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A ‘thank you’ to the friends who love my children as their own

It was the "lazy morning at home" that by 8 a.m., I knew could no longer be the lazy morning at home. Restless toddlers, arguments over whose cup it was, and a pile of laundry that six little feet were simply not going to let me fold. The kids needed a change of scenery and a place to burn off some energy, and I couldn’t let those unfolded socks taunt me one more minute. We had to get out of the house.


I sent a text to my good friend Kelly on a whim, hoping to have someone join me in the chaos but staying realistic about the chances of a last minute meet up. “We are headed to Jump + Bounce at 10! Are you guys free this morning?”

A few minutes later my phone lit up. “We are! We will be there!”

Thank goodness! I thought in return. When you’ve simply had too much of your little people and the day is still so young, the prospect of the company of anyone but those little people is incredibly comforting. I quickly grabbed everyone socks, corralled the kids into the car, and promised to stop at Starbucks for apple juice on the way—my way of saying, "Mama needs a venti this morning."

Within 90 minutes, two moms and five kids descended on the local bounce house. We wrangled shoes off excited toddlers and reminded the easily distracted one not to hold in her potty until the last minute. For an hour, Kelly and I chatted in one minute increments, head on a swivel for our kids in the sea of sweaty little people.

“So how was work this week?”

“It was good. Had a big meeting with a potential new client, but I think he enjoyed the presentation and is likely to hire us, so … oh, hang on, ‘Micah! Wait for him, do not climb over him!’ What about you? Anything new?”

“Oh not really. Keeping busy with the usual but I did get … ‘Cannon! Are you stuck? I’m coming buddy.’ Anyway, what was I talking about?”

And so it went the remainder of our time. A sentence here, a bathroom break there, a moment of panic when the two-year-old is out of sight for too long and sweet relief when I see his bright yellow shirt come out from behind the climbing wall. A classic mom-date, catching up and bonding over the shared experience of constant interruption and unfinished sentences.

When it was time to go, my four-year-old, Harper, spotted the balloons. The pink one, to be specific. Once her eyes locked on it I knew exactly what she was thinking. With the adept negotiating skills that seem far too mature for a four-year-old, somehow she convinced her distracted mama to hand over two quarters for a little bit of pink glory. As the sweet bounce house worker handed her the prize, my girl beamed. So much joy for such a little face. With Harper’s balloon in hand, we guided the rest of the crew out the door and toward a sea of various color minivans.

Just after we stepped outside and turned to say goodbye to our friends, toddler-tragedy struck: a gust of wind seized the pink balloon and began to carry it off into the distance. Immediately Harper shrieked in horror and began crying, “My balloon! My balloon!” I didn’t even have a moment to get out any words of consolation to her before friendship showed up.

Without hesitation, Kelly dropped her purse and took off running—no, sprinting— toward the balloon. This was no light breeze, it was wind she was up against, and she gave it her best athletic efforts. We watched as she chased that balloon down the parking lot, onto a sidewalk, near the storefront, and eventually around the back of the building. For a few anxious seconds she was out of sight and we all wondered and hoped she would valiantly return with the prize in hand.

She didn’t. The wind was too much that day. When she came back she knelt down to a sobbing little girl and wrapped her arms around her. “I’m so sorry about your balloon, sweetheart. I tried so hard to catch it.” And she had. She did something in that moment that not even I did.

Harper was still distraught as we squinted our eyes to see a little bit of pink floating high behind the building in the distance, but my heart was full. My friend had just demonstrated the most important level of friendship two moms can ever attain: loving the other one’s kids.

In moments like these, we learn a beautiful truth: love me and I’ll be grateful for your friendship; love my babies, too, and I will do anything in the world for you. I’m not sure many things can do more for a mama’s heart than seeing other people truly love her children.

And not just when they are sweet and innocent, but when they are not.

Harper was very kind and grateful for the balloon that morning, but there have been plenty of times when she has not been so kind and grateful. Kelly would have taken off after that balloon anyway, because she has not reserved unconditional love for only her children, she’s offered it to mine, too. Seeing my friends truly care about my kids and their growing, learning, imperfect and precious hearts makes the world feel a bit safer, and it makes the long days of raising little ones feel a bit sweeter. A mama’s love cannot be replaced, but it can certainly be added to. And that’s the funny thing about math and love: addition feels a lot more like multiplication when we see our friend chase a balloon through a windy parking lot.

A few weeks after the upsetting loss of the pink balloon, Harper and I thought it would be fun to surprise Kelly with her own balloon, to thank her for her heroic efforts. We went to the party store and filled one blue balloon with helium and grabbed a few extra for her boys to blow up themselves. When we arrived at the door, they greeted us with smiles and we all laughed at the memory of a grown woman sprinting through a parking lot, dodging cars and watching for curbs. We handed over the blue balloon to the boys and in the excitement of the moment, someone’s little hands let go of the ribbon and we all jumped at the sound of exploding helium. The moms laughed, the kids cried; we had unintentionally recreated the trauma of that windy day and decided that perhaps balloons would be not be the gift of choice for our little crew.

Some things are meant to last, others aren’t. But friends who truly love your babies: don’t let those ones go.


This story was originally published on Coffee + Crumbs. Check out their book, The Magic of Motherhood, for more heartwarming essays about motherhood, love, and the good kind of heartache.

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Summer heat has a way of making the house feel smaller, more congested, with less room for the air to circulate. And there's nothing like heat to make me want to strip down, cool off and lighten my load. So, motivation in three digits, now that school is back in, it's time to do a purge.

Forget the spring clean—who has time for that? Those last few months of the school year are busier than the first. And summer's warm weather entices our family outdoors on the weekends which doesn't leave much time for re-organizing.

So, I seize the opportunity when my kids are back in school to enter my zone.

I love throwing open every closet and cupboard door, pulling out anything and everything that doesn't fit our bodies or our lives. Each joyless item purged peels off another oppressive layer of "not me" or "not us."

Stuff can obscure what really makes us feel light, capable and competent. Stuff can stem the flow of what makes our lives work.

With my kids back in school, I am energized, motivated by the thought that I have the space to be in my head with no interruptions. No refereeing. No snacks. No naps… I am tossing. I am folding. I am stacking. I am organizing. I don't worry about having to stop. The neat-freak in me is having a field day.

Passing bedroom doors, ajar and flashing their naughty bits of chaos at me, is more than I can handle in terms of temptation. I have to be careful, though, because I can get on a roll. Taking to my kids' rooms I tread carefully, always aware that what I think is junk can actually be their treasure.

But I usually have a good sense for what has been abandoned or invisible in plain sight for the lack of movement or the accumulation of dust. Anything that fits the description gets relegated to a box in the garage where it is on standby in case its absence is noticed and a meltdown has ensued so the crisis can be averted. Either way, it's a victory.

Oh, it's quiet. So, so quiet. And I can think it through…

Do we really need all this stuff?

Will my son really notice if I toss all this stuff?

Will my daughter be heartbroken if I donate all this stuff?

Will I really miss this dress I wore three years ago that barely fit my waist then and had me holding in my tummy all night, and that I for sure cannot zip today?

Can we live without it all? All. This. Stuff?

For me, the fall purge always gets me wondering, where in the world does all this stuff come from? So with the beginning of the school year upon us, I vow to create a new mindset to evaluate everything that enters my home from now on, so there will be so much less stuff.

I vow to really think about objects before they enter my home…

…to evaluate what is really useful,

...to consider when it would be useful,

...to imagine where it would be useful,

...to remember why it may be useful,

…to decide how to use it in more than one way,

... so that all this stuff won't get in the way of what really matters—time and attention for my kids and our lives as a new year reveals more layers of the real stuff—what my kids are made of.

Bring it on.

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In the moments after we give birth, we desperately want to hear our baby cry. In the middle of the night a few months later it's no longer exactly music to our ears, but those cries aren't just telling us that baby needs a night feeding: They're also giving us a hint at what our children may sound like as kindergarteners, and adults.

New research published in the journal Biology Letters suggests the pitch of a 4-month-old's cry predicts the pitch they'll use to ask for more cookies at age five and maybe even later on as adults.

The study saw 2 to 5-month olds recorded while crying. Five years later, the researchers hit record again and chatted with the now speaking children. Their findings, combined with previous work on the subject, suggest it's possible to figure out what a baby's voice will sound like later in life, and that the pitch of our adult voices may be traceable back to the time we spend in utero. Further studies are needed, but scientists are very interested in how factors before birth can impact decades later.

"In utero, you have a lot of different things that can alter and impact your life — not only as a baby, but also at an adult stage," one of the authors of the study, Nicolas Mathevon, told the New York Times.

The New York Times also spoke with Carolyn Hodges, an assistant professor of anthropology at Boston University who was not involved in the study. According to Hodges, while voice pitch may not seem like a big deal, it impacts how we perceive people in very real ways.

Voice pitch is a factor in how attractive we think people are, how trustworthy. But why we find certain pitches more or less appealing isn't known. "There aren't many studies that address these questions, so that makes this research especially intriguing," Hodges said, adding that it "suggests that individual differences in voice pitch may have their origins very, very early in development."

So the pitch of that midnight cry may have been determined months ago, and it may determine part of your child's future, too. There are still so many things we don't know, but as parents we do know one thing: Our babies cries (as much as we don't want to hear them all the time) really are something special.

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For many years, Serena Williams seemed as perfect as a person could be. But now, Serena is a mom. She's imperfect and she's being honest about that and we're so grateful.

On the cover of TIME, Williams owns her imperfection, and in doing so, she gives mothers around the world permission to be as real as she is being.

"Nothing about me right now is perfect," she told TIME. "But I'm perfectly Serena."

The interview sheds light on Williams' recovery from her traumatic birth experience, and how her mental health has been impacted by the challenges she's faced in going from a medical emergency to new motherhood and back to the tennis court all within one year.

"Some days, I cry. I'm really sad. I've had meltdowns. It's been a really tough 11 months," she said.

It would have been easy for Williams to keep her struggles to herself over the last year. She didn't have to tell the world about her life-threatening birth experience, her decision to stop breastfeeding, her maternal mental health, how she missed her daughter's first steps, or any of it. But she did share these experiences, and in doing so she started incredibly powerful conversations on a national stage.

After Serena lost at Wimbledon this summer, she told the mothers watching around the world that she was playing for them. "And I tried," she said through tears. "I look forward to continuing to be back out here and doing what I do best."

In the TIME cover story, what happened before that match, where Williams lost to Angelique Kerber was revealed. TIME reports that Williams checked her phone about 10 minutes before the match, and learned, via Instagram, that the man convicted of fatally shooting her sister Yetunde Price, in 2003 is out on parole.

"I couldn't shake it out of my mind," Serena says. "It was hard because all I think about is her kids," she says. She was playing for all the mothers out there, but she had a specific mother on her mind during that historic match.

Williams' performance at Wimbledon wasn't perfect, and neither is she, as she clearly states on the cover of time. But motherhood isn't perfect either. It's okay to admit that. Thanks, Serena, for showing us how.

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There are some mornings where I wake up and I'm ready for the day. My alarm goes off and I pop out of bed and hum along as I make breakfast before my son wakes up. But then there are days where I just want 10 more minutes to sleep in. Or breakfast feels impossible to make because all our time has run out. Or I just feel overwhelmed and unprepared.

Those are the mornings I stare at the fridge and think, Can someone else just make breakfast, please?

Enter: make-ahead breakfasts. We spoke to the geniuses at Pinterest and they shared their top 10 pins all around this beautiful, planned-ahead treat. Here they are.

(You're welcome, future self.)

1. Make-ahead breakfast enchiladas

www.pinterest.com

Created by Bellyful

I'd make these for dinner, too.

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