by the time the oven clock showed 8:36.  I had to remind myself to breathe.  Because at this point my fuse isn’t even short.  I think it’s gone.

It’s hard.

I run upstairs to get the kids dressed.  Hand the baby a toy to keep him entertained and wrangle the 3 year old into a shirt and shorts.  I already hear whining from my daughter’s room.  This dress????  Why THIS dress????

Breathe.

Socks.  Where are the socks?  Crap!  I didn’t take the laundry out of the dryer.  Back downstairs.  Throw the laundry on my bed and fold a few items until I come across a matching pair of socks.

I heard my voice bellow up the stairs “letssss gooooooo” and then I wait.  Did they pick up their toys?  I have no idea.  So, I yell again “clean up!!!!!”  There, that should keep them busy for a minute.

I look down at the baby who is just staring at me.  “Sorry for screaming” I mumble and I take him into my room to get dressed.  I brush my teeth and take a quick look at my face.  Yep, totally forgot to take my makeup off last night.  Much less do that new 5 step skin care routine I promised myself I would start.  Oh well.  Throw some water on my face and search for my hat.  What day is today?  Do I have to wash my hair?

I glance at the oven clock.  It’s 9:11.

I yell once again for them to come down.  They stand there sheepishly in bare feet just waiting for me to ask if they picked up their rooms.

 I don’t.

I know the answer.

I toss socks at them, grab the hair detangler and resume last night’s fight with my daughter.  You see, she needed a trim and I thought how hard could it be?  Harder than I thought actually and I spent the rest of the night trying to convince her that no one gets their hair cut in a straight line anymore.

Definitely a pony tail for her.

I wipe faces and tie laces.  Load up the baby and grab an arsenal of snacks and toys.

Oven clock reads 9:41.

Not horrible. We were off.

Apparently so was everyone else because the store was wall to wall people.  Bulk shopping is apparently a big deal on Sunday mornings.  Who knew?

It took almost an hour but we managed to grab the things we needed and make our way to the checkout.  At this point the baby is whining and the kids are sick of sitting so close to one another and of course I brought my expired Costco card.

My kids then spot the food court and start singing for hot dogs.  It’s 11am.  I said I’d grab one and we could take it home.  But I quickly lost that argument because I didn’t have any fight left in me.  So there we sat.  Right by the line to leave.  Hot dogs for them.  Deluxe slice of pizza for me.

Another failed attempt at a diet I guess.

I’m watching the people leave, walking towards the exit of the store.

Combed hair.  High heels.  Dresses.  

Where do these moms come from?!

I literally felt myself sinking lower onto the red plastic bench.  Their kids are older.  Look, her husband is here to help her.  She only has one child.  I reasoned with myself.  I was suddenly suffocating in my yoga pants.  I became very aware of my hat and yesterday’s eye makeup.

 I felt ashamed.

Why couldn’t I get it together?  I should have woken up earlier.  How can they do it and I can’t?

The baby let out a shriek snapping me out of my self loathing trance.  Out of the corner of my eye I watch my son tip his water over.

Breathe.

I have to remind myself, as I stuff the last bite of crust into my mouth.  From the slice I pizza I wasn’t even hungry for.

And then I see her.

2 kids in tow.  And another in the cart.  Scolding one and holding hands with the other.  Her arm sleeve has leftover Crayola paint on it and it’s obvious that she didn’t brush her hair.  I hear the tone of her voice as she asks them what they want to eat.  She’s barely there.  Hanging on by a thread.  I know she just wants to scream “hot dog or pizza damnit!!!!”  But she doesn’t.  Because she’s a good mom.  But I watch her grind her teeth while her toddler chooses.

And then she sees me.

Mopping up spilled water and trying to console the baby.  Yelling at my 3 year old not to walk away from me and begging my 6 year old to help get the trash together.  Time stops for a second.

 And she nods in my direction. 

Seeing me.  Really, truly seeing me.

 I smile.

And then as quickly as it stops, life resumes. We turn our heads and get back to the tasks at hand.

Silently calculating the hours until bedtime.

It’s hard. 

But you’re not alone.

It’s easy to feel “less than” when comparing yourself to others.  They are not all in the same stage of life as you.  They are not all in the same place as you.  This stage of life is hard.  Find your people.  The ones in your boat.  And hang on to them.  For dear life if you have to.  Cry to them.  Complain to them.  Eat rows of cookies with them.

The time will pass.

And one day you will be at Costco when it opens with your perfectly scrubbed children and their straight haircuts.  And you will have washed your hair and put mascara on.  You won’t have baby oatmeal stuck to your shirt.

And when you see another mom in that “oh so hard” stage of life, will you nod at her?  Give her recognition and hope.  Show her that you see her.  Your nod will keep her going.  Remind her that you have been there.  To slow down.  To breathe.  That these years will go too fast.  That she might actually miss them.  She can’t see any of that right now.  As she reminds a child to use table manners and wipes up spilled ketchup.  She just needs your nod to remind her that she is not alone on this journey.

Because we all know it’s hard. 

But it doesn’t have to be lonely.

XO Danielle

I love to connect with my readers on social media, so feel free to share this with a friend, pin it, and find me on Instagram and Facebook.

I had this wild notion to breastfeed my 3rd baby.  Before you get all twisted at the thought of “wild notion” let me explain.  The idea of breastfeeding to me was and still is a bit wild.  As in wild animals.  Dairy farms.  Nursing pups.  Baboons on display at the zoo with babies hanging from their nipples.  Wild.  Now before you start on the breast is best commentary, come on down from your righteous throne and get over it.  Not everyone feels that way. 

Fed is best. 

Period. 

You won’t win that argument here.

My babies have been fed formula, pumped milk and now exclusively breast fed and honestly they all cry and whine and I’m sure they’ll all grow up to similar degrees of crazy so let’s just agree to feed our babies and leave it at that. 

K, thanks.  

So where were we.  I decided to breastfeed baby 3 for a number of reasons.  All my babies were c sections and a small part of me feels like I may have missed something in the delivery that may have made me feel…a little more heroic.  I mean, you have moms pushing babies out of their VAGINAS and I’m over here with my hair blown out on an operating table asking them for a xanax cocktail through my IV.  And as sad as I may be about missing out on my babies trip down the birth canal, my vagina is still in tact so there’s a silver lining. 

However my fear of missing out on important life experiences made me realize that if I didn’t try to breastfeed baby 3 I would never have another opportunity.  That and the promise google made to me that my uterus would shrink at a record pace.  Spoiler alert, googles a liar. 

A dirty, rotten liar.  

So I made the decision to try to breastfeed.  It went like this “ok boobs.  We’re gonna give this a go.  Don’t look at me like that, I don’t think I’ll like it either.  You either step up to the plate or sit on the sidelines but I can promise you that if you don’t give it your all on the first shot we are calling game and headed back home to our comfort zone”. 

I was feeling pretty good about myself and my decision until we got to the hospital.  I immediately got asked the number one question.  Breast or bottle feeding?  The nurse just stared at me with those pleading, “please say breast because it just makes the world a better place” eyes.  Breast it was.  But I just want to know why they are so damn nosy about all of it.  I mean, here I am hiding behind my curtain.  Trying to maintain the 1/2 an ounce of dignity I have left since someone came in every 4 hours during the night to change my wee wee pad and spray my privates with warm water.  And all I can hear is “did he latch?  How’s he doing?”. 

And the panic sets in.

At this point I am literally shoving my nipple into the babies mouth.  The baby is reaching up with his mouth wide open similar to a seal at feeding time, yet this guy isn’t catching any fish.  I’m shoving, he’s missing.  Nurse Nosy is still on the other side of the curtain playing a rapid fire game of 20 questions.  Just when I started to literally drip sweat and curse and threaten that if the baby didn’t latch in another 20 seconds I would be submitting my paperwork to the Similac strong moms webpage and going to feed him a bottle, he latched. 

And so our breastfeeding journey began.

 One of the best parts about breastfeeding besides the obvious health benefits is that it’s freeeeeee.  And trust me I know plenty of “if it’s free it’s for me moms” that breastfeed primarily for this purpose.  (I was hoping for the miraculously shrinking uterus but we will touch on that later.). I just want to be the first to let you know that the whole promise of free… falls flat.  Flat on its face in the nursing aisle at target as you’re tossing these items into your cart.

Nursing pads: because your sick of walking around with big old wet spots on your shirt and shoving toilet paper in your bra is so middle school.

Nipple cream: because no one told you that achieving that perfect latch can also feel like 38 million of the tiniest and sharpest knives exiting your nipples.  Oh, and not to mention things crack and bleed and blister.  And yeah, I’m not talking about your heels in the winter.  I’m still talking about your poor, sweet nipples.  They will take a beating.  And you will pay any amount of money to numb them.

Milk producing aides: maybe your lucky to be able to nurse your baby 8 times a day and still manage to pump 20 oz to build up a freezer stash.  Maybe you’ve been blessed by the gods in the milky heavens.  However if you weren’t, which I assume many are not…you will find yourself eating certain foods to “up” your production.  Things are going well you think but then you see those mamas posting pictures of their stash in the Facebook pages.  Suddenly you have this competitive need to pump enough milk to feed every infant in your town.  No, your entire state.  So in go the supplements.  drops, chews, drinks, cookies.  Challenge accepted.

And just when you think your cart is finally full don’t forget to grab that nursing cover, because god forbid someone know what’s going on under there // a nursing bra, because yes you will have to leave the house and wear a bra at some point // milk freezer bags, to store all that extra supply obviously // and set a reminder to order all new pump parts because you could swear you read somewhere to change them out every few months.  

Another fun breastfeeding fact is that you can throw your schedule out the window.  I am hardly a type A but I do like my babies on a schedule.  Eat at 8, sleep at 10, repeat all day until bedtime.  But no.  Breastfeeding is an entirely different animal.  It’s more along the lines of eat, eat, eat, cry to eat, eat more, snack time, eat because the snack wasn’t enough, eat, eat, eat and bedtime.  Bedtime of course means another 3 maybe 4 meals.

I mean.  Oh my word!  There is really no point to wearing a shirt in the beginning.  And I promise you it’s normal to google things such as:

“Why does my baby nurse constantly?”

“Can my baby really be this hungry?”

“Can someone please explain the nursing benefits to me again because I would really love to take a shower without a baby hanging from my boob?”

And the answers? 

It’s for comfort, growth spurt, developmental learning.  

Great.  So I’m a human pacifier to the fastest growing baby who will one day cure cancer.

I guess I can live with that.

But honestly speaking, how can we forget to talk about the bond.  No one can describe or explain that one.  It’s a try it for yourself and see.  It’s why I forgot everything that I wrote above and kept on nursing past my goal.  It’s a feeling that your baby has needs that only you can fulfill and while it can and will be exhausting it’s also extremely gratifying.   Those sweet nursing moments sitting in a big chair with only a lamp on for light will be memories that I will never forget. 

And trust me, I didn’t think I would be able to do it. 

I didn’t think I would be physically able to handle being the only person able to do every feeding with 2 other kids running around.  Or have the guts to nurse in public.  I tell you, no one was as shocked as I was to be sitting on a public bench with a baby on my boob.   But you’ll sort of just become a total mama bear, or perhaps mama cow fits better.  You will surprise yourself in what you are capable of.  And you will be so happy that you did it.

So yes, breastfeeding definitely has more to it then the pamphlets in labor and delivery let on.  The ups and downs will leave you exhausted and you will want to quit all of the time.  But you won’t.  And when you do, you will cry.  I can promise you that.  My only hope is that you have a smooth sailing journey nursing journey.  That you let the good outweigh the bad, that your nipples don’t bleed and that you produce more milk then a dairy farm.  Oh and that your uterus shrinks at a rapid pace.  Because if you haven’t guessed, mine did not and so I pray you are one of the chosen ones. 

So go on, give your girls a little pep talk and good luck!

XO Danielle

I love to connect with my readers on social media, so feel free to share this with a friend, pin it, and find me on Instagram and Facebook.

Well here we are again.  For the 3rd time in your life you have entered your 9th month of pregnancy and let’s face it, this shit sucks.  Stop acting so surprised already.  You’ve been here before.  Uncomfortable.  In pain.  Growing exponentially.  Hungry.  Exhausted.  Oh my god are you exhausted.   Just the other day you fell asleep at a stop light, and again on the chair in the library while your first and second born fought over the ISPY books.  Hang in there.  You knew what to expect.  Didn’t you?  You’ve been here before.  Or did you forget?

Did you forget how you would wake up every hour just to change which side you were lying on.  Left, right, no left.  Only it took so long to actually roll your body over that after the 10 minute production was finished you would be wide awake for another 45 minutes.  

Did you forget how each day you would look in the mirror at your once flat stomach and see that shockingly you were even bigger then the day before.  When you didn’t think it was even possible for your skin to stretch any further.

Did you forget how each morning you would look down to find a new stretch mark or varicose vein?  Or how one day you would take off your bra and think “whose freaking boobs are these?!?”  

Maybe you forgot how fast things would change.  How the pants that fit you on Tuesday would mock you from a crumpled heap in the corner on Thursday.   

Or did you forget how heavy it was to carry a watermelon around every second of every day.  How you would be dead tired but couldn’t sit on the couch because you wouldn’t be able to pull your ass out of the cushions.  

Did you forget how hard it was to try to steer your car?  No u-turns until you give birth.  Got it?  There is simply NO room for you to turn the wheel that much in a safe manner.  

You obviously forgot. 

But you’re remembering now.  As you fight back tears every time you take a shower.  Because every single part of your body hurts.  How you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and can’t even fathom how your body will ever return to normal.  

But do you know what you’re really forgetting?  You’re forgetting the miracle.  You’re forgetting is how lucky you are to be here right now.  In your ninth month.  Miserable and all.  I know it’s hard to see the beauty of the situation from behind the 10 layer chocolate cake you are devouring but trust me. 

This is so good. 

Every ache, pain and stretch mark is worth it.  And it won’t last forever.  

So you have to stop.  You have to stop thinking you’re not beautiful.  You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself.  You have to stop bursting into tears because you took a recount of your stretch marks and welcomed 5 new friends to the family.  Just stop.  Stop feeling attacked when people comment on how big you are.  Stop feeling offended when people are shocked that you are literally not going to give birth in the line at TJ Maxx because you are seriously just that gigantic.  I’m looking at you cashier #5.  

Just stop.  

And while your at it take a deep breath.  If that’s even possible at this point.  Breathing at all in your 9th month is a struggle.  Or at least trying to breathe without sounding like a water buffalo is.  

You are at the end.  The final countdown.  Your body worked hard for so many months to get you to this moment.  

The bottom line is don’t be so hard on yourself.  Chances are you wont bounce back.  I’m just being honest.  And that’s o.k.  You’ll get there in time.  Slowly but surely your body will readjust.  Heal.  Return to its normal state.  Or maybe it will be a new normal.  Either way, you will forget all about the 9th month misery.  Heck, maybe you’ll even miss it.  But I’ll promise you one thing.  You will be beautiful.  Every step of the way.  

XO, Danielle

I love to connect with my readers on social media, so feel free to share this with a friend, pin it, and find me on Instagram and Facebook.

Can you remember the time we took that vacation.  To a tropical island.  We joked and laughed and drank fruity frozen cocktails.  I wore a bikini and we had sex in the middle of the afternoon.  It seems like forever ago.  Before my stretch marks and C-section scar.  Before I worried all the time about whether or not our babies ate enough vegetables and if they were going to sleep through the night.  I can almost remember the confidence I had.  Just yanking off my pool dress.  Tossing it on the chair like I never needed it.   I cling to that pool dress now.   Like my life depends on it, I cling to that dress.  Just like I cling to the memories of that vacation.  Of how I felt so free and comfortable in my own skin.   My skin feels different now.  Almost unrecognizable.  Like I am stuck in someone else’s body.  Someone whose body is out of control.  Mood swings.  Loose skin.  Hot, then cold, no hot.  Very, very hot.  Stretch marks.  Whose body am I wearing?  Why are they so hormonal?  Where is my fruity cocktail???

I didn’t expect these changes.  Honestly.  I thought I would bounce back.  I was young!  I was supposed to give birth and hit the beach the next month.  I wasn’t supposed to look like this.  Or feel like this.  I was supposed to look like I was 24 again.  The same girl who you dated for years before we got pregnant.  The girl who never cared if we left the lights on.  That girl never came back.  She took my confidence.   She ran with my flat stomach.  She took all the good parts of me and now she’s gone.

And so I cringe.  I cringe sometimes when you try to touch me.  When you walk into the bathroom after I shower I panic.  Don’t look.  Don’t see me like this.  I feel so different now.  So shy and unsure of myself.  I see all those confident moms proud of their “stripes” and of how they look post partum, but I feel embarrassed.   I feel uncomfortable in the body that I was left with.  After the 2 pregnancies.  After waking up 3 times a night for months at a time.  Each time eating a cookie on the way to the nursery because it made me feel better.  And I deserved to at least feel a little better if I was missing out on all that sleep.  I was left with a body that won’t fit in any of my designer jeans.  Jeans that now crowd the corner of my closet.  Jeans that I won’t give away because I still have faith in myself.  I still pray that the old me comes back.  Maybe I’ll wake up one day and see her in the mirror.  With her wrinkle free forehead and perky boobs.

So meet the post partum me.  2 times over.  This is how I feel.  But you?  You tell me otherwise.  Day in and day out, you tell me how beautiful I am.  How you don’t even see the extra 15 lbs.  You turn your head when I eat the entire bag of potato chips.  You never judge me.  Never speak a word of my mood swings.   You love me just the same.  If not more.  You have the confidence in me that I lost.  You carefully push me to be the best version of myself.  This new version of myself.  And so I have to wonder.  If you can love her…why can’t I?

So that’s where I’m at.  Trying to love myself once again.  Trying to make this new person the best person.  Trying to accept the different parts of me and to appreciate my body for what it has done.  It isn’t easy for me.  I’ll be honest.   It is hard for me to accept these changes but I am going to try.

And so I thank you.  For loving me.  No matter what I look like or how I feel.  Thank you for always thinking I am the prettiest.  The best.  The sexiest.  Even when I don’t feel like it.   I am going to work hard on loving myself the way that you love me.  Because the way you love me is the greatest way of all.

XO Danielle

I love to connect with my readers on social media, so feel free to share this with a friend, and find me on Instagram and Facebook.

You don’t deserve what I’m about to throw at you.  You left this morning kissing good-bye a cheery wife and kids who were still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.  You worked your full day and are completely unsuspecting of what is about to hit you when you walk through the door.

Let me start from the beginning.  Moments after your car turned the corner leaving for a busy day at work your 4 year old decided she was never eating breakfast again.  Complete with a tantrum thrown in the pantry as she shouted the day old question.. Why oh why can’t I have m&ms for breakfast??

Because I said so.

Crying continues.  Your son took his cup of Cheerios and quietly marked a trail leading from the toy box to his bedroom and back again.  In case Indiana Jones gets lost after his nap I’m sure the cereal will lead him back to his favorite soccer ball.  That is if the ants don’t carry the trail off first.  Oh who am I kidding.  He would never nap that long.

After playing (trashing) the playroom and once again refusing to clean up a single toy {I’m too hot and dizzy and tired to clean now.  I really just need to relax} I began to lose my cool.

You see, breakfast tantrums I can handle.  Even the craziest of kids can be calmed with a cup full of cereal, netflix and the promise of a treat later.  Mother of the year, I know.  The Cheerio trail was swept up more easily than the precision it was placed down with.   But looking at the toys thrown all over the playroom had me ticking.  As I threw toys into their designated baskets I explained to your daughter that I would not be going back in there to play with her.  Ever.  Dramatic I know, but I too was hot and tired from cleaning up.  Cue the tears once again.

I wiped smushed peanut butter and jelly off of faces, fingers, high chair trays and our bedroom carpet.  Please don’t ask.  The day was quickly spiraling out of control.

We painted and play-dohed.  We colored and glued.  By the time the baby woke from his nap she had created more artwork than a kid at a 12 week long summer camp and then declared she was bored.

After waking your son created 6 milk puddles from flipping his sippy cup.  Leak proof I think not.  Someone really should complain about that.  I would have, but I got sidetracked mopping the milk finger painting drawing off of the wood floor.

The day continued as usual.  I said stop.  They went.  I said don’t touch.  The touched.  Don’t go.  Out the door they wandered.  Dinner and bath time were as equally appealing as a root canal.  Complete with your daughter refusing to eat, putting on dance shows and then shoving the entire plate of food down her throat so she could have a special treat.  It’s amazing what that m&m is capable of.   Bath time was the usual splash fest ending with pajama wrestling the baby into his footie pajamas while he practiced his latest move for cirque de soile.  And I didn’t even know he got the call back.

Kisses were doled out, the last of the tears wiped from their faces and I have since retreated to our dark bedroom with my glass of wine.  Glass… Bottle… Tomato…tom-ah-to.  Same difference.   So go ahead.  Ask me how my day was.  I’d love to tell you all about it.

Love always, Your loving wife who wouldn’t trade it for the world just sometimes needs to really bitch about it.

XO Danielle

I love to connect with my readers on social media, so feel free to share this with a friend, and find me on Instagram and Facebook.

Chances are if you are reading this, you partake in some sort of social media activity.  Maybe you are a facebook-er.  Always scrolling through your feed.  Reading news, looking at photos, stalking your high school ex-boyfriend.  I don’t know what people do on there all day.  There are videos to watch, photo albums to scroll through, happy birthday’s to be wished.   Maybe you have a private message.  Or an invite to a Origami Owl party.  Your ex-neighbors cousin’s sister’s 3rd kid just started pre-k.  How stinking cute.  Don’t forget to LIKE it.

Do you Twitter?  Tweet, tweet.  That’s the only thing I think of when I think of twitter.  Little tweeting birds, with nothing to say.  That’s my problem with Twitter.  I have too much to say.  They cut me off, and I don’t go for that.  I would literally have to tweet 30 times to just tell a story.  I don’t have time for all that tweeting.  I do however, appreciate Twitter for the one-liners.  Some people can really get a lot across in a sentence.  Unfortunately I am not one of them.  I need a journal.  Double bound, college spaced, monogrammed cover.  (I live in Alabama now, the more I monogram, the more I fit in).  So Twitter, just really isn’t my cup of tea.

And then there is Instagram.  Oh Instagram with your hashtags and fancy filters.  Instagram made it to the top of my list.  I’ll tell you why…

1.)  Filters.  Need I say more.  I used to be able to completely filter out my wrinkled forehead.  It is getting harder as I get older, but the filters help.  Stuck in cold weather?  No problem.  Filter a suntan on your pale face.   No risk of skin disease there.  Black and white filters are the best.  My children always look so angelic in black and white.  It filters out all colors, sounds of whining, and hides peanut butter smears on their cheeks.  Total perfection.

2.) A glimpse.  That’s all Instagram is.  It is a glimpse into your day, meal, event.  It is the story’s cover photo.  The picture bloggers use to draw you in.  The best of the best.  You can take 50 pictures and it is the one that makes the cut.  The good one.  Filtered of course.

3.) The beauty.  There are so many amazing photographers on Instagram.  Posting gorgeous photos of the sun rise, ocean views, pregnant woman, children laughing with popsicle stained fingers.  Photos that resemble art.   Art that I didn’t have to take my fuzzy socks off to view.  Can’t beat that.

4.) The inspiration.  I have been motivated to be a better mother, wife, dreamer, blogger, business owner and writer all through scrolling IG feeds.  People talk about God and grace and giving and how to be a better person.  They lay it all out there.  Right under their picture.  Raw and full of emotion.   For you to drink it all in.   To relate and connect.

5.) Research.  Ok, let me explain this one.  When I first started Baby Led Weaning with Joey I didn’t have a whole lot of resources.   I mean, yes, Google is my friend.  But that can be so overwhelming and be full with tons of unnecessary information.  I knew I wanted to feed Joey with this method, I just needed ideas to help get me going.  Insert hashtags here.  I would just go to the explore page.  Search hashtags #BLW #BABYLEDWEANING #6MONTHS #BABYFOOD etc.  Suddenly I would be flooded with photos and ideas of what to feed Joey and how to do it.  It has proven to be a great resource for ideas for me.  Granted, you still have to do your own actual “research”.  I wouldn’t feed my baby honey at 5 months just because someone on Instagram did.   That’s just common sense.

6.) Exploring.  Take my last point for example.  You can use that same concept in so many ways.  Need a recipe to use up 3 lbs of asparagus?  Try searching #asparagus and see how people have used it.  Want to check out the quaint beach town you are thinking of visiting?  Search it on IG.  Chances are you will get a glimpse into the town and see where the good spots to go are, just by seeing what other people posted.

7.) I know I already talked about inspiration, but there is so much weight loss/clean eating/healthy being inspiration on Instagram.  Just check out hashtags like #transformationtuesday #fitfam #whole30 #cleaneats.  All of these hashtags are going to be full of people that are interested in the same things as you.  Maybe you are a mommy blogger.  Check out hashtags like #momlife #mommyblogger #blogger #ontheblog.  It’s a great way to connect with people who have the same interests as you and motivate yourself to do more of what you are doing.

Instagram takes my social media cake.  I love looking back at my own feed and seeing all my little snippets of life.  I see one picture but my memory takes me back to the day.  The place, the food, the people.  If you’re on Instagram, you can follow me @minismama.  If you aren’t an Instagrammer yet, you should definitely sign up.  It’s like getting to read a tiny piece of someone’s diary and the best part is you get to decide if you want to read more just by hitting the FOLLOW button.

Joey had his last bottle tonight.  At almost 15 months old.  I know the recommendations.  I have read the books.  I spoke with my pediatrician.  I know it was advised that I take the bottle away at a year.  But I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t ready to give up that 10 minutes of snuggle time each night.  In a room lit only by the soft glow of his lamp.  My sweet boy in fresh pajamas.  The smell of baby lotion can be intoxicating to a tired mama.  It was my time with him.  His time with me.  Our time to just be the two of us.  We rarely get moments like those.  So I’ll admit, I clung to them.

The nighttime bottle is one of my favorite times with my children.  It’s the wind down time.  The sprawl out in mama’s arms time.  When I could just look at their little faces and hold their little hands in mine.  Their eyes searching in my own.  Too young to speak but their eyes say a thousand words.  Their little mouth drinks so eagerly.  In the spot they are most comfortable.  My arms.

In the past months every night Joey would get his sippy cup of milk with his dinner.  He would splash in the tub and get scrubbed clean.  Clean of marinara sauce, mashed potatoes and if he was lucky, a taste of chocolate pudding.  Into his pajamas he went and we would climb into Mini’s bed for a story.  Afterwards, like clockwork I would head to the kitchen and fill a bottle with milk.  Knowing that it wasn’t necessary.  He wouldn’t cry for it.  I knew my sleepy boy would just lay down and fall asleep.  But I needed it.

I was the one who needed that moment.  Likely more so than him.  To stare at his soft skin and be reminded of when he was just big enough to fit in the crook of my arm.  To think that now his head fits where his whole body once sat.  Legs dangling over the side of my body.  Tiny toes wiggling as I hum to him.

Tonight we sat in that big chair, just me and my boy and I realized I am ready.  I am ready for what’s to come next.  I can’t keep him my baby forever.   Although I sure would love to.   And it’s nice to do things on my terms.  Not according to some textbook.  I felt that we needed that extra three months of nighttime bottles.  And that’s o.k.  I’m the mama and I make the rules.  And that feels good.