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I am that mom. The one all the other women look at with pity oozing from their stares. The one that makes them hug their little gems a little closer. The mom of a screamer.


Not a cute “I want my way!” squawk. I may or may not have somehow mothered an alien being with decibel levels unheard of on the earthly plane. A real life banshee, if you will.

Before I hear the chorus of haters who can’t understand how I’d say such awful things about my littlest cherub, just stop. I love my child more than life itself or, trust me, he’d never have made it this far.

I can now understand how wild mothers – the wildebeest, the lioness, the sharks – eat their young. There’s a lot of love in my heart for my little stinker, but sometimes, it feels like if I’d just consumed him shortly after birth my life would be so much…quieter.

My youngest has been a crier from just a few short moments after he was pulled into this world. As all mothers do, I yearned to hear the first breaths of my love as he struggled to come to terms with his new existence. I fought with the IVs and ignored the anesthesiologist as I arched off the table trying to connect with him, pleading with him to just breathe. Until I heard those first yells, I was inconsolable. After all, for ten months, the thought of those sweet sounds carried me when my swollen feet couldn’t.

And then, my prayers answered, he shrieked. Tears of joy fell from my eyes. That sound was the single most enjoyable noise in the room. It drowned out the beeping machines, quieted the shouts from doctors, silenced even the beating of my own heart.

Days, weeks, months later that sound was no longer a sweet hum of life, but rather a bellowing to the depths of hell I felt my life was slowly starting to resemble.

We tried everything. Burping led to spewing of vomit. Rocking led to tears and screams. Car rides were only tolerable with those noise cancelling ear buds. Our lives became a living mosh pit where we not only hated the music, but we were beginning to hate the band.

The love I wanted to have for my bundle of joy was slipping out of reach. The constant noise he produced was becoming too much for even a mother to find adoring.

We sought help and discovered he was suffering from various medical issues: colic, reflux, and an intolerance to the formula we were using. After working with doctors, this fixed the ailments, but didn’t touch the shrieking. Nothing we did stopped the nonstop crying.

Those cute little bouncy chairs: cried. The swing that all babies love: cried so hard he attempted to flip himself out. Bath: he turned red screaming. Swaddling: he would hold his breath in fits of rage. Baby wearing: great idea, brought the screams to ear level, ensuring I didn’t escape the sound for any length of time.

I swear I would have sold my left boob (I am still considering, if there are takers out there) to make this baby stop crying. Day in and day out, out he cries.

Pediatricians tell you to look for exciting mini-milestones to look out for, hoping you’ll hang in there. My favorites: when he reaches three months, he’ll sleep through the night and be happier; when he can crawl/stand, he’ll stop refluxing and subsequently crying; when he’s a year old, he’ll be past all the baby stuff; when he can talk and tell you his problems, he’ll stop relying on tears. Well, ladies and gents, it’s been all these and more, and the kid still brings grown men to their knees with his high pitched screeches.

I should make note that he is the most adorable child. Looks that could adorn the covers of magazines, a smile to melt butter, and a contagious laugh that brings even our grumpiest old uncle to grin. His personality is solid. He’s a leader, inclusive of all children, and learns quick as a whip. He’s a climber, scaling even the highest of counters, and he’s determined too. He’s inquisitive and engaged in life. A lover, never a fighter.

Until, he doesn’t get his way. Until something in his brain cues him to scream, and the water works begin to drown the crowd. Those that “oohed and ahhed” slowly step back. The looks of judgment shift my way, and instantly I become the party-pooper of the playgroup.

I want to tell everyone how sorry I am in every language I know. I want to bury my head in a bag of chips. I want to sip wine from a cup the size of Lake George. I want to be swallowed up by some huge sinkhole. I want to drop him off somewhere and have him fixed. I want to stop mommy-ing. I want to scream.

But, apparently, none of this is possible. I still have to drop his older brother off at preschool while he yells the whole time. I still have to suffer through days of being alone in the house because he isn’t cute anymore to any of my friends and relatives. I still have to bribe and feed him through grocery shopping. I still have to keep waiting until he gets through this “phase.”

And while it feels like I am the only mom suffering in the shadows of my poltergeist, I know I am not. And although sometimes I look at him with exhaustion, and some days wish he was different, I still watch him sleep. As I do, the love that was slowly depleted throughout the day, recharges and the courage I need to face another day, reboots. I hold my head up and face each challenge because I can’t stop being his mommy…I love him too much.

I am that mom. That one you will pity and thank God you are not. The next time you see me, don’t judge. Just give me a high five, and remind me to keep on trucking.

I promise, I’ll do the same for you. 

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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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