They were taking it hour by hour, trying to figure out what the next move was that would keep us safe. Now I know what they must have felt. And while I don’t have a pandemic playbook, I do have the knowledge that if I take each step with my children’s safety and wellness in mind, I’ll be doing the best I can.
Sure, I lost friends. People faded away who thought they didn’t have anything in common with me anymore. That makes no sense, because what I love and who I am didn’t completely change. I still love sports and tell long-winded stories. I still drink too much coffee and laugh awkwardly. I am still me, just with kids added. The loss of those people from my life didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, because what I lost in quantity of friends, I gained in quality of friendships.
Parenthood grants you a lot of gifts. Hugs. Little voices saying, “I love you, Mommy.” Gobs of handprint crafts. And eye injuries. I write this post with one eye covered with an eye patch, looking like...
Taking a kid, no matter how football obsessed, to an NFL game, is an investment. Given the cost of tickets, the distance to most stadiums, and the sheer size of the event, you can’t wing it. I didn’t attend my first NFL game until my 17th birthday. Good news: Your children don’t have to wait as long as I did. Here are some tips for anyone hoping to bring their kids to a New England Patriots or any other NFL game.
Still, I would love to join the ranks of the #CricutMoms, if only to bring back those feelings of making puff paint T-shirts. But the thought of buying a $250 machine that I might use once or twice and then never use again has brought that dream to a halt. Until I can convince myself that I will use one enough to not let it gather dust, I'll support moms who run side hustles with their Cricut when I need a custom onesie or coffee mug. It is mildly disappointing to not to be among their ranks, but I'll just tell myself I'm lifting other women up while not adding to my list of failed crafts. It's a win-win.
Even with that resolve, there’s a breaking point you reach every few weeks when your train is late again, and you know you won’t get home now until after 7 p.m. again, and your youngest — and probably last baby — has reached some milestone that daycare got to see first again, and you either get angry or start crying or both. It’s rough.
Years of that type of preparation taught me well. I’m that person who always has a bobby pin, safety pin, Shout wipe, lipstick, and seven pens in her bag. At work, I stash an extra pair of pantyhose in my office. And I always have a backup for any piece of equipment I have to set up that day. It all stems from those dance recital days, where you might not touch that extra, but it felt good to know it was there if you needed it.
"I kept reading every piece of financial advice I could find, looking for something else we could cut. One item kept popping up — coffee. 'Cut your daily cup of coffee!' 'Make your own!' 'Use your office’s coffee machine!' implored bloggers galore. That’s going to be a big, huge no from me."
At this point in the Boston winter, it feels like the season will never, ever end. Tons of area museums, libraries, and organizations break out their best activities for February break, but what are you supposed to do in the wintertime that remains after break? It’s still cold, it’s still doing who knows what precipitation-wise, and you might get even more bored than you were before. Don’t fret — here are four ideas of things to do in the Boston area that will break up the late winter boredom beyond February break.
When I made the decision to exclusively pump with my first son, I struggled to find information, tips, and tricks. I did a lot of things wrong. My second time around, I not only had my own struggles to build upon, but a growing number of resources online and more lactation consultants informed about its best practices. Here's what I have learned from two exclusive-pumping journeys.
Instead of putting away his crayons, he had a navy blue crayon in his hand and was drawing on the wall. So what happens when the messes of toddlerhood meet the realities of renting?
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