Before I met my husband, I swore I never wanted to get married, and I wouldn’t touch kids with a ten foot pole. Now look at me. I’ll be celebrating ten years of wedded bliss this fall and have kept alive two small children that were birthed from my loins. And not even, like, Chia pet kids, but real, flesh and blood human beings.

Truth be told, there’s a part of me that wishes I’d taken my OB up on his offer for a tubal ligation when I was on the operating table after my daughter was born. But I couldn’t. It was still so…fresh. I mean, she was just BORN. All I could think was “Let’s see if she makes it home before we close up shop.”

Though, I think if I approached my husband tomorrow and said I wasn’t done having children, he’d be on board for a third.

Three. Three children. 1…2…3. I just don’t think I have it in me.

I was the only girl to two brothers. One is my twin, the other is a mere 14 months younger. I never had any alone time. There was always another sibling.

My husband was the only boy to two sisters. Both considerably younger than him. So he clearly remembers a time when it was just him.

And those stark differences feel like the foundation for why he would be interested in having one more kid, and I’m completely done. Here are my personal reasons why I’m stopping at two…

1. We can easily get a table at a restaurant. Our little family sits nice and comfortably at a 4-top. There’s no need to squeeze in extra chairs, or find super-wide booths. If we had another kid, eventually we’d have to be put on a wait list for a larger table or cram ourselves around a 4-seater, fighting for elbow space.

2. There’s no such thing as “Two Against One.” This is something that still remains fresh in my mind. My brothers got along very well. And then there was me. The only girl. If one of them lied to my parents and told them I was the one that broke the planter, they had each other’s back in the treachery. In fights, one brother sided with the other, against me. There’s always that potential with three kids, but when you only have two, they’re pretty much stuck with each other.

3. Gender is balanced. We hit the gender lottery and got one boy and one girl. Like a perfect set of salt and pepper shakers. Which means that the balance of testosterone to estrogen is perfectly balanced. At least until my daughter hits puberty and all hormonal hell breaks loose.

4. The sanctity (or sanity?) of our marriage is preserved. Someone once told me that the experience of going from one kid to two was exponentially harder than going from zero to one, and I couldn’t agree more. While I’m elated to have our little girl in our family and wouldn’t trade our foursome for the world, that with her our family feels complete, I’m not going to lie and say that transition to a second child was easy. I certainly felt like I was unraveling at times, and my poor husband took the brunt of my batshit lunacy. I’m not sure he’s willing to visit that suburb of Crazytown again.

5. Man-on-man defense. This one speaks volumes to my sports-enthusiast husband. It’s much harder to run defense when you’re outnumbered. With three, I’d find myself looking for a referee and screaming “Foul! Too many players on the field!”

6. I refuse to buy a mini-van. No offense to those of you that drive these vehicles. But I’m 5’2″. I could barely see over the hood of a Mini Cooper, let alone try to navigate something that seats eight.

7. I like sleeping. Do I really even need to explain this one? Why on earth would I subject myself to sleepless nights on purpose? Oh right, because a baby’s head is the most intoxicating fragrance in the world and those first three days of a baby’s life are pure magic and the first time they laugh my heart splits open and…would someone stop me before I talk myself in to getting pregnant again?

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Gina

Gina holds the titles of wife, mom, former dancer, blogger, butt-wiper, paper-airplane maker, princess costumer, snack connoisseur, pillow fort architect, and house D.J. You can read more of her babbling at Full of it, follow her on Facebook and Pinterest, or holler at her on Twitter @totallyfullofit.

The post The Argument For Two Children appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Remember how annoying it was to spend hours getting your baby down for a nap, only to have some asshole ring the doorbell and undo all of your hard work, leaving you with a screaming, unrested child and a rage towards encyclopedias or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? I, for one, will never forget it.

Etsy is filled with sweet little signs to delicately ask people not to ring the doorbell.

They’re sweet,

they’re gentle,

and they’re adorable…

Well, fuck that shit.

Back when I had a newborn, if someone woke that baby by unnecessarily ringing the doorbell, sweet and gentle wasn’t going to cut it.

This was what I wanted to hang on my door.

or this…

Sadly, we’re over the waking of sleeping baby faux pas now, but it’s been replaced by something even worse: The eating or using of stuff that I have bought exclusively for my eating or using.

Like the time I bought myself a pint of emergency coffee chip PMS Häagen-Dazs only to later find the chocolate chunks picked out and tell tale signs of microwaving and refreezing evident. Now, my ice creams contain the following warning…

And the deep conditioner that Lily insists on using even though I’ve told her repeatedly that it’s too expensive, her hair doesn’t need it and to keep her grubby paws off of it? These days, it’s plastered with this:

Want to scare away annoying neighbor children selling cookies at two o’clock in the afternoon or claim the chips, jewelry and bath salts as yours and only yours? Now you can!

Kidecals has long been my choice in personalized stickers and decals and I’m super excited to have designed a line of Scary Mommy decals and door signs just for them. Prices start at just five bucks and shipping is always free, no matter what quantity you order (love that part!) I mean, isn’t it time we took back what’s ours?

That was a rhetorical question. Of course it is.

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Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

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The post Taking Back What’s Ours appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Remember those late nights trying to soothe a colicky baby? Or how you spent days bribing your three year old with M&Ms to pretty-pretty-please-poop-on-the-potty? We complain and grumble about these mundane, less-than-glamorous moments of motherhood, but I don’t know, the next phase of parenting looks pretty freaking scary to me.

As my six year old prepares to “graduate” from kindergarten, it suddenly feels like he’s one step away from junior high and falling in love and getting a driver’s license. When I really stop and consider some of the challenging and – yes – painful mom moments that are undoubtedly ahead of me, it makes me appreciate (and dare I say, enjoy?) these days when my biggest parenting dilemma is whether I should let my kids watch those obnoxious “Bubble Guppies” for the umpteenth time. Here are the ten moments I dread most…

1. When my kids ask me whether I ever smoked cigarettes, drank in high school or did any other naughty things and I have to decide whether to flat-out lie or tell them some version of the truth.

2. Changing my son’s sheets when he’s a teenager and finding evidence of … well … you know …

3. Having “the talk.” At least my husband and I each get stuck with initiating one, since we have a son and a daughter. But we moms get screwed. We’re the ones who have to sing the praises of tampons and explain how babies exit a woman’s body and make “You’re going to bleed every single month for the next 25 years!” sound exciting.

4. Being told “I hate you!” when it sure sounds like they mean it.

5. The first time one of my kids gets bullied: whether it’s online, at recess or by the local “mean girls.” I’d like to think it’s never going to happen, but it just seems kind of inevitable these days.

6. Living with a moody, dramatic, hormonal teenage girl. There’s only room for one moody female in this house and you’re looking at her. This is going to be fun. Oh, and yes, Mom and Dad, I realize this is what you call karma. You can stop laughing now.

7. Realizing I am no longer capable of helping with my kids’ homework (algebra, anyone?), which leads them to believe they are smarter than me.

8. Setting curfews and then staying up late, staring at the clock, waiting for them to walk in the door safely. Thank God for texting. Remember having to make that awful 11:30pm call to your parents to tell them you were going to be late?

9. Two words: driver’s permit.

10. The minute I go from being “Mommy” to just “Mom.”

What inevitable moments do you dread?

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Jessica Grimes

Jessica blogs about her attempts to juggle a full-time job, family, motherhood, marriage, fitness, some semblance of a personal life -- and, most importantly, her sanity -- on Keeping Mommy Sane. She lives in the Boston area with her husband, 6-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter. Keep up with her (mis)adventures on Twitter and Facebook.

The post 10 Dread Worthy Mom Moments appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Dear Shaila,

I am 37 years old as I write this. I know that might seem old to you when you read this and there was a time where I would have thought the same thing. 37 was where you went to die once your life stopped being fun. You encountered it as you approached the twilight years (your 40s) and Spanx became your best friend. 37 wasn’t a number I was particularly looking forward to, and it came upon me much quicker than I expected.

Do you know how many months are in 37 years, Shaila? 444 months. That’s a LOT of months. Do you know of those 444 months, how many I was actually satisfied or content with what I saw in the mirror?

Zero.

Yes.

None.

How does that happen? You know, I don’t really know what to tell you, honey. I know that there was a brief period in the summer before fourth grade that I thought I was remotely passable, especially when your Nana and Nani got me that wicked denim jacket from Sears.

Other than that, I never really liked what I saw.

When I was younger, I always wished I had shiny, straight hair. I also wished I looked like my other friends, which basically meant being white.

When I got to high school, I accepted my curls. For two minutes. I spent the rest of the four years wishing I was taller and thinner. Prettier. Less meaty.

Less, GOSH.

Less me, maybe?

In my twenties, my thighs were too big. My waist not small enough. My arms? Never quite right.

In my thirties, they were even more NOT right. Not only that. People were finding new things to “fix.” Some women even started talking about surgeries like vaginal rejuvenation to make their hoo-hoos prettier after childbirth. Your own Mommy looked down and said, “Oh great! another thing to add to the list!”

Yes, Shaila. People apparently have pretty ones and NOT so pretty ones. That is the society we live in, baby.

And for whatever reason, even knowing how messed up it all is, I have bought into all of it.

No, I didn’t blow your college fund on vaginal rejuvenation.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s just that, do you know that since I was 15 years old, there has not been ONE SINGLE DAY of my life where I have thought, “My weight is perfect. I look perfect”?

There has not been one day that I haven’t compared myself mentally in some way to another woman, in terms of my size, in terms of my appearance.

NOT. ONE. SINGLE. DAY.

Do you know what that makes me realize as I sit here today and I write this? At 37 years old. With a 5 1/2 year old daughter?

That I have wasted a whole lot of fucking time. So much fucking time wishing I was something other than what I was.

Excuse my language, dear.

But fuck, it makes me really, really sad.

I found this picture of your father and me the other night. It’s a picture of the two of us from when we were dating, before we were even close to being engaged.

I look back at this picture and I think how happy we look. How young we look. How stinking skinny we look.

But do you know what I remember thinking during that vacation?

“I really wish I had lost those last five pounds before this trip.”

Yes.

I wish I could rewind things and go back and shake myself and say, “Love THIS. Enjoy THIS moment. It goes by too fast. You look fine. DAMN fine. But even if you didn’t? Who cares?!!!”

I wish I could, but you know what else? I need to shake myself now. Here. Now. Really hard. Because I still can’t seem to make that leap between unrealistic expectations that I will never, ever be able to fulfill and just accepting myself.

What the hell kind of message am I sending to you, my only daughter? I ask myself this as I have this realization. I tell you every day how perfect you are. How beautiful your heart and your mind and you soul are. So, why do I expect you to believe me when I never stopped, not one of those 13,510 days, to believe in myself just a little more?

Not ONE day, honey.

Not for 37 years.

I saw this quote by Kate Winslet the other day and it made me realize that she still doesn’t know that she is supposed to be my best friend. That’s another post for another day, dear. But for now, let me just share what it said:

“As a child, I never heard one woman say to me, ‘I love my body.’ Not my mother. Not my elder sister. My best friend. No one woman has ever said, ‘I am so proud of my body.’ So I make sure to say it to Mia, because a positive physical outlook has to start at an early age.” -  Kate Winslet

There are so many messages I send you every day. One of those messages has never been that Mommy feels comfortable in her own skin. The message has always been that Mommy needs to change some things. But don’t worry! She’s getting there!

444 Months, Shaila.

444 months.

I never get there. Ever. It’s a race that just never ends.

I need to stop running it.

For your sake.

And for mine.

Love,

Mommy

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Kiran

Kiran is the founder of Simply Om, a fair-trade jewelry company dedicated to fighting global oppression of women through fashion. When she gets overwhelmed by parenting, she wanders the make-up aisles of Walgreens and makes bad eyeliner choices.  She writes a lot of crap over at Masala Chica and on "the Twitter" as her Ma likes to call it.

The post The Race Towards Body Acceptance appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

I remember when the expression up all night involved parties, studying, and amour. Then my kids were born, and it took on a whole new meaning.

Last week, our oldest son flew home from college for a short visit. His flight was expected to land at midnight. When it was delayed, my husband and I tag-teamed on sleep and it was like old times: he napped for a few hours, I made brownies (why not?) then woke him when it was time to leave; he drove to the airport, I napped. At 3:30 a.m. they walked in the front door. I stayed up to catch up on our son’s life (and to watch him eat) and my husband napped until it was time to leave for work.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but as our son, who will be 21 in a few months, spoke, I was acutely aware of how he had come full cycle with keeping us up all night. Now, instead of me reading him stories to lull him back to sleep, he was telling me some of his own — mostly about staying up all night in college — minus a few choice details he politely left out.

The next day, I found myself looking at photos of the boys when they were little. Like most infants, neither of them slept through the night — our youngest didn’t start until he was two years old. It certainly made work challenging, but life was full and rich and anything but dull.

Some days I couldn’t form sentences, or identify the stains on my blouses, or remember if I ate breakfast, or put on antiperspirant. On several occasions I wore mismatched shoes, and once I threw a bag of dirty diapers into the back of my van with my briefcase only to discover it an hour later when I arrived and the smell nearly knocked me out. But that stage of life passed, as it tends to do, and the next one – the adolescent stage, when they start to talk about their dreams and worries in the wee hours — began.

In the darkness I’d hear, “Mom, I don’t feel good,” or “Mom, I can’t sleep, will you read to me?” and up all night continued. From illness and heartache, to excitement about birthdays, new schools, and the chance of snow — the reasons for staying up were many and varied and the days that followed were long, but it was always worth it.

By the teenage years there didn’t need to be any one reason in particular — they were just wired to be up. When I couldn’t sleep through the noise, I joined them. Once I even made biscuits at 2 a.m. after watching Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives with my youngest son and salivating over some breakfast foods we saw at a diner the host visited. There was also some sort of green bean puree that we attempted, but that’s a memory better forgotten.

It became clear that in spite of my getting older and wanting more sleep, I had to choose: Did I want to sleep or did I want to be part of their lives? It seemed a no-brainer. I tried to be up when they were, around when they did their thinking — even if I was brain dead, I left the light on. Some of our best conversations happened when the moon came up.

This fall, our youngest heads off to college. I can only hope that when he comes home for a visit, he too will honor the age-old tradition of keeping his mother up all night, regaling me with stories — stories I can replay in my head as I nod off to slumber when they’re both gone.

After all, I’ve got some serious catching up on sleep to do. And parties, studying, and amour beckon to my boys.

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Melissa Shultz

Melissa T. Shultz writes about life’s journey -- the wistful, the wonderful, and the wry. Her work has appeared in newspapers and magazines including: Newsweek, The Washington Post, Reader’s Digest, The New York Times, Ladies’ Home Journal, Huffington Post, BetterAfter50.com, The Los Angeles Times, as well as CNN Radio. You can follow her on Twitter @MelissaTShultz

The post The New Meaning of Up All Night appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Did you not notice the warning prominently displayed on every page of this site? You must not have, so let me share it with you again …

It goes without saying that I, along with my contributors, love our children with all of our hearts.

We beam with pride over their accomplishments and weep with grief over their heartbreaks. We want nothing more in life than for them to be happy, and are changed women because of them.

There are thousands of websites where you can read beautiful and poignant posts about that love day after day after day. Occasionally, you can even find them here. But more often that not? We need to vent about the other stuff. The not so beautiful parts of motherhood.

Calling another mother selfish, questioning her love and devotion for her children or referring to her post as garbage might be acceptable on other sites, but it’s not here.

Congratulations for wanting to spend the entire summer with your children. That is wonderful for you, but that doesn’t mean we all should be giddy about the prospect of three months with ours.

There isn’t one way to mother. Very little in life is one size fits all, black and white. We all, whether you admit it or not, have moments we aren’t proud of, and the last thing we need to is be judged for them.

Not here.

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Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

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The post Dear Judgy Mothers on My Website… appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

You.

The one writing “5 more days til school is out!” with glee.

You and I can’t be friends anymore.

If you want to meet for a drink sometime, that’s okay. But I have to unfriend you from my friend list.

The excitement in your voice about doing the happy dance, getting to spend long days at the beach with your kids, taking day trips as a family and not having any schedules to adhere to… you’re killing me.

It’s been two hours since my kids have been out of school and already I’m reaching for the wine glass.

4:32PM

“Mommy. How long is a garden stick? Is it the same as this tape measure?”
“Mommy I’m going to clip this tape measure to my belt loop like this. See? Like this? You’re not looking… How can you say ‘I see’”?
“And Mommy, don’t tell Daddy when he comes home so I can surprise him”

Or when the kid is watching a show called “Dog with a Blog,” yet still manages time to glance over at what I’m doing.

4:35PM

“Mommy, why are you writing about me?”
“Mommy why did you write a question mark there?
“Mommy can you put more cereal in a bag for me?”
“Mommy I’m going to do my homework now. After I finish the cereal. Oh can I also have a drink?”
“Before you say something like ‘are your legs broken’ or ‘did you forget where the refrigerator is” it’s not funny. And I’m in the middle of my show! So can you pleEEzzzee get me a drink?”
“Mommy are you writing about me in your blog?”

Did I mention the kid calling me Mommy is almost eight? What was I thinking sending him to speech therapy at the age of two and a half because he wasn’t talking enough?

4:39PM

He glances over at his older (quiet) brother who is engrossed in his iPad (aka BEST BABYSITTER ever.)
“What’s the score? What app are you playing? Do you think Daddy can download that for me?”

Oldest now chimes in because youngest has decided to measure EVERYTHING in the house with the tape measure; including his brother.

“Stop! You’re being annoying!”

“Stop measuring my foot and my head.”

“Stop measuring Wilsey.”

“Stop!”

“I said STOP!!”

“Mommy”

“MOMMY!”

“Momm..yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!”

So, to those of you wanting your long, extended days of summer: Enjoy them.

I’ll never understand you but I’ll be sending you my eight year old so you can reach for the wine glass with me.

Me? I’ll be doing the happy dance come September.

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Abby Stern

Abby is a wanna be writer and lover of all 80s music. She's not a doctor but claims to play one due to the extensive medical history of her oldest premature son. She lives in the Boston area with her husband, two sons and a goldendoodle named Wilsey. Find her at Two and a Half Boys.

The post Dear Giddy Over Summer Mother appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Whether it was the first try, the first round of in-vitro, the first year of trying, or the first five years of waiting on an adoption list, we all have the firsts that we struggled with.

The first time we experienced morning sickness.
The first time we had a hormone shot.
The first time an adoption fell through.

We got queasy over something in the beginning. Then we went on to struggle with our seconds.

The second time we had to go back for an ultrasound because the first one made the Dr. uneasy.
The second round of in-vitro.
The second miscarriage.
The second round of blood work.
The second batch of adoption legal fees.
We all had all sorts of seconds… and not just of dessert helpings.

And we made it to three.

The third trimester restricted to bed rest.
The third round of in-vitro that worked.
The third trip to another country.
The third meeting with a genetic counselor.
The third trip to the ER.
We had thirds we will never forget.

And through miracles of all shapes and forms, we made it.

We held our baby.
We gave someone a life.
No matter how you became a mother.  No matter who you mother.  Regardless of what you believe, how you did it, what worked for you, what you stand for, what you stand up against… we are all in this together.

At least we should be.

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Andrea

Andrea, also known as DG from Underchieving Domestic Goddess, is the one of the leading experts in the field of Domestic Engineering. Her days are filled with giggles, Legos and an endless supply of Greek food. She is also a contributor to the very funny anthology entitled I Just Want to Pee Alone.

The post United by Motherhood appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

I constantly find myself comparing my relationship with our dog to your relationship with your child. I know, I know. It’s not the same thing, but I’ll be darned if there aren’t some similarities: He wakes me in the middle of the night. He counts on me to feed, bathe, dress, and console him. Yes, I said dress. He’s 4.5 lbs and he gets cold easily. If he’s sick, I take him to the doctor. I reward him for good behavior. I take preventative measures to keep him healthy, and my God, I miss him when I’m away for too long.

True, I did not carry this pup for ten months in the womb… Nor do I need to arrange for day care when we can’t be home with him – I get it. But you know what? He still requires a great deal of attention. So, to honor Tank, I’m going to outline all the ways my ‘little buddy’ is cooler than your child.

1. I can put a bowl of food and water on the floor for him when I leave in the morning. If he’s hungry enough he’ll eat.

2. I can drop him off at MomMom & PopPop’s house for a weekend, or heck, even a week without much notice.

3. He misbehaved? “Go to your crate.”

4. He can sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed. Forever.

5. He needs human interaction and I’m hungover? Too bad. I’m going back to sleep.

6. He’s neutered.

7. He can’t talk. But that head tilt and those eyes say it all.

8. He can’t talk back.

9. I don’t have to worry about him getting accepted to any Ivy League schools.

And last but certainly not least….

10. No diapers here. Poop in our front yard … It’s cool. I’ll pick it up. Maybe.

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Diana Theckston

Diana writes as Aunti4Now for Binkies n Drinkies, a site born from three college friends, turned mommies, who felt like they needed an easy way to connect with each other when busy schedules and baby’s bedtime did not allow.

The post Why My Dog is Cooler Than Your Kid appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Perspective is a funny thing.  There is no way to predict how the pain of now will translate into joy in the future.

When Matt and I lost our first baby to a late first trimester miscarriage, it was – by far – the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  I didn’t know where to turn or what to think.  I had no markers or guideposts to cling to in such grief.  The pain was so constant and overwhelming that it seemed certain that others could look at me and see the hole left by the end of my pregnancy.  Lost expectations choked me daily and clinging to the fragile hope of a second pregnancy did nothing to ease the drag of days.

Matt tried to help me. He held me as I sobbed. He drove me to the surgery and held my hand through the IV and the cramps and the pain.  He let me talk and talk and talk about our disappointment and my grief and my fears that I would never be able to have a baby. That this would be my experience of motherhood.

I have a strong belief in doing.  I don’t sit passively and let anything happen to me and I refused to let grief happen to me.  If nothing else, I would be an active participant in distracting my own thoughts.  I researched miscarriages and fertility.  I comforted myself with the statistics that said that miscarriage was common and a couple able to conceive so easily had a high chance of eventually carrying a baby to term.  I applied for a new job overseas because – dammit - if I couldn’t be a mother, I would have the dream career that I wanted. I wouldn’t sit still and hope for something out of my control to change my life.  And, I researched adoption.  Matt and I had talked about adopting often before we decided to try and have a baby. We had always felt open to different ways of building a family.  I applied to volunteer at a small orphanage in the mountains outside of Port au Prince, Haiti.  Just to see, I told Matt, for information and so that we can start to understand the process.

Months past.  I got the job and we began the arduous process of relocating our lives overseas for the second time in our marriage, but I didn’t get the baby.  Despite our best efforts, the pregnancy tests I took so hopefully “three days before the start of my period!” stayed resolutely negative.  Each one took its own little chip out of my hopes.  At Christmas time, I heard final word that they had room for me to travel to Haiti and work at the orphanage for four weeks in January.

I kissed Matt, promised, futilely, not to give my heart and soul away to orphaned children half a hemisphere away and left ridiculously early on a freezing cold January morning. After a long night on the gritty airport floor in Miami, I arrived in the oppressive, tropical heat of Haiti, drove the rutted, mountain rode to the orphanage compound and promptly gave my slightly battered heart and soul away to orphaned children who now sat in my lap, clamored for my attention, slept in my arms and filled my days and my thoughts.  Grief lost the battle for my consciousness to industry and giggles and dirty diapers and an exhausting routine with “my” eight children to love.

I flew home changed.  I wanted to be a mother through adoption.  I was already a mother a second time. I missed my period in Haiti.

Eighteen months, reams of paperwork, several ultrasounds, an endless labor, endless waiting and hoping and filing and an exhausting series of flights across the country later, I held my fourteen-month-old daughter and my twelve-month-old son together in my arms for the first time.

I thought it that day and still think it now when I watch my six-year-old “twins” play and laugh and fight and giggle.

Just maybe, losing a baby was the best thing that ever happened to me.

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Stacey Conner

Stacey Conner is raising four kids and a Great Dane with her husband, Matt, in the Pacific Northwest. She regrets the Great Dane, the rest are keepers. She writes about life’s joys and sorrows, big and small, at Any Mommy Out There.

The post Perspective appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.