Boobs.

Since it is National Breastfeeding week I thought I should talk about boobs so brace yourself.

And if the word “boobs” or just breastfeeding in general freaks you out then I only have one thing to say to you:

Calm your tits.

Give those breasts a rest.

Your honkers need to stop going bonkers.

And don’t have a calamity in your mammaries.

They are just boobs. In fact there are more nipples in the world than people if you think about it.

To be completely honest, I wish breastfeeding is something that everyone in the world has to experience because there is so much to it. Kind of like gym class in high school. I love it, I hate it, I want to do it forever, I want to stop this second, and I feel as though no one truly understands.

The thing about being a mom is that everyone feels the right to have a say in what you are doing. I am five months in of exclusively breastfeeding my little one and I have heard it all from family to friends to people online that I have never meant before.

“Why are you so against formula?”, “Are you going to be one of those people who like breastfeeds till they are like seven years old?”, “I feel so uncomfortable when I see people with their boobs just hanging out”, “She looks pretty tiny, maybe you should start giving her some formula to bulk her up”, “Isn’t it kind of selfish that you are always feeding her and not letting others bond with her too?”, and my personal favorite “I would never breastfeed because of what my boobs would look like after”.

Yup. These are real life, real people saying real stupid stuff to someone whose hormones are still on the fritz from bring a life into this real crazy world.

At first, after hearing all of these things I thought “wow I am wondering where all of these people found the time to go and get their medical degrees because they seem to know an awful lot about raising babies”.

Just because someone breastfeeds does not mean they are against formula. My son had formula from five weeks to one year old and he is perfectly fine and healthy. I tried breastfeeding with my son and it wasn’t in the cards for us and that was completely fine. Fed is best not breast is best.

Just because someone breastfeeds does not mean they like their boobs hanging out. I personally can’t even make eye contact when I am getting measured by that lady at Victoria Secret so if you honestly think I enjoy feeding my baby in public so people can see my boobs, you are mistaken. I am actually chanting “chug chug chug” frat party style to her so she eats faster and people can stop staring at me.

Just because someone breastfeeds does not make them selfish and not want to share their baby. I would love if my husband’s nipples produced liquid gold like mine do. I would cry tears of joy if in the middle of the night instead of me walking up to feed our daughter, he rolled over, whispered to me “don’t worry babe I got this” and whipped out a magic milk producing boob and fed our daughter, but that day has yet to come.

Just because someone breastfeeds does not mean their body is ruined. It is actually the full course of motherhood that does a number on your body and you can’t give all the credit to just breastfeeding.

Pregnancy stretches your body in directions that only you, God, and your OBGYN know about. My belly has been through the ringer with my two little bundles of joy that at five months since the great escape with baby number two, my stomach is like a personal awning for my lady parts.

My hair now does this crazy thing since becoming a mom where it is actually turning grey around my ears. Pretty crazy since I’m only in my twenties but it’s like natures personal mom highlights.

My boobs can also do this pretty cool trick of making me go from a DD Pamela Anderson size to president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee in just one feeding.

The human body is such a crazy and just plain freaking awesome thing that we shouldn’t feel uncomfortable and embarrassed about it. We can literally grow people and nourish them in our bodies for nine months- or a whole forty-two weeks if you are like me and have the warmest womb ever. Why is it so not accepted that we are amazing enough to nourish our little homegrown humans outside the womb too?

So the next time you see someone breastfeeding, don’t judge. Give them a coffee because chances are their husband’s boobs can’t do the same thing that theirs can do at 2am and give them some credit.

And just Hakuna your tatas.

Its just boobs.

-Em

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Home.

Home.

Over two years- that’s the amount of time we spent looking at homes.

A year and a half- that’s the amount of time we were preapproved for a home loan.

Eighty-three days- that’s the amount of time it took to close on our forever home.

If you had told Matt and I five years ago that we would buy a home in Jaffrey New Hampshire I would have laughed and said “Where the heck is Jaffrey? I don’t think I will ever move to New Hampshire. There better be ice cream there”. But fate is kind of funny like that.

We almost bought a bungalow in Gardner, Massachusetts; they declined our offer.

We almost bought a cape in Lunenburg, Massachusetts; we made it all the way to Purchase and Sale and it fell through.

We almost bought a split in Gardner, Massachusetts again; we were out bid.

I think I might have almost broken the share button on my Zillow app sharing listings with Matt 24/7 and by 24/7 I mean that I would wake up in the middle of the night hoping the “perfect” house would pop up and we would snatch it the very next day like little millenial vultures. That never happened.

Time passed and we went to dozens of open houses, went through multiple agents, and I don’t know how many times I looked at Matt and said “This is it. This is going to be our forever home”.

It was Thanksgiving weekend and Matt had just started a job in New Hampshire a couple months prior so we decided to start looking in Southern New Hampshire because I was still working in Massachusetts. We went for a drive- about an hour and fifteen minutes from where we lived in Dracut- and my dad came with us to check out the mountains and some houses on a foggy Saturday. You couldn’t see much for scenery.

It felt like a normal day.

We pulled up to a long blue ranch with a big two car garage attached; I saw Matt’s eyes light up a little bit. We walked along the stone walk way to the front door and there was plants everywhere kind of like Jumanji, but with a homey vibe.

We opened the door to the big bay windowed living room with a brick wall. Go around the corner to see a nice kitchen with stainless steal appliances. A small dining room big enough to fit our hand me down table. A couple bedrooms that needed some updating and paint. A half finished basement that would make a pretty cool man cave. A bathroom with an avocado green tub. A chicken coop with electricity. A stone fountain along the patio. A backyard that could burn off my toddlers energy for days. And a partridge in a pear tree- there literally was a pear tree in the backyard.

Was it perfect? No.

I was tired of the house hunting game. I wouldn’t realize the perfect house even if it bit me on the butt.

The house then bit me on the freaking butt.

It wasn’t until we were driving back home when we realized how perfect it was. Only about a half a mile from this blue beaut of a house was Kimballs ice cream. A little back story for you folks- Kimballs is where Matt and I had our wedding reception over four years ago.

Oh wait, fate slapped me even harder.

We contacted our agent and asked to learn more on the house and found out that the owners names were Scott and Deb… my parents names. YUP. Super weird.

Our offer got accepted on Christmas Eve. At this point we should have been jumping for joy, but we were still scared knowing full well that it’s not over till the fat lady sings.

I tried so hard to keep my emotions under control. This was the day that Matt, Luke, my pintrest board, and I had all been waiting for.

But fate wasn’t going to let me go that easy without throwing some luck in there.

March 17, 2017- St. Patricks Day- the fat lady sung and we officially closed on our forever home.

It now has messy floors and an art covered fridge.

Everything has little finger print smudges and dried playdough in the cracks.

Coasters that are never used and crumbs that have yet to be picked up.

There are little matchbox car scratches on the hardwood floors.

And there are pictures hanging on every wall.

Is it perfect? Yes.

 

 

Forever- that’s the amount of time we are going to spend in our long blue ranch.

P.S. There is ice cream here.

-Em

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Time.

Time.

My son had his first meeting at his new preschool that he will start in the fall. Well, it starts the Thursday before labor day which is August 30th. Which is only 42 days away. So it’s basically tomorrow he’s going to be going to the town grade school and I am one thousand percent not ready.

Like GRADE SCHOOL. What!?

I feel like you were just seven pounds two ounces yesterday?

I honestly never had such a hard time with accepting growing up till it was my own offspring that was partaking in it. My whole life I wanted to grow up faster than the universe planned and now I want the universe to just cut the crap and freeze for a minute.

I want time to stand still so bad that I lied to my toddler the other day. Yup. I flat out lied to his cute little face and I am not sorry about it. Ok maybe just a little bit, but deep down I had my reasons.

This wasn’t a lie like my usual “you’ll get arrested if you don’t have pants on in public” or “no honey, I would love to give you a bite, but you have to be atleast fourteen to eat this adult ice cream”. This was one that struck me to the core.

We were in Target looking for new shoes for him because the kid unluckily got his fathers feet which basically means I will be taking out a second mortage to keep up with buying him giant shoes. I found some nice Lightning McQueen ones that were velcrow and he says to me “Mommy, I want ones with laces. Can you teach me how to tie my shoes?”.

For those of you who don’t have kids, you are probably sitting at the edge of your seat waiting for the climax of the story. For you moms out there, you probably felt your heart crumble a little bit too. It hurt like a straight toddler elbow to the boob.

Like how could this little human want to keep being so independent? I just taught you how to use a fork. I just taught you how to wipe your own butt. I just taught you how to freaking roll over like two minutes ago. Just let me keep the shoe tieing please. PLEASE. Give me that one sense of being needed and wanted and to nurture you. Just let me tie your damn shoes a little bit longer.

I lied to him.

I told him that you have to be atleast four feet tall to tie your own shoes. He jokingly said “well I am almost as tall as you Mommy”. He talks a lot of smack for someone who can’t tie his own shoes, but I love him. Every ounce of him- even though he’s a lot more than seven pounds two ounces now. That’s why I lied.

Moving into new seasons is hard on the heart, embracing those seasons can be even harder.

That little bald head of his is now filled with bushy curls.

Those little coos and squeaks turned into fullblown, nonstop- and I mean nonstop- hours of actual conversation. The boy is a Chatty Kathy, Babbling Bertha, Talking Tracy now.

Those tiny onsies with the animals on the bum turned into little muscle shirts with monster trucks on them.

So hold the moments and the babies as long as possible because pretty soon they’re going to be too cool for Lightning McQueen velcrow shoes and old enough to eat your adult ice cream.

-Em

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The Journey Begins

I honestly love to write and am really excited to start this whole blog journey with whomever wants to join along; moms or not. Basically, I want to just take a minute to enjoy my stories and the memories they bring when smooshed together.

My plan is to stop and smell the roses every once in a while and take some time to gather some words together to help paint a picture of the current chaos that life hands us and celebrate the craziness as the days go by.

So heres to sharing thoughts, dreams, and moments lived all put into words by a mom who is just trying her best one day at a time.

– Em

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Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton

 

Poop.

Poop.

It probably comes up in conversation atleast 8,763 times a day when you are a parent.

If you have a newborn and they are cranky: “She hasn’t pooped yet so that’s probably why she’s a small satan.”

If you have an infant and they just started eating food: “Oh my gosh I changed his diaper after he ate blueberries for the first time and I swear I have never seen a poop smurf colored before today!”

If you have a toddler who doesn’t have a shy bone in his body: “I just made the biggest poop in the potty ever!” (toddler tells to stranger in the stall next to us in public rest room).

And my favorite is if you have a husband: “I will, after I poop.”

I swear when Matt and I first started living together, he would do things just to push my buttons. Like take his little black socks off when he got home after work and fling them like little granades all across the living room. He would leave enough half drunk drinks next to his bed to stop any and all droughts in the world. But the thing that bugged me the most was when I would ask him to help with something and he would reply “I will, after I poop”.

At first, I thought that he must just be eating quite a bit of fiber, but then I caught on to the pattern. It used to make steam come out of my ears when I would ask him to hold the baby while I finished cleaning up dinner and I would get that stupid poop response.

Why can’t I just sit on the toilet for twenty minutes without interuption?

Why does he not get a toddler storming in the second he closes that door?

Why does this always happen when I need help with something?

But then I started asking myself why does it bug me so stinking much that he take twenty minutes to himself?

The fact of the matter is I was so hung up on those twenty mintues without him there and then I started to think about what if he wasn’t there at all.

What would I honestly do without him? What if he wasn’t in the picture at all let alone twenty mintues? How would I wake up and face the next day knowing that I would have to face the life I laid before me alone?

I know what you’re thinking. This is a lot to ponder just because someone went to the bathroom, but hey a lot goes through your mind in twenty minutes.

Simply, being a parent/spouse is just plain easier together. That means accepting each other for everything and anything. I am positive that Matt has a secret hate for the small village of decorative pillows I place on the bed everyday and he isn’t a fan of when I cook seafood in the house. But he looks at it as I am cooking seafood to feed our little family and he’s thankful I make the bed everyday.

Those little black socks he leaves all over my living room are there because he worked a really long day providing for his family. And to be completely honest I haven’t fully found the good in the million half filled glasses next to my bed- but maybe someday I will.

So next time your spouse gives the age old response “After I poop”; just smile, use those twenty minutes to think about how much they do for you, and remember that everyone poops.

-Em

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