I fed my kid Wendy’s last night.

There is a delicate balance to juggling mommyhood and professional businesswoman-dom. I give mad kudos to all the rockstar mommy’s out there that have mastered this art. I am finding that each day I feel a little more experienced, a little more like maybe I have it all together and figured out.

There are also days where all I can think about, even after Mason is tucked away safely in his bed, is the guilt that settles in the pit of my stomach. I wish I could say that the guilt is one-sided, but unfortunately, it is multi-faceted. I feel guilty that I have to shut the door behind me every morning, leaving him on the other side. I feel guilty that I’m not there to make him eggs and a freshly blended smoothie for breakfast (because after all this is what Pinterest and other social media sites tell us we should be doing, right?). I feel guilty that some nights, I’m not able to pick him up on time, and by the time I get to him, it’s time for bed and I don’t get to be “Fun Mommy”, I just have to be “Let’s Put Your Jammies On, Read Some Books, and Brush Your Teeth Before Jumping Into Bed” Mommy. I am not sure what goes through his little head. Does he think that I’m late because I don’t want to see him and have fun? Does he resent me for handing him off each day? I take heart in the fact that I don’t remember a single thing about being two, but my mom didn’t work. I had her at my disposal every day. I don’t remember anything about that either, so maybe it is an invalid argument.

All I know is that we working mommy’s have our work cut out for us: we have to strap on our big girl panties each morning and tackle life in the workplace, while making sure that our children do not feel as if they are of less importance to us. I don’t like to admit that I can’t count on two hands the amount of times Mason has grabbed the edge of my shirt or purse and plead with me to not leave. He says heartbreaking things like “He doesn’t like Mommy’s work” or “Mason stay with Mommy” or “Mason stay at Mommy’s house.” I beat myself up when this happens. Maybe I should be more forgiving with myself.

Regardless, it’s a balance I struggle with daily. Am I thankful for my job? Yes. Am I blessed immensely? Indeed. Do I have a bad-ass support system? MOST DEFINITELY! I would do well to focus on these things instead of my negative feelings. One day Mason will be old enough to understand that everything I do is for him, that I work as hard as I do to ensure that he has everything he needs, as well as everything his little heart desires. And when that day comes, I’m willing to bet that I will wish I hadn’t been so hard on myself.

So. Sweeping declaration: Hey, you! Yes, you!! The Mommy who puts in 5 extra hours in the work week so that she can make sure ends are met, you are not doing the wrong thing! And you! The Mommy who beats herself up for plopping her little one’s butt on the closed toilet lid with an iPad and applies makeup and does her hair for a half hour instead of busting out the markers and spending the morning doing “bonding” things with your child, it is ok!! (Not speaking from experience or anything). And even you! Yes you, Mommy who ran an hour late picking your kid up, please do not feel as though you are a negligent parent for being so exhausted, all you could do was waltz on through the drive-thru of the nearest Wendy’s instead of going home to whip up some broccoli and grilled chicken. You are doing the very best you can! And the little one in the backseat loves you very much. He is happy. Promise.

~ Rachel


What Friday ACTUALLY means.

You hear people preach about how you aren’t supposed to spend life waiting. Waiting for the work week to be over. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for it to be the “right time”, etc. Hell, Dr. Seuss wrote a book called “Oh, the Places You’ll Go” that emphasizes the fact that everyone is continuously waiting for something, and you just have to get out there and live life!

I know this because I have read aforementioned book to my content-with-his-routine son Mason every night for the past 6 months. For any and all who were wondering.

So yes. It would be wise to live in the moment, and not rush the present waiting for a day in the future. Not that I don’t enjoy the work week at all, my point here is that it doesn’t seem to matter how many people tell me or how many places I read it: I will never stop waiting for Friday! It is a glorious day filled with anticipation of the upcoming weekend and all the thrills that may fill it! (Even if all that means is a solo trip to Target, clean laundry, and a fresh mani.) Ahhhhh… The weekend. This particular one will be filled with pancakes, work tomorrow morning for my husband (who I lovingly refer to as Jer), and packing for our upcoming move to our first honest-to-goodness home that WE own. What a concept! I truly can’t wait to get the hell outta dodge. Renting hasn’t been a complete nightmare (aside from, you know, black mold in the closets and around the window frames, a leaky roof in the 3 seasons room, a toilet that won’t flush if more that one single solitary square of 1 ply toilet paper is placed into it, neighbors who play metal horseshoes at midnight, children who throw balls against our windows, and, most recently, honey bees in the wall…. Somewhere. Usual stuff.) All of that said, I need to thank the good Lord for blessing us with this rental home for the last 3 years. So many “firsts” have happened here, and so many exciting life events. A newborn baby. A new job. A marriage. And it’s because of the memories that this move will be bittersweet.

Back of my original point: my love of Fridays! I feel that it is the one night of the week where I can actually be a little selfish with my time and spend it on myself. There are no work deadlines the next day. No alarm that will go off (unless you count one sleepy eyed toddler climbing up onto your bed and into your covers an alarm. There are days that I do and days that I don’t!), and no makeup applied. Perhaps even no bra worn, if I’m feeling especially rebellious. Best of all, if I want to take Mason to my Grandpa’s antique shop, I can. If he wants to run like a wild Indian at the playground, I can join him. If I want to pass the fuck out while he naps, I can do that too. If I want to plop his little butt in front of the tv and let Frozen entertain him for an hour while I clean, I can do that. The beauty of it all is there is no SCHEDULE to it. On the flip side, if I want to get dressed in full drag and hit Water Street with the ladies for ‘tinis and take countless selfies that we think look good at the time and accept drinks from strangers and then accidentally smash the glass on my foot (no, I’m not talking from experience), I can DO THAT TOO! I suppose it goes without saying that the latter happens far less frequently than the former but let’s be honest, who can actually DRINK like that every weekend anymore? I would absolutely die.

The weird thing about this particular Friday (and the last few days and I’m sure many upcoming ones) is that it is unusually cold for this time of year. DO NOT give me this “you live in Milwaukee” crap. I don’t care how long you foolishly decide to stay here, there is no “getting used to” 40 degrees in September. Or 20 in October. Or -10 all the months thereafter until April with a few days where it is literally -40 with the windchill (And no, I’m not joking. A joke would be funny and this subject just is not. You know, on second thought, it is. It’s funny that I continue to live where the air hurts my face.) Granted, this is my HOME, and I will defend MKE in almost every instance but not this one. It’s downright preposterous. Feels good to get that out of my system.

That said, I deserve an hour of Netflix (wrapped in a North Face meant for winter months and a blanket). After all, is there any other way to spend a Friday night?!


Cheers to the beginning…

I suppose I should thank Shinedown.

The band. I am still surprised when I mention them and receive only a blank stare. Culture, people!

Anyway, were it not for Marilyn, the funeral, and Shinedown, perhaps I would have remained jaded.

The song is Amaryllis. It was the song that got me through Grandma’s death, but also made me realize that even in the midst of your darkest despair, in that moment when it seems that you will undoubtedly never feel happy again, life continues to bloom. You just have to open your eyes.

Now, what good would all that inspiration do were it not to be documented? Life awaits! Shall we begin?

~ Rachel