Happy Monday! Last week I shared all about who I am here for. Spoiler alert: I’m here for you moms! Today I want to talk about my values. Here is what you can expect when you read or hear anything from me, you’re favorite Medicated Mommy.
The Medicated Mommy promises to always be:
The Medicated Mommy doesn’t pretend to be anything other than who she is: imperfect, exhausted, deeply flawed, and a mom who kicked postpartum depression’s ass, pops an antidepressant every morning, sucks at Pinterest, and feels like she is “killing it” on some days while on others hides in her closet crying, binging on cookies, and asking herself, “WTF?“ She’s here to give you the real dirt on everything motherhood, including postpartum depression.
I’m back! Today I’m sharing all about who I’m here for.
I’m here for any mom or mom-to-be who wants a real, honest, refreshing, relatable, laugh out loud perspective on the rollercoaster of motherhood. I want to be your best mom friend, the one who tells you the truth. The one who makes you feel like you can share your truth. The one who holds your hand while you struggle. The one who helps you find the path to happy and healthy if you get sick.
Every year, hundreds of thousands of new moms suffer from postpartum depression and feel as if they are crazy and the only ones. Even if you’re not one of these moms, you will still often feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and extremely unqualified for this job. Read more
I know it’s summer. If you’re kids are home with you, you’re verging on braindead. You probably don’t want to read anything that makes you have to think to much. There’s a reason they call those books we’ve been downloading “beach reads.”
If you’re like me, it’s hard to motivate for much of anything besides sitting on the couch, sitting at the pool, sitting in the playroom watching my son play airport. Lots of sitting. I thought I would take this opportunity to share more about your favorite Medicated Mommy!
For the next four Mondays, I’m going to be sharing more about who I am and why I write this blog and talk so openly and honestly about motherhood and postpartum depression. I promise to keep it really short. You don’t feel like reading too much. I don’t feel like writing too much. Because…summer…and I have a four-year old to keep busy…
Hey mommas! I’m so honored to share my first video interview with you. Please ignore the messy hair and lack of makeup, but I didn’t have much time to get ready. Four-year olds don’t give a shit about their mom’s appointments and mine decided to move at a sloth-like pace that morning before school. At least I was able to shower so that was a win! I think the lesson the here is that it’s better to show up as you are and accept yourself as you are. Plus, pretending to always be so put together is just way too much effort. And I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted enough as it is. I just don’t have the energy for that.
Anyway, on to the interview. I had the honor of talking to mompreneur Bree Whitlock, founder of The Easy Breezy Way, about achieving balance as a mom and entrepreneur.
I’m not sure balance even exists. Are you? How do you achieve balance as a mom? Let me know in the comments!
I knew I wanted to write this post immediately after leaving my son’s occupational therapy evaluation, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted anyone to read it. Since I’m a mom who owns her flaws and believes in sharing my mistakes and what I’ve learned from them (thank you postpartum depression), here it goes. Maybe I can save you the time of repeating this one and you can move straight to the lesson learned part.
At the end of 2016, I met with my son’s preschool teacher for the mid-year conference. I always go into these things excited. My son loves school. He is so curious. He loves to discover new things. His imagination blows me away. I always want to learn more about what he does all day at preschool and the progress he is making.
I also go in nervous because we live in a world where we have become obsessed about our children’s development. Don’t try to tell me you’ve never obsessed. I’m guilty of it too. Before a parent teacher conference, even at his young age of four, there are always the thoughts of, “What if he isn’t making progress? What if he isn’t hitting the milestones appropriate for his age? What if he isn’t socializing with the other kids? What if he finds certain tasks more difficult than his classmates? And what will I do if his teacher expresses concern about any of these issues?”
My son turned four this past weekend. For his first birthday, I went big. As a mom who sucks at crafting, I found my inspiration on Pinterest and paid people on Etsy to execute my vision of Mason’s little man birthday bash complete with bowties, mustaches, musical entertainment, photo booth, and of course, signature cocktails served in mason jars.
Everyone knows a child’s first birthday party is actually for the parents to celebrate surviving the first year of parenthood, where they have successfully kept the tiny human they are now responsible for alive. They have figured out how to fit showers into their daily routines, become accustomed to regularly getting spit up on, peed on, shit on, caught throw up with their bare hands, and if they’re lucky, the accomplished the amazing and life-changing task of getting their child to sleep through the night.
I didn’t stop celebrating myself after Mason’s first birthday. Why should I? I never take any attention away from him. I don’t get presents. It’s his birthday. His party. But there are little things I do each year for me too, because his parties always serve as a reminder of the first one, where I can remember stopping to think that “Wow. I’m a mom–Mason’s mom, and I got this whole motherhood thing.”
Remember on Friends, when Monica was about to move in with Chandler and she cried to Rachel, “I have to live with a boy!” That’s how I feel sometimes. I live with three boys. My husband, four-year old son, and dog Harry Potter. And this week, it’s really noticeable because I just got back from a Campowerment weekend with 75 other women, 12 of whom I lived in a bunk with, and the only guys allowed were the hot Ropes men who scream inspiring words at you as you gather up the courage to climb up a really tall, narrow pole, stand up on top of it, and then jump.
I get it. Farts are really funny for guys no matter how old they are. My four-year old and my husband love to fart and laugh about it regardless of the 30 year age difference between them. But maybe, just maybe you both could fart somewhere other than in my face or while piling on top me. And while this is going on, Potter just has to come and slobber all over my face. He’s probably joined in on the farting for all I know!
Speaking of piling on top of me, why is it that I’m the one that gets to be the human trampoline. My son’s favorite extracurricular activity is jumping on mommy while she tries to relax. I’m reading and there is a tiny human climbing on my head. I’ve been elbowed in the boobs, kneed in the crotch, and head-butted in the face too many times to count while my husband cheers him on in the background. Why can’t you both just wrestle with each other and leave me out of it?
In the years leading up to motherhood (as in my late twenties), I sucked at sleeping late on weekends. I consistently popped up between 6:30 and 7 a.m. every morning because my body was conditioned for the weekday wakeup. And I was a middle school teacher! If that’s not almost as exhausting as motherhood, I don’t know what is.
If I was able to sleep past 8:30 on a Saturday or Sunday morning, that was a victory. Then I had a child and my body suddenly thought it was back in college, where it never wanted to get out of bed before ten in the morning, ever. Okay, maybe noon. The one that couldn’t get its ass out of bed for those 8:15 a.m. Italian classes. The one who never picked classes if they met on Fridays.
Too bad preschool doesn’t work like college. Drop-off is at 8:50 every day and there is class on Friday. Thank god there is class on Friday! My almost four-year old has no problem getting out of bed by 7 every morning, even though his mommy could use just a few more minutes in hers. Okay, maybe hours. And even though I don’t pride myself on being a morning person like my son, I hate missing drop-off. It’s my right to be able to stay in the car, unshowered, without a bra, and possibly wearing the clothes I slept in the night before.
Every year, my college best friends and I get together for a girls’ weekend. We kiss our kids and husbands goodbye, some of us leave written schedules and directions, and spend at least one night together away in a hotel, usually in New York City. New York City is the most convenient location for the four of us moms who all have young kids and are spread out among the East Coast. One night is usually more realistic for all parties involved because you know–husbands–motherhood–kids–life.
I look forward to this weekend every year. As it approaches, I start counting the minutes. The excitement builds. The number of group texts increases. What are we wearing? How many Soul Cycle classes are we taking? Who is booking the spa treatments? Where are we going for dinner? Definitely somewhere we can dress up in the clothes we own but never have any place to wear them to.
I can’t wait for the reminiscing, the laughter, the catching up, the deep conversations, the getting ready all together in the same room like it was during college, and the staying up late and sleeping in (if you count 8:30 am as sleeping in). While we’re on the subject of sleeping, I can’t wait to not have to wake up to anyone asking me for anything. To not have to fight with anyone about what’s for lunch. To not have to enter into any negotiations or diffuse any meltdowns. To not have to share my ice cream! And to enjoy a glass of wine without interruption! Go to the bathroom alone! And most importantly, to not feel guilty about any of it!