100.jpg

Hi.

When I became a mom, I searched for a blog that resonated with every part of me: the nerdy kid, the ansty teenage feminist, the wayward 20-something, the ambitious career woman, the writer, the traveler, the wife, and yes, the mother. I couldn’t find that blog, so I wrote it. Welcome.

Fathering, not babysitting

Fathering, not babysitting

I recently spent an amazing weekend with my girlfriends. We talked about all the feelings, laughed, cried, and slept in. I came home refreshed and refueled. The best part about the weekend, though, was that I didn’t waste one second of it worrying about my family.

My husband was at home with our two-year-old. I didn’t grocery shop before I left, or leave him a detailed schedule or list of instructions about bedtime. I made zero suggestions about what they should do, or eat, or watch. I just kissed them both goodbye and got on my plane.

I didn’t do any of this because I knew my husband would be fine alone with our son. He needs no operating manual for our child because he’s been there in the operator’s seat with me from the beginning.

I have a hard time holding my tongue when I hear women sigh about how their husband never does bedtime, or complain about how they can’t leave the kids alone with him for long because he’ll just feed them crap and put them in front of the TV. To which I want to say 1) Wow, he’s missing out, and 2) So what if he does? 

Our husbands will only learn how to parent if we let them. They’ll only become confident, capable fathers excited to have extra time with their kids if we go away and give them that time.

They can do this, I promise.

Like this post? Subscribe here so you won’t miss others like it.

Old friends

Old friends

What it truly means to be brave

What it truly means to be brave