I am not supposed to say the following, but I’m going to say it anyway: sometimes I feel like a single parent. I am home alone so much with the girls, days and sometimes weeks on end, while my husband is out traveling the world for work. And it’s good work, I’m not saying I’m not grateful because it’s afforded us a very, very lovely lifestyle. We are very fortunate. But that doesn’t mean I have to love it all of the time. And I don’t. Most days I can handle it, but since entering the official Terrible Twos with Pea, I can honestly say that I’m tired. And annoyed. And resentful. And tired. And I know he’s not having all fun and games out there on the road, but don’t send me a text message from Munich telling me how jealous I should be because you are sitting at an outside cafe in the warm German sun drinking a real beer. Not cool! So not cool! Because you know what, I am jealous!

(Cue: sound of books, many, many books, falling from bookshelves in den, where Pea has been maneuvering furniture around ALL DAY just to get those books to fall onto the floor, just like a paper waterfall.)

I love everything about being a mama. And I’m good at it, I know I am. I have two wonderful baby girls who are the joy of my life. But I am human. And I shouldn’t have to pretend that this is the easiest thing in the world, being with kids all day. This is hard work. And it’s just as valuable in the grand scheme of life as say, being an attorney. Or a doctor. Or a TV producer. Or anything else that one would get paid for. But this is a job that you have for life. It’s 24-hours a day, and no, I don’t believe for a minute that my life will be mine again when my kids are 18 and out of the house. That’s a crock. Like I said, this is a job that never ends. The planning, the worrying, the caring and nurturing and teaching. I’m building little people here, trying to build them to the best of my ability so that I can send them out into the universe and know that they will be OK. If you think about it that way, motherhood is intense.

So, when my husband mentions that I will be bringing a sitter with me to your granddaughter’s birthday party because I need some help corralling an overly-active 2-year old and my infant daughter, please. Do me the favor of not using that voice – you know the one, filled with nothing but judgement for someone who was raised by a single mother and a succession of nannies and who knows that it actually does take a village to raise a child (whether that village be paid help or not). There is nothing wrong with me. I am a kick-ass mom, creative and loving and nurturing and fun. But sometimes, I need help. And sometimes, I have to pay for it. Please, don’t make me have to pay for it twice.

On another note:

Baby’s first shoes…