Today I said the words, “I’m Bella’s mommy.” They came out so quickly I didn’t have a chance to think about them. That sentence is one I never thought I’d say. It felt good but awkward to say them. I’m a mom. I’m a mother. This is huge!

When a baby is born, the first six months go by in a flash. Life smacks you in the face and you either crumble or you roll with it. I immediately put baby to breast, changed diapers, took a zillion photos, rocked her, held her, tucked her in. A lot of it came without much thinking. God knows I didn’t have enough sleep to think even if I wanted to. Everything happened so naturally and so quickly that I didn’t have time to realize that I AM ISABELLA’S MOMMY!

In the last 36 years, I have been a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a girlfriend. I’ve introduced myself as all of these things and have been proud to do so, but to say I’m Bella’s mom is possibly the best way I could ever introduce myself. It feels so right and like something I’ve earned.

I became a mom in September of 2012. That is when I found out I was pregnant. I think, at least for women, this is when we become a parent. We decide to keep the child and then we begin making hundreds of decisions on how to care for that child. From the food we eat to the workload we take on, we are already deciding what kind of mom we will be before the child is even born.

In my case, I had a healthy pregnancy and a memorable birth. And when she was born, my life entirely changed. For the last seven months, I have nursed her, stayed up all night with her, taken her to the doctor, made her food, changed her diapers, washed her clothes, bathed her, picked out a daycare and then got up early every morning to take her there. I have wiped her tears, sucked out her boogies, given her medicine, and I’ve rocked her to sleep. For the most part, I’ve done this on my own.

She chose me and I accepted. Now I have started to think about our next steps. What will it be like when she starts saying “mommy?” She is going to be a little girl very soon and I’m terrified about it. As long as you feed and love a baby, they adore you. A little girl has opinions and a voice. She asks questions and wants answers.

I always thought there were all of these things I had to do before I became a parent. In my case, however, there was no prep. Bella was an incredible perfectly timed surprise. I welcomed her, but was terrified and totally unprepared. She pulled me out of the murk and continues to make me a better person everyday.

Today I faced her father. He is a man I once admired, and yes, I will admit it, I loved. If you’ve read this blog, you know that he has chosen to be absent from the pregnancy, birth, and now his daughter’s life. For the most part, I have left him alone because there is no reason to chase or pester a man who cannot take responsibility for or acknowledge his own child.

Today I did something I didn’t want to do. I walked into a conference room and I fought for my daughter. I was scared, angry, and so very sad that this is the current situation for us. But I did it because I know it’s what is best for her. This is the essence of being a mother. You ignore the knots in your stomach and you set your emotions aside to do the one thing, even if it scares you, that you know is best for your child.

So when I introduce myself as Bella’s mommy, what I’m really saying is “I am stronger, happier, more compassionate, more loving, more reliable, more responsible, more giving, wiser, and less selfish, because this little girl snuck into my life at the perfect moment and made me that way.”

I am about to get really honest. I started this blog to be honest and sometimes honesty is not pleasant, so I’m just going to say it. This is long, but something I have to get off my chest. Midway through my pregnancy I joined an online mommy group made up of women who were all due sometime in June 2013. Some of us had our babies early, some of us had our babies late, but all of us shared common worries, joys, tears, and laughter. Now, we are sharing pictures and advice on Instagram and Facebook and have hashtagged ourselves “junemommies.” I love these ladies. Though I have never met any of them in person, I feel very strongly connected to them and dream that one day we will all get together for a big picnic with our little ones and expand our virtual friendships into reality.

The junemommies are made up of older moms like me, younger moms, first time moms, and moms with 5 kids. There are single moms, married moms, divorced moms, lesbian moms, and moms who live with live-in boyfriends. Some of us are wealthy and some of us aren’t. Some of us are educated, some haven’t finished high school. Some of us go to work and some of us stay home with our children. There are arguments and disagreements about different aspects of parenting, but for the most part, we all seem to get along. What brings us together is the fact that being pregnant and then becoming a mom is a scary but exciting thing no matter who you are or where you are in life.

Yesterday, one of the moms posted something about shaving. I won’t go into detail since I consider our mommy discussions confidential, but the discussion that followed, silly as it may have been, just brought me out of a funk that I have been stuck in for a year. I scoffed when I saw something about shaving because I don’t even think about shaving anymore. I tried about a month ago and only had the time for one leg, so I just gave up all together. Why bother? There is no man in my life right now, so I am the only one that sees anything. And dating seems unfathomable at this time. I am still breastfeeding, so between nursing and pumping, I feel like a cow most of the time. The little pooch that appeared during my pregnancy is still there and my belly, quite frankly looks like I’m 5 months pregnant, only is soft and sagging instead of tight and wiggly. Parts of my clothes fit and parts do not, so getting the right sized pants to fit legs that haven’t changed but hips and a waist that have expanded or a shirt that fits my normal sized arms and my now porn star sized breasts is daunting to say the least. Not to mention the fact that as a single working mother, all I want to do at the end of the day and on the weekend is go home and snuggle with my daughter; right after I do laundry of course. My daughter takes up so much of my heart right now, that I don’t even know where I would find room for a man in there. Not to mention that any desire to be with a man has been gone for months.

Here is where I am going to be completely honest. While I was pregnant, I wore cute dresses, kept my brows waxed, exercised, did my hair and make-up every day, and shaved. As much as I hate to admit it now, I kept thinking that Bella’s father was going to “come around.” I had fantasies that he was not a true narcissist, but just a guy who was scared to be a dad. I thought he would see one picture of her and suddenly become the perfect father and we would co-parent and be great friends again and all would be right with the world. I was telling people that I hated him and I hoped I never had to see him again, and all the other things people expect from someone trying to be strong despite falling apart inside. In truth, until you have carried the child of a man who at one time said you were soul mates and who now wants nothing to do with you or your child, you will never understand the insanity that goes through your mind and heart. I don’t think I ever wanted to be with him, but something told me that if I just remained attractive enough, he would want to be Bella’s father and do the right thing. As if all of his actions or lack thereof, depended on how I looked. Even though I am in my mid-30’s with a graduate level education, I was still stupid enough to think everything would be different if I was just more attractive.

When it was clear that he was never going to show up again and no level of cuteness from me or my daughter would bring him to his senses, I gave up. I wear the same jeans or yoga pants every day, topping them with a t-shirt or maternity sweater, my hair is almost always in a ponytail, my eyebrows could compete with Bert or Ernie’s, my face rarely sees an ounce of blush or foundation, shaving is something I used to do, and I have come up with every excuse under the sun to eat more chocolate and never exercise. In essence, I am behaving like a woman defeated; a victim. Somehow that post about shaving opened my eyes to this.

So, this morning while Bella napped, I took a shower, shaved, plucked my eyebrows, and washed my hair. While Bella is taking her nap this afternoon, I will reacquaint myself with Jillian Michaels. But I am not going to do any of this because of a man. You see, that is the thinking that comes from a society that tells us that our outer appearance is what makes us worthwhile. That thinking corrupted my mind into believing that there was something lacking in me that caused this incredibly broken man to walk away. It is that kind of thinking that has wasted hours of time focused on matters relating to him that could have been spent really living. The fact of the matter is that I am a loving, caring, intelligent woman who is funny and open and who was born to be a mother. I have had to make hard decisions and sacrifices that I never imagined in the last 16 months and I have grown exponentially as a result.

Maybe I will meet a man someday who will end up being a wonderful father to Bella and the spouse I was always meant to have. Maybe I won’t. Either way, from now on I will shave and shower and exercise because it makes me feel good about myself and I want to set a positive example for my daughter. I will not do it because of a man. I want Bella to know that she is beautiful because of the fact that, like every human being, she is fearfully and wonderfully made, and this beauty exists no matter who her father is or what boy or man gives her attention.

So, shave away sisters! Get that Brazilian wax and get your hair did. But even if it’s just once, don’t do it for your husband or boyfriend or wife or girlfriend. Do it because you are a woman and a mother and you deserve to feel good about yourself. We are all beautiful and beautifully made and sometimes we need to bring out the razor and tweezers to remind ourselves of that truth.

And if any of my junemommies are reading this, Thank you!

One of my biggest worries about my daughter is that she will grow up without a father. Not only does she not have a father, but my father has passed away and my brother and brother in law will only see her once in a while, but do not live close enough to be in her life everyday. A male influence is so important for a girl and the thought of her without one instantly causes me to imagine her dancing on a pole or working her way through a series of horrible men. I mean, that is what society tells us will happen if a girl grows up without a father, right?

All throughout the pregnancy I kept thinking her father would come around. After she was born, I kept thinking I would get a phone call from him saying he changed his mind. No matter how many times he told me he wanted nothing to do with me or Isabella, I kept believing that things would change. The person I thought he was and I thought I knew him to be would never just walk away from his own child. But things didn’t change and he never called or “came around.” The reality of him never being there for her is finally settling in and my naïve hope has faded.

It’s funny. When my dad died, I kept thinking I would get a phone call from him or I would see him walk through the door again. The sound of his voice was so close I felt like I could touch it. Images of him in my passenger seat or sitting on my sofa were so real that I couldn’t fathom not seeing him again. As time went on and I realized I wouldn’t see him again, there was a void. No. A huge gaping hole.

When a baby is born and the father is not there, there is also a hole. No matter how many people surround this child and love her, there is and always will be something blatantly missing from this picture. There is another side of her that should be there and is not. This absence, like that of my own father, is something I think about everyday. When I think about my father, I literally feel my heart tighten. It is a feeling I never want her to feel, but know that she will. This is the feeling that theoretically messes girls up.

I recently saw a video that made me feel a little better about it all.

Miley Cyrus has a song called “wrecking ball.” In the video, Miley is swinging around on a wrecking ball either nude or in nothing but her underwear. She is also sucking on a sledge hammer. I don’t know if I’m getting old or I’m just a normal human being, but I think the video is repulsive. The entire time I feel bad for this girl and feel bad that despite the fact that she has a beautiful voice and face, somewhere along the way she decided that this was how she was going to get attention. Miley was raised in a nuclear family with both parents fully involved. She also had money and wanted for nothing.

In the same light, Alicia Keys, who was raised by a single mother in a lower middle class household is beautiful, has class and talent, and puts out videos with images of strong women taking charge of their lives and having confidence without flying across the screen naked.

I had an amazing dad. We were tight and had an inseparable bond that we shared. He loved me, respected me, taught me right from wrong, and supported me. He was there all the time and loved my mom with all of his being. However, I have never had a successful relationship or chosen the right men. I have somehow always screwed up in that department. So, before society puts my daughter in a box with a bunch of statistics, I would like to argue that she has a good chance of turning out ok, father or not.

When I was 7 months pregnant, I registered for the Philadelphia half-marathon. My baby would be 5 months old by the time the race arrived and I figured five months was plenty of time to figure out how to juggle a full-time job and a new baby and being a new single mom. Surely five months was ample time to “get it together.” I thought I should be ashamed of myself if I wasn’t able to fit marathon training into the mix. After all, I’ve run 2 full marathons, 3 halfs and a ten-miler. Running another half five months post-partum should be a piece of cake.

The Philly half was extra important. It is one of the runs on my marathon bucket list and last year I registered for the race and was supposed to run it with my daughter’s father. By the time it rolled around, I was 3 months pregnant, dealing with extreme fatigue, and he wasn’t speaking to me. Our fun and free friendship was over and life had become very real and raw. I gave up my place for someone else to run. It was a smack in the face when I already felt beaten.

By the time my second trimester came around, I was feeling great about my pregnancy, found support from others that filled the void left by Bella’s father, and I was determined. The Philly marathon became symbolic for me. Not only would it be a way for me to get back to running again, it was, in all honesty, a way for me to prove something. It was my way of saying, “not only am I going to single-handedly raise our child, I am going to do it like a super hero.”

Then my sweet Isabella arrived. She was almost a month late, the birth left me with physical complications, figuring out her schedule, my schedule, sleeping, working, nursing, and how to manage a baby and all her accessories living in a third floor walk up apartment, was overwhelming to say the least. I got in about 4 short runs in 5 months.

When I admitted to myself that there was no way I could run in Philly, I felt defeated. I had only become a runner in the last few years and now I felt like I lost that part of me. In the weeks leading up to the marathon, I faced major challenges with my car, my health, Bella’s health, and legal issues. These problems put me in a very low place mentally and emotionally. This really wasn’t how I saw all of this playing out.

I couldn’t sell my race bib, so I decided to go to Philly anyway. I strapped Bella in her carrier, hopped on the train and went to the race expo. Heck, I paid for my race packet, I might as well at least get the free t-shirt. This was the best decision I made all week. Being around the other runners who were pumped up and excited for the race was enough to lift my mood and make me feel normal again. It made me miss that community of runners that got me through the death of my father and his preceding illness. It made me realize I’m not defeated, I’m still a runner, I’m just taking a short pause for now. It felt so good that I got up the next morning, put my marathon shirt on, put Bella back in the carrier, and went to support my fellow marathoners. It was a beautiful day and I cried as I cheered and watched dozens of runners cross the finish line. That’s all it took to get me out of my bad funk and bring me back to reality.

When you run a marathon, each mile brings with it it’s own challenges and victories. The gun goes off and the first three or even five miles go by so fast you don’t even know what hit you. You are still smiling and excited and you are still smiling at those around you. As you run through the next 20+ miles, you may get cramps that you have to walk off, you come upon hills that you have to climb, you see people literally pass out, you lose time because you have to break for water and bathrooms, you speed up, you slow down, you listen to power music and you turn it off so you can hear the beautiful sound of a thousand rubber sneakers hitting the pavement. When you come to that last mile and the finish line is in view, you remember every early morning and late night run. You remember hitting the snooze and regretting it. You remember that long run when you beat your personal best. You feel every ache in your body and sometimes feel like you may never move again. You know that no matter what, it was all worth it. And as you cross over that finish line and see the crowds of people cheering, you feel a sense of accomplishment that is like no other.

This is, as I see it, exactly what life is all about. There are some miles that feel amazing and fly by like a breeze and there are others that feel close to death. There are miles where you can tell all your hard work paid off and there are miles where you know you could have worked a little harder. There are unexpected things that happen like cramps or a spectator handing you that cup of water at just the right moment. There are miles where you cry and miles where you laugh(and these May be one in the same). All in all, unless you’ve gone way off the path, you always have a sense that what you are doing is good and you are headed in the right direction.

Right now I’m in one of those miles where I am going uphill and feel a little cramp. Luckily, I can see the top of that hill and cramps are temporary.

See you all in Philly next November!

I worry.

In fact I worry so much that I have been known to read a whole chapter in a book or watch a whole TV program and have no idea what just happened because I was too busy worrying about something. As you can imagine, having a child has only upped the ante on my worrying.

When I was nine weeks pregnant and Bella’s father looked at me and said “I can’t do this,” I responded by saying “fine I’ll do it by myself.” I’ve been doing things on my own for my entire adult life. I figured raising a child shouldn’t be much different. In fact, there was a part of me that relished in the idea. I got to pick her name, her religion, her education, and a million other things. I don’t have to fight anyone on any of these decisions. The stubborn bullheaded scorpion in me puffed up her chest and basically told him that I don’t need him so he can just walk away. I had complete control over her upbringing and I liked it that way. The single pregnant mom-to-be inside me was terrified and honestly wanted to call him and beg him for help on more than one occasion.

When I started looking at prices of diapers, daycare, baby food, breast pumps, medical expenses, clothes, a stroller, and toys, I freaked out! The amount of money I would need to raise a child was more than I made each week. I had so many doubtful nights when I thought that I might have made the wrong decision and that I was taking something on that was way over my head. Those nights are over…..for the most part.

Someone recently hit my car and drove away. Though I have insurance, the deductible is well above what I can afford. Yesterday a check arrived in the mail for a huge chunk of this expense. It was a gift; A selfless gesture that I did not ask for. It stopped me in my tracks and brought me to tears. Just like the clothes, blankets, crib, strollers, car seat, breast pump, diapers, wipes, carriers, toys, soaps, bottles, diaper bags…..I could go on all day…..it was a gift. The last year of my life has been one gift after the other. Some have been for me and some have been for my daughter. Everything I have needed to care for her has been provided in one way or another.

There is a pile of thank you cards that are blank. They are joined by a list of all of these gifts and the people who gave them. Between feedings and changings and baths and working full time, I have filled one out here and there, but the pile keeps growing. It is my pile of gratitude. It is a constant reminder that I need to sit down and write about 100 thank you’s, but it is also a reminder that everything is going to be ok and I’m not doing this on my own. There is a whole community of people out there who are raising my daughter. So, until your thank you finally arrives in the mail, this post is my expression of gratitude.

Thank you for your time.

Thank you for your gifts.

Thank you for teaching me not to worry.

Thank you for loving me and loving my daughter and for helping us when we need it, but are too stubborn to ask for help.

“Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen.
Keep in the sunlight.” ~Benjamin Franklin

“Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.”
― Sigmund Freud
Dear Isabella,

Today, in many ways, is the first day of our journey. After you were born, I brought you “home” to Grammy’s house. For the last four months, she has cared for us and cooked for us and helped us figure this whole thing out. Now it is time for us to really go “home” to our house in the city.

This day has been full of mixed emotions. Grammy’s house feels warm and safe and just like home. Being with Grammy feels safe and like home. Leaving feels wrong in so many ways.

Before you came, it was often hard for me to go to Grammy’s. That is the house where so many memories of your grandpa are. It is the house where he was sick and where he passed away. But having you start your life there was so right. Grandpa is everywhere in that house and though you will never meet him, I feel like somehow the two of you know each other now.

Now, that is the house where you smiled for the first time, where I heard your first giggle, and where I rocked you to sleep and sang you your first lullaby. It is where Grammy and I bonded again over ice cream and baby puke. It is where people came from all over to meet you for the very first time. It was the beginning for us and such an important part of our journey.

Now we must move forward, as scary as it may be, and return to my place in the city, a place that was once nothing more than a dorm-like bachelorette pad. I have worked hard, cleaned out old boxes and closets, and prepared a place for you in that life. I’m sure it will be tricky at first, but I know it is what is best for both of us.

Considering the fact that I cried as we left Grammy’s and most of the way home, I want you to know that we are going to be ok. As much as I wanted to turn around and go running back into Grammy’s arms, I know that We need to learn to survive on our own and trust that everything will be alright. And we can rest assured knowing that Grammy’s house is only a short car ride away.

Love,
Mommy

“My heart is breaking for my sister and the con that she called “love”
When I look into my nephew’s eyes…
Man, you wouldn’t believe the most amazing things that can come from some terrible nights”

~Fun.

It’s been a year since I saw Bella’s father. It’s been a year since I found out I was going to be a single mother. Sure, I have hoped and prayed that he would “come around” in that time or at least by now, but I think I knew that last time we saw each other that I would be doing this alone. I think I have known all along, but was too afraid to actually admit it to myself. Recent conversations with him have solidified the idea for me. I don’t think he will ever come around and I think I really will be doing this on my own for good. He uses the excuse that he just isn’t ready and that his life is too busy to be a father. Lately, I have thought about it a lot and thought about that night we got together to talk about what we were going to do.

A year ago we met in a parking lot and sat in his car. He made it very clear that night that he did not want to be a father, at least not to this baby, and that if I chose to keep the baby, I would be doing it alone. After several hours of talking in circles, where very painful things were said by both of us, I got out of the car and cried all the way home. We spent the next week back and forth about adoption. I think it was my way of keeping the conversation going and hoping he would change his mind, but I knew in my heart that this little girl was meant to be and I was going to keep her.

I will admit that my initial reaction was that I wasn’t ready either. You’d think at 34, I should be ready, but I was still undecided about children, grieving the death of my father, and had recently ended the only meaningful long term relationship I had ever had. I had just started a new job that was full of possibilities and was perfect for a young single woman with nothing to tie her down; a job that came with a huge pay cut, but that made me much happier. I was going out every night, often with my roommate and his boyfriend, both in their 20’s and probably not expecting a baby to enter the picture. My house looked more like a bachelor pad than that of a 30-something professional woman.

I didn’t sleep during that week a year ago. Instead, I took a look at my life and wondered if I was ready to bring a child into it. This was something I wrote:

“My house is a mix match of furniture.

Old toys and books fill up my shelves.

There is dust on my ceiling fan and piles of laundry strewn throughout my room.

Stained wine glasses left over from last night are scattered across my coffee table.

A box full of old love letters and pictures has been pulled out of the closet and is spread across the floor.

Paintings with no particular theme are leaning against the wall, purchased because I liked the way they made me feel not because they matched my décor.  None of them are on the wall.

Old wooden floor boards crack and creek when I walk across my attic apartment room.

My spare bedroom is full of dust and boxes of “stuff. “ I don’t even know what’s in them. I’m pretty sure they have been there since I moved in two years ago.

A closet stuffed full of shoes and clothing in three different sizes attests to my roller coaster relationship with weight.

Shelves full of books that I haven’t even read yet line my walls.

Empty canvases and tubes full of paint sit in piles on my floor.

My bathroom used to be a small closet and has a shower with no tub.

The master of my apartment is not me or my roommate, but a crazy spoiled dog who has been my only child for the last 6 years.

Paint, sand, seashells, and dirt cover the backseat of my car. Coffee stains decorate the front.

I have no husband, no boyfriend, no help.

How can I bring a baby into this mess?

Maybe he’s right….”

But he wasn’t right. A year later, the spare bedroom is a baby room/guest room, the walls are full of eclectic art, my roommate and his boyfriend adore my daughter, there is new furniture in every room, I cleaned my car and my closets, my job is still working out and Bella even comes with me to work. There are still piles of laundry and dust on my ceiling fan, but some things will get done in their time. I don’t have a husband or boyfriend or even an ounce of help from Bella’s father, but I’m not alone. Family and friends help when they can and my daughter is surrounded by love from a crazy and wonderful array of people.

Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe no one really is.  Maybe he never will be.

I remember looking at my friend, Diana as she was rubbing my belly months ago and asking her, “How did I get myself into this mess?” She simply looked at me, put her hand on my belly and said, “THIS is not a mess. THIS is a blessing no matter what. Don’t forget that!”  The fact of the matter is that when you have enough love and the will to survive a situation like mine, it is no longer “a situation” or a mess, but a life changing blessing.  I am stronger, wiser, and happier than I was a year ago today and I have this chunky little wonder to thank for it.

One of the most important things I’ve learned as a new mom is that the best way to get poop out of clothes is to put them in the sun. It is really that simple. I tried oxy, shout, and tide. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Then another mother told me to just put the clothes in the sun and voila! The poop was gone. To date, the sun has saved 6 outfits and 3 blankets.

Since I spent the majority of Grad School turning everything into a metaphor, I couldn’t help but apply this lesson directly to my own life. When I found out I was pregnant and that my daughter’s father wanted nothing to do with me or the baby, I felt like poop. Going to doctor’s appointments alone and telling your family and friends the news alone is not how this is supposed to work. You are supposed to be able to shout from the roof tops that you are pregnant and then the father of your child should bring you flowers while you dance around your kitchen. That’s what Hollywood tells us, so if things don’t pan out that way, we end up feeling like poop during a time when all we should feel is happiness.

When all was said and done and I was alone in the hospital room with my precious Isabella, there was a still and quiet feeling of poop. There is another half of her that was not there to soak in those amazing wonderful moments. Her father did not bring me flowers, tell me I did a great job, or get me ice cream from the hospital cafeteria. He didn’t hold her and look in her eyes and fall in love. That absence was poop.

Tonight I was giving Bella a bath and she was smiling and splashing in the water and was over the top adorable. Here I am alone with her in my parents’ house and all I could think about was how much I wanted to call out to my dad and show him how freaking cute his granddaughter was. But he’s not there anymore. As much as I want him to walk through the door and as much as I can see him doing so in this house, he never will. This was not just a feeling of poop, but a full on blow out.

Now before you start feeling bad for me and want to wipe all this poop out of my life (pun intended), let me tell you about the sunshine.

When I found out I was pregnant I told a few of my friends before I even told my family. This group of friend’s threw their hands up in the air immediately and squealed with delight. One of them sent me flowers and a beautiful card the next day. Sunshine. Another took my trash out when I was 9 months pregnant and also brought me ice cream. Sunshine. They all threw me a baby shower even though they knew there were already two others planned for me. Sunshine.

In the hospital I got more flowers and a friend brought me ice cream. During my pregnancy I got emails, cards, and gifts for Isabella from Florida, California, Chicago, Jersey, New York, Guatemala, Philadelphia, Kenya, Montana, Alaska, and all over PA. I had 3 baby showers from 3 wonderful groups of people. Sunshine. Sunshine. Sunshine.

And despite the fact that I have barely spoken to any of my high school friends since high school, they came out in droves with gifts, support and encouragement. Sunshine!

And yes, my dad is gone. I miss him terribly. I still hold some anger towards doctors and towards God for allowing him to die. However, for 34 years I had a dad and he was incredible. His jokes stick with me, I see his smile when I look at my daughter, his lessons of love and forgiveness are played out in my daily life and will be passed down to her, and I feel his presence each time I lay my daughter down in the cradle he made. And that night alone in the hospital, I could hear his voice saying, “great job! I’m so proud of you!” when I got a text with those words from my mother.

Sunshine. Pure sunshine.

So yes, there has been a lot of poop in my life lately. Some of it was brought on by others and some was my own fault. Still, when I sat down to think about it, I realized that there isn’t enough poop in this lifetime that can’t be erased by the overwhelming amount of sunshine.

So, thank you all for being my sunshine.

“I’m bored’ is a useless thing to say. I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to say ‘I’m bored.”

― Louis CK

My daughter woke me up this morning with wonderful sounds of coos and sighs. It is the best alarm clock on the planet. I never knew such beautiful sounds could come out of the same little being that farts like a middle aged man and pukes on every outfit I own.

For the first 30 minutes of my day, I just watched her. With her eyes crossed, she was looking down at her chest at the pattern on her sleeper. It was amazing. It was just a pattern on clothing, but to an infant, this was entertainment that lasted for several minutes. next, she moved onto the ceiling. Once again, she spent several minutes in wonder of the stark white ceiling before her. She made sounds similar to those we make when we watch the grand finale of fireworks. The shadows and sunbeams dancing across the ceiling were no less extravagant to her. From there, she turned her head and was instantly mesmerized by the mesh wall of her co-sleeper bassinet. I can only imagine how exotic this nylon piece of fabric covered in holes seems to someone who just spent ten months floating in a dark warm bag of nothing but amniotic fluid. from there, she turned her head once again and faced me. She examined my forehead and hair and slowly moved her eyes down until they locked with mine. She immediately smiled filling her face with joy as her eyes shut tight, her mouth spread from ear to ear, and she let out an excited squeal.

Somewhere between iPads, iPods, and television, we have lost sight of how truly amazing EVERYTHING is. I am the first to be guilty of this. I am glued to my computer at work while checking my Facebook on my iPhone, blaring my Spotify playlist in the background. I get in my car and turn on the radio until I get home and plop in front of the TV with my lap top in my lap and my iPhone at my side. I often find myself in a room full of people, interesting people, all of whom are looking down at their smartphones and barely communicating.

When did we all reach the point when sun rays on the ceiling and patterns on our clothes were no longer infinitely entertaining? Being with my daughter 24/7 and watching as she is in awe of things as simple as a couch cushion makes me realize that I have reached a point that is so far from organic that I’m practically a robot. She is helping me remember just how incredible everything in life really is!

The clay pot in front of me on my mom’s shelf was once dirt and was mixed with water. Then, someone took the time and used their talents to form it into a pot with a lip. They then painted it and etched my Father’s name around the outside. Finally they heated the pot so it would harden and so my dad’s name would be permanently there. That pot was then used in a memorial service with other pots. They filled it with water and poured the water out to symbolize my father’s life and his passing into a new life. The pot now sits on a shelf above the TV in my mom’s living room. It and its story is and always will be much more fascinating and meaningful to me than any crazy reality show or story about people trapped inside a dome that is pumped out of the big black box below it. It took this magnificent cooing creature to come into my life to make me realize this.

Once again, I am perpetually grateful to have her in my life.