Because when shit hits the fan — which, let’s be honest, is often — it’s nice to know moms who don’t gatekeep the good stuff.

Each roundup will include:

• A recipe I genuinely love (because thinking about meals, planning meals, shopping for ingredients, cooking, and cleaning up occupies an embarrassing amount of my mental space).

• A product review of something actually helpful (unlike the 12 bottle brands you panic-bought before your firstborn that are still collecting dust in the back of your cabinet — go throw them out, now).

• A reality check that hit me in the best way.

One Recipe

I am a dessert girl.
I used to indulge in ice cream daily. I baked professionally. I still raid the kids’ Halloween haul. Sugar is basically part of my personality.

But lately, I’ve been trying to scale back slightly and increase my protein intake without feeling like I’m eating “diet food.” I found a recipe I genuinely love and keep reaching for when my sweet tooth hits, which is often.

Yes, it uses yogurt. Don’t roll your eyes. It’s actually delicious.

If you make it, tell me… I’d love your feedback or tweaks! I’ve made three batches already and plan to experiment with new flavors soon.

Recipe: Chocolate Protein Cloud Bites

Ingredients
1 cup Greek yogurt (higher protein vanilla works great)
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup maple syrup
2 tbsp cocoa powder
Pinch sea salt

Chocolate coating
3/4 cup dark chocolate chips (always dark)
1 tbsp coconut oil
Optional: crushed nuts or coconut flakes

Steps

• Add all ingredients to a bowl (warm peanut butter first so it blends smoothly).

• Line a baking sheet and scoop into bite-sized rounds.

• Freeze 1–2 hours until firm.

• Melt chocolate and coconut oil in 25-second intervals, stirring between.

• Dip frozen bites in chocolate and top with nuts.

• Freeze again until set.

Store in freezer and grab when needed.

If you make 16 bites:

• 115-ish calories

• 4–5g protein

Not a protein bar replacement — but significantly more balanced than a handful of chocolate chips straight from the pantry (no judgment).

You could even increase the protein by:

• Using high-protein yogurt

• Adding 1 scoop of protein powder

• Swapping in powdered peanut butter

One Review

I love finding new bathtime products and am planning a full roundup soon. I’m always on the hunt for options that are safe, gentle, and actually fun.

One longtime favorite is SheaMoisture Kids Extra-Nourishing Conditioner (mango + carrot scent). It smells so good you’ll be sniffing your toddler’s head all day — and possibly stealing some for your own shower.

Recently, family-owned brand Dabble & Dollop sent over a few products to test, and we’ve been having fun incorporating them into bath time.

What I appreciate most: their products are formulated without harsh chemicals, synthetic dyes, or artificial fragrances.

We tried:

• Sweet Treat Mini Bath Bombs — dessert-inspired minis in cocoa, vanilla, and whipped cream scents. McQueen (hot cocoa enthusiast) was thrilled, and the bathroom smelled like warm chocolate.

• Strawberry Bubble Bath, Body Wash & Shampoo — a gentle 3-in-1 that bubbles beautifully without the overpowering scent.

• Cherry on Top Detangling Duo — perfect for Baby McQueen’s surprisingly curly, constantly syrup-sticky hair. The lightweight leave-in spray smooths knots without silicones or sulfates.

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One Reality Check

New is nice — but secondhand is where it’s at.

I understand the thrill of finding the perfect baby blanket — the one you imagine following them to college, tattered and beloved.

But in a world where kids outgrow shoes faster than I can binge a new Netflix series, hand-me-downs are a game changer.

I’ve always swapped within my friend circle — passing along snowsuits, bamboo onesies that cost more than a weekly fruit haul, and special pieces once they’re outgrown.

But this past year I started attending a local clothing swap where dozens of moms donate gently used newborn–5T items and leave with a bag full of new-to-them treasures.

It’s community. It’s sustainability. It’s one less invisible task on our plates.

At the last swap, I saw a mom lift a tiny 6-month sweater that once belonged to my daughter. A baby balanced on her hip, juggling her world. She smiled at it.

“That used to be my daughter’s,” I told her.

Her eyes lit up imagining her little girl growing into it.

“You should take it,” I said.

She tucked it into her bag.

I lingered in that moment. That sweater will witness new memories, new adventures. I left with a full bag and a full heart.

Buy less. Stress less about what’s “in.” Spend more energy on the tiny humans wearing the clothes.

If they’re warm, clean, snack-fed, and have your attention — they’re set.

This week I spent every day packing in activities. I kept convincing myself it was because we were stuck inside for nearly three weeks with a virus from hell that claimed approximately 72 ice pops, two full cans of Lysol, and an unnamed number of tissues.

But maybe the truth is motherhood feels easier outside the walls of our home — when we’re active, going, doing.

Maybe it’s because the mess I’m usually able to tune out suddenly feels deafening. I don’t know where to start because I feel like all I do is clean up messes, cook meals toddlers don’t eat, clean the mess from the meals I made… rinse and repeat.

When I finally had some free time at home with McQueen and Baby McQueen, I thought Valentine’s Day–themed art projects would be a hit. I set up a heart-shaped pasta necklace–stringing station. I had even special-ordered the pasta weeks ago in anticipation of this very moment.

It was a hit for all of five minutes.

Then our dog started eating the dry pasta, which my one-year-old found hysterical — so naturally she tried shoveling it into her mouth too. My four-year-old decided crunching the pasta into shards across the wood floor was a better game.

Moving on.

Mess-less paper hearts with red, white, and pink acrylic paints sealed inside a Ziploc bag? A jackpot activity, right?

Wrong.

“I want to FEEL the paint!” my son insisted. Meanwhile, Baby McQueen was laser-focused on unzipping the bag to get to where the real fun was waiting. Fail number two. Someone pushed someone to get to their craft. Someone screamed. Someone cried.

It wasn’t me — but I felt like doing both.

I could feel the heat rising in my body. That familiar frustration when the activity takes more brain power to set up than the time it entertains them. When you’re trying so hard to be the mom who offers creative, stimulating alternatives to screen time… and nothing goes the way you imagined.

And then I realized something.

I’m still a good mom.

If you’re a mom reading this, here’s your reminder: you’re still a good mom too. You can lose your cool. You can fumble and make mistakes. You can raise your voice and apologize. You can hide in the bathroom for a minute to collect yourself.

And if you’re not a mom, but you’re putting pressure on yourself to make Valentine’s Day something grand, something memorable, or even just tolerable, depending on your season of life: you’re probably doing better than you think.

My funny valentines rarely follow my plan. And that’s okay. They’re exploring, learning, testing the world around them. That’s their job.

So what’s ours?

To find the seeds of truth buried inside this totally commercialized Hallmark holiday.

To abandon the sticky-sweet, plastic, aesthetic version of love — the kind that’s supposed to go according to plan. Because the older I get, the more I accept that life rarely does. And somehow, that realization feels freeing.

The road winds. Sometimes it leads somewhere better. Sometimes it’s terrifying. Sometimes it changes us completely. All we can do is take the chance and go along for the ride.

This holiday has nothing to do with the biggest flower bouquet or the most romantic reservation. It’s not about the jewelry gift or the long, sappy social media post secretly written to make everyone else compare their relationship.

(You know the ones.)

Maybe the lost lesson of Valentine’s Day is learning to give love less conditionally and more abundantly in the everyday monotony.

To our children. To our parents. To our friends.

To say yes when your daughter asks to play the Frozen soundtrack for the seventh time and belt out the lyrics with her instead of frantically cleaning the kitchen. To pick up the phone and tell your mom you’re thinking of her, just because. To text your best friend something you love about her on a random Tuesday night. To grab your husband his favorite coffee out of the blue because you know it will help him power through a rough morning. To wrap your arms around your partner while they’re doing the dishes because you know you’ll feel their shoulders soften.

Yes, you can do the handprint heart crafts. You can make the extravagant reservation. You can plan the Pinterest-perfect Valentine’s Day.

But you can also use this day to simply honor the people who make you feel loved and seen… and try to carry that feeling forward into tomorrow, into March, and beyond.

You can slow down. You can soak in the sweetness of a tiny hand reaching for yours, even if it’s covered in peanut butter or paint.

The other night, Baby McQueen wrapped her tiny arms around my neck in her rocking chair, and I just breathed her in. Even now, thinking about it, I can feel my chest soften and the corners of my mouth lift. It’s the little things. The unplanned things. The unfilmed things. Maybe even the unspoken ones.

So happy Valentine’s Day.

Whatever the day brings, may there be no shortage of chocolate — or love.

So, McQueen turned four this week. FOUR. How strange time is — such a thief, happening all the while around us without us ever noticing. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when we look back everything is different.” It’s been bouncing around my head for the past decade and a half. I know because a Timehop recently popped up from when I shared those words thirteen years ago… and somehow they feel even more true today than they did back then.

I blinked and the tummy time mat was replaced by a pile of monster trucks. The sink is less cluttered now because I packed away the bottle rack last month. We barely needed it anymore for my just-turned-four-year-old and almost two-year-old. I smiled at the freed-up counter space, but let out a big sigh of sad.

I have so many thoughts about this big birthday, which I’ll save for a day when I have the emotional capacity to really unpack them. For a night when my eyes aren’t burning with exhaustion. Will I ever not be tired again? Probably not — because when they’re old enough to want to sleep in, I’ll be wide awake worrying about teenage problems instead. If I’m not stressing about toddler milestones, I can always invent endless future “what if” scenarios. Have kids, it will be fun! You’ll never sleep again.

Speaking of sleep — and the passage of time — about a year ago when McQueen turned three, we moved him out of his crib and into his very own big boy bed. Sure, it’s about 52 inches long and half a foot off the ground, but it marked a huge step out of babyhood. He confidently insisted on an ocean-themed room, so an ocean-themed room he got: sea creature decals, a trippy nightlight with crashing waves, a sea creature bedspread, blue plexiglass floating shelves, nautical ombré blackout curtains, a stingray stuffie, and an oversized blue shark for company.

Sometimes lately I’ll glance into the former nursery for a split second after the morning rush or post-bath routine and feel completely disoriented by time. Wasn’t that the room I learned how to soothe a newborn in? The room where I sat in the rocker staring at a tiny face with two big blue eyes, meeting me at all hours of the night, needing me?

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The year in his new room has brought both independence and constant reminders of how little he still is. The never-ending bedtime questions designed to stall — from “Why do cars not have noses?” to “How can God protect everyone at the same time?” The requests for just one more story. The sleepover negotiations where I camp beside his bed, or he moves onto the floor with his blanket and Ellie, his prized elephant. The kisses we blow to each other when I sneak out, my hand hovering over the door handle, his eyes fighting sleep as I slip away to clean, procrastinate, and mentally replay my entire day.

Meanwhile, his former nursery sat vacant. Safari decals half stuck to the walls. The watercolor animals I painted while hugely pregnant still hanging there quietly. It wanted to become a guest room, but I kept putting it off. Finishing it felt like admitting time had passed — that babies outgrow cribs and clothes and favorite stuffies. That this room had a new purpose now.

So for 2026, instead of unrealistic resolutions, I gave myself one manageable project: finally finishing the guest room — starting with the bed itself.

Because is there anything more important than a comfy place to crash when you’re staying at someone’s house? Aside from a solid cheese board, a cozy bed ranks pretty high. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it right.

The problem is, I get decision paralysis with big purchases. Endless researching, comparing, wondering if reviews are written by real humans or AI bots. This is where Helix stood out to me. Their mattresses are built using real sleep data from millions of people and multiple in-home studies. After switching to a Helix mattress matched through their sleep quiz, 82% of participants reported more deep sleep — averaging about 25 extra minutes of deep sleep and nearly 40 more minutes of total sleep per night. In surveys of over 1,000 Helix owners, nearly 9 in 10 said they felt more refreshed or experienced less pain.

As a mom to two tiny, adorable, extremely early-rising humans — I found this very compelling.

I took the Helix sleep quiz (which is genuinely quick and easy, linking here for you to take) and it matched me with the Helix Midnight Elite. That made sense: I’m a major side sleeper and I’ve had intense postpartum night sweats. The mattress has a technology built in so that it’s cool to the touch and actually helps regulate temperature all night. Sign. Me. Up.

Fresh sheets? Check. Favorite pillow? Check. Silk pillowcase I’m convinced is solving all my problems? Check. Two exhausted parents? Check.

So what’s the verdict? I fell asleep almost instantly the first night. I loved the medium firmness and the high-density foam. It felt supportive but soft, like a cloud that knows what it’s doing. I have chronic lower back and hip pain postpartum and felt noticeable relief in my shoulders, hips, and spine.

The next night my husband (who’s recovering from shoulder surgery) looked at me and said, “Do you want to sleep on the new mattress in the guest room again?” Which honestly says everything. My mom also stayed over and told me, “I think that’s the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on.” (She’s not sponsored — just brutally honest.) Night two was rough for her, but only because our dog Jax fully claimed the bed.

Change is hard. Life is busy. Projects get delayed. So yes — I still need to change the curtains, decide what belongs on the shelves, and take down the watercolor animals I hand-painted for my baby who is somehow turning into a big boy. But one step at a time. I’m feeling good about reshaping this room into a space meant to welcome guests…even if I still find myself crawling in there most weeks with McQueen or Baby McQueen when one of them has an off night, isn’t feeling well, or just needs a little extra love. And honestly, I’m not protesting the extra snuggles.

It’s a new year. A new space. A cozy place to land. A room meant for rest, for comfort, for recharging. I hope that’s what my home is for the people I love. And I hope, somehow, that’s the legacy I’m building too.

It’s funny, I’ve been thinking lately, how uninspired and ironic it is that our society encourages us to spend, celebrate, spare no expense, make the magic, attend the holiday events, pack it all in — and then, a week later, strip it all away. Purge the stuff. Toss the cookies. Shed the weight. Improve. (At least the exterior, never mind what’s going on inside our bodies or minds.)

It’s easy to spend time inside the yesterdays and tomorrows — the what once was and what could be. It’s hard to be here, right where you are. Where you want to be, or maybe where you’re trying to escape from.

Is that what all the distraction of planning is for, anyway?

I am a deeply nostalgic person, and I kind of hate it about myself, because I get lost in memories and then fear I’m missing out on building new ones now. It’s how I’ve been for as long as I can remember. Taking too many pictures. Too many videos. Glimpses — tiny fragments of life as it was — and then, all at once, everything is different.

Like the subtle change of seasons you only notice when the tree outside your kitchen sink window is starting to grow bare. Or when the sun fades beneath the seam where the field meets the sky a few minutes earlier than it did last week. There’s a chill in the air that makes you shiver, and you realize it’s time to reach for long sleeves, pull out the winter hat bin, and bundle up.

When did the season change?

When did my three-year-old outgrow his favorite pair of sneakers, and why haven’t I let go of them yet?

When did he start enunciating the color yellow correctly instead of declaring it “yeh-yow,” and why does that make me so damn sad?

When will he stop saying “scawwy” instead of scary, and telling us he “wuvs” us?

When did my baby girl start the toddler scoot back into my lap, and why is she so heavy on my hip? I completely missed the window of time for that cute floral dress in the back of her closet that still has the tags on it. It’s size three months. She’ll turn two in April, which is basically tomorrow.

I know next holiday season will look completely different for my family — and for yours. We can’t freeze the ones we love as they are, preserving the shade of their hair, the feel of their hand intertwined in yours, the health we take for granted, the crinkles at the corners of their eyes when they smile that big, genuine, happy smile.

And that’s a good thing.

And it’s a devastating thing.

And two things can be true at once.

Next year, my big boy will start school. He’ll be on Christmas break, and we’ll be (unsuccessfully) dodging strep, flu A, and every other illness he’s bound to carry home in his tiny backpack. The days won’t feel as long and sprawling. They’ll be structured. Scheduled. Organized by drop-off and pick-up and class parties and dress-up days.

They’ll be marked by the rush and bustle that school ushers into life — rolling into organized sports, first dances, after-school activities, jobs. Busyness.

Maybe for you, next December will look like making magic for your kids.

Or welcoming your child home for winter break.

Or welcoming a new baby into your family.

Maybe it will look like missing someone who is far away. Or someone who is unreachable. Maybe it will look like grieving an unimaginable loss, or navigating an unforeseen diagnosis.

I say this not to prompt worry or fear, but to reflect on the only sure thing we can count on: unpredictability. The constant change and motion that means we are alive. That means we are here, now, feeling it all — the good, the bad, the bittersweet.

I hope you find time in this in-between week to reflect. To be still. To be here. To find the good in your now, and to release a little of your fixation on yesterdays and tomorrows.

I hope I can, too.

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(Only me? Bueller? Bueller?)

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I tried to come up with a good explanation for why I haven’t made time to write lately. And then my brain wandered… to the presents that need wrapping. The kitchen clutter surrounding my keyboard that needs cleaning. The appointment that needs booking. The bill that needs paying. And the damn elf that needs to be moved. Can he hurry up and learn to fly and pose creatively on his own already? It’s 2025. Get with the program. Is there an app for that?

I did this to myself, I know. But my internal checklist answered my question for me: I am tired. At the end of the day, I want to crumple onto the couch and turn my brain off. Answer zero questions. Make zero meals. Change zero diapers. Be still. Be buried under layers of blankets. Maybe with a glass of wine or a snack within reach. Is that so horrible? Does the lack of endless productivity — or exercising my brain in some stimulating way…mean I suck?

Then I remembered: we are all just trying our best. To partner. To parent. To build a home and a life we’re proud of. To be present. To not be judged. To be enough.

And this holiday season — this whimsical, magical, heavy, slightly unhinged time of year — can feel like a pressure cooker of activities and stuff (to buy, to do, to bake). But it’s also the perfect reminder to slow down and let yourself be. If you need a beat, gift it to yourself. You don’t need permission to slow down. You don’t need anyone to tell you it’s okay to skip Mall Santa, the picture-perfect family shoot, the matching pajamas, the holiday festival, or the most extravagant gift for that one impossible-to-impress family member (who literally has everything and needs nothing, no, seriously, he doesn’t need anything).

But I’ll say it anyway, if you need me to.

If you want a holiday hack, this is it: last year, I wrapped 25 holiday books and labeled them under the tree so my kids could unwrap one each morning as a countdown to Christmas. This year? We’re balancing my husband’s major, life-changing total shoulder replacement recovery, months of seemingly endless illness, and navigating a heartbreaking loss in our extended family. And you know what? I didn’t wrap the damn books. And the kids haven’t noticed.

What they do notice is when we surprise them with a holiday donut. Or take a spontaneous hot cocoa and holiday-lights drive after dinner. They notice when we stop answering emails or cleaning the kitchen to read an unwrapped book. To play monster trucks. To have a tea party with Dolly and Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. They notice when we sneak up behind their chair at breakfast to steal an extra kiss or launch a surprise tickle attack. When I hop on the sled with them after the first snowfall, even when they hesitate at the top of the hill. When we let them have an extra cookie before bed and sing along loudly, off-key, and unapologetically to the “Me, I Want a Hula Hoop” line from the Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas song.

So maybe if we start noticing those things too, we can stop stressing over the million to-dos. The school dress-up days that are adorable but feel strategically designed to break us. The over-the-top Instagram moms we compare ourselves to. The massive gift reveals that make us wonder if what’s under our tree is enough.

Because it is.

It’s more than enough.

It’s actually everything.

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If I spend time and energy planning a trip to the splash pad only to be met with resistance, tears, tantrums, and objections out the gate… it’s 6:30 a.m., coffee hasn’t hit my bloodstream yet, I’m two days overdue for a shower, and I can feel my left eye starting to involuntarily twitch… maybe it’s time to pull the ol’ reverse UNO card and press pause on the plan.

This little phrase has been creeping into conversations with friends lately — over text, in person, at the playground, or over much-needed glasses of wine.

Often it comes up when moms vent about the mismatch of expectations between husbands and toddlers. The reality is always far from the expectation of coordination, cooperation, or timeliness. The truth? Toddlers are on their own planets, and we’re just along for the ride. Better to buckle up and embrace the chaos than to lose it every time a trip to the beach melts down over sand being too sandy or water feeling too wet.

Even a trip to the grocery store can spiral into chaos if you object to Oreos-for-dinner. (Pro tip: if you miss the burning stares of Boomers who either never had kids or conveniently forgot toddlerhood, just stand in the cereal aisle and insist on Wheaties over Cocoa Puffs. It’s like playing Russian Roulette with your emotional capacity.) Will your kid whine? Negotiate for a Hot Wheels car? Collapse on the floor in full rage mode? The outcomes are endless… and equally as fun.

The key, regardless of your parenting style or discipline method, is lowering expectations in the first place. If you don’t anticipate smooth sailing on a three-hour car ride scheduled during nap time — for your newborn who hates red lights and your playlist — then you’ll handle the chaos with a lot more grace. Why set yourself up for disappointment when you could just expect the unexpected, accept the meltdowns, and find peace in it all?

Case in point: Recently my husband and I took McQueen, Baby McQueen, and our pup on what we optimistically called a “hike.” Translation: a 39-minute drive that started at 3 p.m. after packing snacks, clothes, diapers, wipes, hats, bug spray, sunglasses, a towel for the dog, and approximately six water bottles that immediately went missing. Insanity.

The “hike” turned into a 12-minute walk down a flat road to a waterfall — which was dry thanks to the drought. Our son slipped on mossy rocks, had a blast splashing in the water, and then lost it when he realized we couldn’t go inside the visitor’s center because of a wedding. His dramatic conclusion? “I HATE getting married, married is the WORST.”

Instead of anticipating perfection, what if we just… didn’t?

Didn’t put grown-up expectations on kids who’ve only been on this earth for a few years.

Didn’t let tantrums decide whether the day was a success or failure.

Didn’t pile on pressure for our babies to “get it right” when literally everything is new and overwhelming for them.

Maybe tomorrow we can try lowering expectations and raising our tolerance for chaos. Laugh a little more, analyze a little less. Enjoy it while we’re in it instead of waiting until it’s behind us.

Because maybe life does get a little sweeter, day by crazy day, when we stop expecting more and start experiencing it all — the beauty, the chaos, and yes, the crazy.

Buying a backpack for the first time since you were a kid yourself. Slowly pushing your cart down the supply aisle, running your fingers across crayons, markers, notepads, and brightly colored folders you know they’ll love.

The windows are open now, the nights cool enough that you don’t need the AC. Pumpkins and mums have replaced petunias and watermelons outside the grocery store. Depending on your personality, you’re either slightly offended—or completely thrilled.

The sun sets earlier. August bows out, September takes the stage. Change is in the air, and your baby is off to school.

Maybe it’s your first time in this season, maybe it’s not. But still, a little part of your heart sinks. The slower haze of summer has slipped away. Sure, none of us were actually sleeping in (what’s that like again?)—but there were hours of sunshine, warm nights of grilling, firefly wonder, and sticky s’mores fingers. Sand in shoes by the garage door. Popsicles that cured boo-boos. Character towels draped over the porch. Humble, triumphant evidence of days well spent.

McQueen is still just three. In a world that pushes kids to grow up faster. In a culture that makes you feel behind if you don’t sign them up for this program, that camp, this activity.

He misses the Pre-K cutoff this year, which means he’ll be one of the older kids when he does start. I think that’s the Universe’s quiet little gift to me. Because if I’m honest, I don’t think he’s ready. And neither am I.

So why do I feel shame for enjoying this time and keeping him close? Why does choosing slow sometimes feel like a rebellion?

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Friends with newborns look at him and see a big boy, but I still see a little one. A boy who asks me to explain words with wide-eyed wonder. Who names his new stuffed bunny “Cutie Pie” and tucks it next to Ellie the Elephant every night.

We’re deciding whether to enroll him in a short program this fall. Advocates say: “It’s important. The separation will give him independence. You’ll appreciate each other more.” Maybe that’s true. But maybe it’s also true that he’s already getting what he needs here at home—on our adventures, at story time, at the library, in the small daily moments where his brain lights up and connects dots.

I don’t know what we’ll decide. But I do know time will keep moving. The first frost will sneak in. The holidays will come and go. One calendar page will flip into the next. And soon, we’ll be scrolling through September photos marveling at how much smaller their features looked just months ago. In disbelief at how they’ve changed, how they’ve grown.

Time doesn’t need my help to speed up—it’s already racing.

So if your baby is off to school today, I’m sending you love. And when I say “baby,” I mean all of them—your third grader who it seems just learned ABCs yesterday, your college kid who once asked you to check for monsters under the bed.

Whether you’re a teacher, a stay-at-home mom, or a working mom who squeezed every ounce out of summer vacation: you deserve peace as you send them off.

I wish you a year of firsts:

• New art projects to proudly tape on the fridge.

• New field trips to talk about at dinner.

• New friends, new discoveries, new moments captured for grandparents.

And most of all, I wish you strength. To trust that your babies will be cared for, will grow, and will come running back to you with excitement at pickup.

You are doing an amazing job. And whether you’re sending them off to the classroom, choosing to homeschool, or savoring this time just a little longer—remember: you will always be their safe, their happy.

You are home.

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Because when shit hits the fan — which, let’s be real, is often — it’s nice to know other mommas aren’t gatekeeping the good stuff.

In each roundup, I’ll share:

A recipe I actually made (and liked),

A product I’ve tested (and would genuinely recommend to a friend),

And a reality check — because none of this matters without a little honesty.

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One Recipe

Ok — if I hadn’t mentioned before: I live in New York. Not the city. Been there, done that. Missed it wildly. Visited post-kids… and hate to admit I miss it a lot less now, which feels like a tiny betrayal of my former self. But that’s a story for another post.

I’m telling you this because we had an unseasonably cool, rainy day last week — the kind that smelled like fall and made me want to light a candle and wear fuzzy socks. So I dusted off the crock pot (because Instapot girlies, I’ve tried… and failed), and made one of my go-to comfort meals:

Creamy Crockpot White Chicken Chili by The Chunky Chef

Here’s the recipe!

It’s cozy, forgiving, and full of flavor. I use chicken thighs (they shred beautifully), and if you forget an ingredient — no worries. Swap beans for whatever you’ve got in the pantry.

Pro tip for recipe-skimmers (hello, undiagnosed adult ADHD): don’t add the cream cheese and half-and-half until the last hour.

Top with all the shredded cheese your heart desires. The limit does not exist.

And if you’re like me and carbs are a love language, serve it over white rice or elbow pasta. Trust.

One Review

I love when a product actually lives up to the hype — and even more, I love sharing it with other moms so they don’t waste time or money.

You know the drill — 3 hours lost in review rabbit holes trying to figure out if it’s a real mom talking or a robot named “Kelly” who definitely doesn’t have a toddler at home.

So here’s one to add to your list before summer ends:

Ear Pro – The only spray that prevents swimmer’s ear before it starts.

Why I love it:

It saves us doctor visits. Two quick sprays form an invisible, water-repellent barrier (like sunscreen for your ears!) so water can’t linger and bacteria can’t grow. No infections = fewer co-pays = one less meltdown in the pediatrician’s office.

It’s safe and natural. Medical-grade mineral oil + organic oregano oil. Safe for newborns (0+) and works for adults too.

No plugs, no drama. Just spray and go. No bulky ear plugs or tears from your toddler refusing to wear them.

Check it out here.

One Reality Check

Tonight, my one-year-old and three-year-old had s’mores for dinner.

No, we don’t do that every night. Yes, I normally try to sneak in veggies and offer balanced options. But tonight? Surrender.

It made me reflect on how anxious I used to be when feeding my first. The schedules. The rules. The worry. And now? I’m learning to loosen the grip.

Veteran moms will tell you: the more kids you have, the more you realize you can’t control the chaos — you can only surrender to it.

And honestly? It was kind of magic.

We sat by the fire pit — five feet from our back door — and watched our son pretend he was camping in the wilderness. Sticky, chocolate-covered fingers. Gooey smiles. Laughter echoing under the fading summer light.

And then? A warm bath. A cozy bed. Two happy, loved, and very full kids.

Sometimes it’s okay to break the rules. To serve joy instead of broccoli.

Surrender, mama. It’s going to be okay.

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Motherhood is magic.

Ever catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — carrying your baby, wrangling your toddler, getting your middle schooler ready for school — and feel struck by a simple truth?

You’re somebody’s mom.

Woah.

Ignore the fact that you haven’t showered in a day and a half (who am I kidding, it’s been two days — dry shampoo and you are besties). You’re wearing your ratty old college sweatshirt, the one with the mysterious grease stain and frayed cuffs that’s somehow the comfiest thing you own.

You look like hell.

Maybe you feel like it too.

Broken sleep will do that to you. No number of microwaved coffees can solve the dark circles under your eyes. But sometimes, when you catch a quick glance of yourself, it can stop you in your tracks.

Not in a critical or judgmental way — but in reflection.

A reflection on your reflection.

You’re doing it. You’re giving it your all.

And that is beautiful.

This version of you is beautiful.

The truth is — you’re so busy.

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Life is so full.

I’m still settling into momming two — which, let me tell you, is a whole different ballpark than having one babe. (I know, moms of four-plus are probably spitting out their drinks right now reading this.)

But whether you’re carting your baby on your hip trying to empty the dishwasher, or driving your kid off to college —

we rarely stop to really see ourselves.

To stand still long enough to notice the season of motherhood we’ve landed in.

We’re always remembering when, or planning what’s next.

This season? It’s fleeting.

We know it. But we can’t grab onto it.

Maybe we don’t even want to — it’s all so hard.

Maybe we’re waiting for them to get bigger, to become more independent, because then it will be easier...

Only it won’t.

It will be a different kind of hard.

Maybe we’re wishing for time to slow down.

Or maybe we just want one more yesterday — one more newborn snuggle, one more early morning cuddle.

We are rushing.

And sometimes, we just need to stop.

Catch a peek at this version of ourselves.

And marvel in it.

Marvel in the mess,

in the imperfection,

in the showing up.

In the honor of being their momma —

their safe place, their whole world.

And in being enough,

just as we are.

You’ve heard the phrase. I’ve heard the phrase. We all believe in it.

Raising kids is hard. Motherhood is lonely, messy, confusing, overwhelming.

Yes — it’s beautiful and life-affirming, full of belly laughs and bursts of gratitude.

But you knew that.

And we’re here to talk about the two, three, and four a.m. wakeups that leave you running on fumes because your baby is sick, colicky, or just having an “off” night.

The piles of laundry stacking up in every corner.

The sticky mystery spot near the highchair you keep scrubbing that somehow keeps reappearing.

The dishes in the sink.

The meal prep you haven’t planned for.

(Is adulting exclusively about thinking about, preparing, making, and cleaning up the next meal... forever?)

The ache for community. The mental gymnastics it takes to build one when you’re states, hours, or flights away from family.

Or maybe you live down the street from your parents or sister or in-laws...

But the relationship is complicated.

And they’re just not as involved as you hoped. Or wished. Or dreamed.

Growing up — and especially since becoming a mom — my grandmother has always told me stories of raising babies with a village: cousins, aunts, and neighbors always nearby, ready to help in a pinch.

And she wasn’t alone.

In early-to-mid 20th century America, particularly from the 1930s to 1950s, extended families often lived close together. Multigenerational households were common. In 1940, 25% of Americans lived in them, according to Pew Research. But that number dropped sharply post-WWII as suburbs boomed and the nuclear family became the new ideal. Add in the rise of dual-income households in the 1970s and beyond, and the result? A lot more isolation for modern parents.

Sound familiar?

Today, just 15% of U.S. adults live in multigenerational homes.

And a 2023 Motherly "State of Motherhood" survey found that 70% of moms feel unsupported, and 62% say they don’t live near family who can help with child-rearing.

It’s no wonder so many of us long for the village our grandmothers had — or some version of it that doesn’t involve Venmoing $150 to a teenage babysitter for a rare date night.

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From where I sit, I’m incredibly grateful to have two sets of grandparents who love and support our kids — visiting often, helping when they can.

But the truth? They live almost three hours away.

So no regular date nights.

No dropping the kids at grandma’s for a quick afternoon breather.

No pop-in visits for coffee and a spare pair of helping hands.

I ache for that version of community my grandma describes.

And sure — maybe I’m romanticizing it.

Maybe I’m stitching together a highlight reel based on her rose-colored stories, pop culture, my imagination, and my own longing for that “yesteryear” village.

So for now, I build what I can.

Small pockets of community in my own corner of the world —

Chance playground encounters or mommy-and-me class friendships that, slowly, beautifully, evolve into true lifelines.

A group text with my closest friends — moms, now scattered across the country.

A plane ride away. A long drive. A listening ear.

A place where I can send a 2 a.m. text and know I’ll get empathy, not judgment.

A sounding board. A sisterhood.

We joke about pooling money to buy land, build homes side by side, live like characters in the sticky sweet Netflix show “Sweet Magnolias” based on a Sherryl Woods novel.

Barefoot and braless, babies on hips, cold coffee in hand, snack to share.

The kind of friend who says, “Go lie down, I’ve got the kids.”

The kind who brings over dinner just because your week was trash, and you don’t need one more thing to do.

The kind who keeps no score — just shows up.

Right now, I live in the in-between.

Of planned visits, of in-laws coming to stay for three days, of driving up or down to see family.

And let me be crystal clear: my extended family is deeply, beautifully helpful.

My parents and my in-laws are extremely loving, supportive, and present.

The kind of helpful where they wake up with the baby at 3:30 a.m. so I can sleep.

The kind who clean up the kitchen after dinner, so when I finally come downstairs post-bedtime, I can melt onto the couch in silence, wine in hand.

But they’re not around the corner.

And I know I’m not the only one living in that in-between.

Trying to piece together a version of that elusive village — one kind, helpful soul at a time.

We’re all out here.

Living, momming, building families, brick by brick.

Creating chosen family. Finding our tribe.

It’s lonely sometimes. But we can do hard things.

And if no one’s told you this lately: you’re not alone.

I'm a Journalist by Trade. A Mom by Choice.

I’ve got two wonderful monsters: a baby boy who’s three (yes, I’ll call him a baby for as long as I want and there’s nothing you can do about it—but no, I won’t describe him by how many months old he is. I’m not a complete psycho, thank you very much), and a baby girl who’s one. I’ve also got a very needy rescue pup who’s four — and, if I’m being honest, he requires more attention and patience than both of my kids combined. My son goes exclusively by Lightning McQueen, so that’s what I’ll call him here for fun. My daughter is his absolute shadow and adores the crumb-covered ground he stomps on. She’s affectionately (and appropriately) known as Baby McQueen in my house. So we’ll stick with that and stay on brand. (No, I’m not endorsed by Disney—but here’s to hoping.)

My Story (AKA: “What did you do before kids?”)

I used to run through crime scenes. Now I dodge Hot Wheels and toddler tantrums. (Equally dangerous).

I’ve spent my entire professional life working for a company, a newsroom, or on a freelance contract. I spent the better part of a decade in TV news, working as an on-camera reporter and anchor. That meant live shots at 5 a.m., chasing down stories, writing to deadline, and occasionally sprinting in heels wearing an expensive-looking Ralph Lauren dress I snagged at a deep discount (shout out to Marshalls). Crossing icy parking lots with a tripod on one shoulder and a lukewarm caffeinated drink in hand while piecing my story together was thrilling and exhausting and deeply personal — and I loved it.

Come to think of it, kind of like being a mom. But this? This is so much harder, and so much more rewarding.

I remember flopping on my bed one night, sobbing on the phone to my mom in my very humble apartment—one I was still extremely proud of because it was mine and I paid for it on my own—telling her I was “wasting the best years of my life” and that I’d “never meet anyone up here.” I was twenty-three and deeply melodramatic.

Spoiler: I met someone. I fell hard. And I remember thinking he would make a great dad—a thought I’d never had about any other guy. We survived long distance, job changes, and several moves. I went on to work in the Bronx and Brooklyn, reporting and anchoring all hours of the day and night. And now here we are: two kids deep. Nap schedules rule our lives.

When Lightning McQueen was six months old, I left my job and leaned into freelance writing, juggling 30 hours a week while full-time momming. Halfway through my second pregnancy, I got very sick. We made the call: I’d pause work and focus on mom life.

I love being a stay-at-home mom—but I hate how society (and my inner critic) makes it feel like that’s somehow not “enough.” (Much more to come on that in future posts.)

A Monster Truck in the Butt

So I finally sit down—deep breath—fire up the laptop, feeling proud, feeling ready to write… and immediately get a literal pain in my ass.

Not a metaphor. A literal monster truck (specifically that S.O.B. Grave Digger, hey Boy moms hey) had been left on the porch swing, right where I parked it.

Because: toys. Toys everywhere.

It was this oddly perfect moment: a little slice of clarity, some peaceful mental space all about my thoughts, my identity, punctured (physically) by a tiny truck.

If that’s not motherhood, I don’t know what is.

So, Why Now?

What finally got me to stop making excuses and start this Substack?

Honestly, it was telling my fear of judgment to shut up. It was saying screw you to the imposter syndrome that pipes up every time I make any decision (big or small).

It was refusing to let my soul-crushing, unrelenting exhaustion win. (My youngest is 15 months old and STILL—yes, still—not sleeping through the night.)

It was a need to reclaim a sacred space: writing. Using my voice, sorting through the chaos in my brain, putting it somewhere. It was a hope to connect.

Because every mom I know is still searching for that mythical village we were told would show up. You know, the one that never came banging on our door when we were one week postpartum, leaking through our nursing bras, crying at 3 a.m., unshowered, underfed, and feeling utterly alone.

So Here’s the Vibe

These days, I spend far more time chasing toddlers than chasing news tips, but storytelling remains part of who I am. The Mom Report is where I’ll share honest reflections, helpful finds, funny moments, and thoughtful reporting on the wild ride that is modern motherhood.

My hope is that reading this feels like we’re sitting together in someone’s kitchen—mine, yours, doesn’t matter. Ignoring the dishes. Ignoring the mess. Letting the to-do list fade for a minute. Stealing lukewarm coffee sips between bursts of real, honest talk. Laughter. Maybe a few tears.

Sighing in relief because—no—you’re not the only one thinking that or feeling this.

Swapping toddler war stories while someone tugs at our yoga pants, demanding another snack.

What You’ll Find Here

Reflections. Reviews. Chaos. Comfort. A little of all of it.

And here’s what’s been on my mind lately. I finally decided to write it down:

Things I Wish Moms Talked About More

I wish more moms talked about:

• Postpartum depression.

• Postpartum rage.

• The weird heartache of transitioning from one to two babies.

• The identity crisis that hits you when you realize how completely you’ve disappeared into motherhood.

• The longing to feel proud to be “just” a mom without having to qualify it with a side hustle or title.

• The guilt of enjoying time away from your kids and the pain of missing them.

• The craving to be alone—not to escape, but to rediscover who you even are now.

• How your brain does change after babies (it’s not an excuse—it’s science).

• How you can sit down with old friends and realize you have nothing to say except “my kid does this cute thing now” and how weirdly insecure that makes you feel.

• How social media is stealing our ability to be present.

• How terrified we are of screwing our kids up and passing on the anxiety we’re just now learning to navigate ourselves.

• How the days you “do nothing” as a mom are usually the days you’re showing up the most.

• How the days you “do everything” leave you feeling guilty for not doing more with your kids.

• How some days you’re flying and some days you’re absolutely drowning.

• How motherhood can bring you closer to faith.

• How none of us have a clue what we’re doing, but we still waste energy worrying about what strangers think.

• How this life—the huge mess, the intense love, and the sound of that baby giggle bubbling over—it’s all kind of extraordinary.

If You’re Still Here

Whew. Welcome to the inside of my brain. Exhausting, right?

But doesn’t yours look a little like this too?

Like the mess just outside the frame of your Instagram post. The closet or basement you pretend doesn’t exist when company comes over—but it’s still there, waiting for you to find time to sort through it.

If this sounds like something you need, too…I hope you’ll stick around.

Reporting live from the chaos — this has been The Mom Report.

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