Joe took Billy to Universal Studios, or “Panda House” as Billy calls it. He’s obsessed with the 4D KungFu Panda ride. I’m positive this is also why he’s a little rough with the other kids at school because one of his Morah’s asked if I knew why he screamed “DRAGON WARRIOR” while playfully throwing his friends on the ground.

Our nanny was with Ern, and I mostly worked, but then I went grocery shopping alone and saw a mom with her son in the cart, and I felt like I was somehow doing something wrong.

I almost got on the grocery PA system and announced that I was a mother in public without her child, as if a childless mother was a mistake just like a spill on aisle 12.

Without my kids, I feel incomplete—like I’m wearing a name tag that says “Hello, my name is Liz” instead of Lizze. And I feel guilty! Am I not spending enough time with them? This time is so precious and fleeting; to miss a day is to miss it all!

When I was about six weeks postpartum with Billy, I was looking down at his squishy, blooby face, when I had the realization that, one day he’s just going to leave me for some whore.

I know that it is okay to do things without my kids, and I relish in those moments of solitude. But nothing fills my cup like these boys. Absolutely nothing. And I’ve done molly with a French bulldog, which is a spiritual experience. I mean, I was on molly; I didn’t share any drugs with my bulldog, just vibes.

The other night before bed, I asked Billy if he was a mommy’s boy, and he said, “No, daddy boy.” He wasn’t being mean, just honest. Who knew the whore my firstborn son would leave me for would be my own husband.

I work so hard for our family, and I am so proud of the life we have built together. My job is incredible, and my days are mostly filled with family fun. But on days like today, I just feel like I didn’t get enough. Even though I spent the day working to provide for our family, I still felt like I came up a little short as a mother.

But then on our after-dinner walk, Billy wanted to be held instead of sitting in the stroller. So I held him in my arms, and when my arms gave out, I put him on my back.

Three months ago, he was obsessed with gardeners. He knew, “Gardener comes on Tuesday?” to do our yard, and when the gardeners arrived, he wanted to be held up to watch them out the windows. When they moved around the yard, we moved around the house so he didn’t miss a thing. When they left he’d bang on the windows and shout “Gardner come back! Please!”

Billy would walk around the house pantomiming a leaf blower motion and making a “brrrrrrrrr” blower sound all day.

The dude loved gardeners so much we contemplated throwing him a gardener-themed birthday party!

But then something happened about two months ago, and Billy stopped wanting to chase down the gardeners he could hear in the distance. He started panicking and crawling into our arms when he heard a blower. He would say, “Scared of the gardener,” and bury his head in our shoulders, clinging to us tightly.

It was such a rapid and extreme shift from love to fear. It makes sense he’d be a little scared, though; they are loud, and our Frenchie, Icky, gets nuts when he sees them, so we tend to start screaming, “ICKY, CHILL THE FUCK OUT!” I think between all that chaos and the hoods and face coverings the gardeners wear, Billy got a little spooked!

Which made me sad. One night, when Billy’s gardener fear lasted from a sighting outside in the evening to bath time and books, I felt like something had to be done. I summoned the biggest, brightest, Ms. Rachel-est energy and said, “Oh, Billy, do you need some bravery?”

And he stopped spiraling and looked at me.

“Here, Billy, I’m going to give you some of Mama’s bravery!” And then I pretended to dig in my ears and pull some bravery out of those waxy suckers. Then I packed Mama’s bravery wax into Billy’s ear and said, “There! Now you have Mama’s bravery, all better! Next time you see a gardener, you say, 'HI, I'M BILLY! I'M TWO YEARS OLD!'” I felt like he’d need a little guidance on how to act to move out of the fear—I dunno, it was giving Montessori in my mind.

The next time we saw a gardener and Billy said “scared” and started jumping to be in my arms, I picked him up and repeated my disgusting bravery earwax routine. I did it over and over and over. I wonder what the fuck the neighbors think of our family: children who are afraid of gardeners and mothers who put their earwax in their babies' ears. Oof what a look.

But who cares because tonight on our walk, as I was carrying Billy we heard a blower in the distance and felt Billy’s grip tighten. When we neared the gardeners packing up their truck, Billy put his little, pincer-gripped fingers into my ear, pulled out some bravery wax, put it into his own ears, and then screamed, “HI!”

The gardener laughed and said, “Hi, baby!” To which Billy replied, “I'M BILLY. I'M TWO YEARS OLD!”

Billy might be a daddy’s boy, but he’s got his mama’s bravery, and I’m open to being okay with that for now.

I hope you and yours are doing well. In case no one’s asked: how was your day, Mama?

My husband woke twice in the night to vomit and not only did he spray the toilet seat, but he did not clean it up, so when I went for my dawn doo-doo, I fell into the pot and then touched blindly in the darkness all over the toilet seat that was covered in sticky, drying puke.

Pray for me.

The wildest part of his behavior is that this is not the first time our family has dealt with a tummy bug. And if your family has dealt with one, then you KNOW THE FUCKING DRILL. It’s no-nonsense—you quarantine, you bleach, you prep, and you fucking pray, bitch.

Truly, it only takes ONE tummy bug train to learn the ropes. It’s that traumatizing.

Last time this happened, Ernie was like four weeks old. Joe had taken Billy for their nightly walk. It was cold and flu season, so every 48 hours that passed without illness actually just felt like an ominous ticking time bomb. I was giving Ernie a bath. I had left my phone by the bed in our room cuz I thought, “No one’s sick, I can unplug for 15 min.”

10 min later, Joe comes storming into the house stripping himself and Billy, who’s a little floppy in his arms. “Billy puked so much on the walk! Why didn’t you answer the phone?! I NEED HELP!”

He had thrown all the puke-soaked clothes out like a trail of breadcrumbs to the real crime scene: the stroller.

And he got himself and Billy into the shower immediately to rinse off.

“Do you think he’s sick?” I shouted at him, holding our newborn baby with more anxiety than usual.

“No, I think it’s a one-off. He seems fine now!” Joe called back from the shower.

I exhaled some relief. Babies do tend to boot and rally. One thing doesn’t sit right in their guts and they spew; doesn’t always mean they’re sick!

So we continued the bedtime routine. Bath, books, and then Joe took Billy into his bed—

“OH GOD DAMN IT!” I hear Joe scream from Billy’s room. Then he came crashing back into our room, vomit dripping from his head. “He threw up on my head!” Poor Billy. I reminded Joe that Billy needed us to be chill for him, so even though it sucked to be dripping in vomit (we’ve all fucking been there, nut up 'n shut up), you have to be cool for the baby.

Joe was fully panicking, but Billy was not done vomiting. I knew better than to approach because up to this point I had not made contact—I could potentially be spared, and it would suck if I went down because Ernie is exclusively breastfed, and I’d rather my newborn not get a tummy bug. So I shouted instructions: “face Billy over the tub, and chill out!”

Joe couldn’t hang. “I have to shower!” I was like, “Uhhh no you don’t, just rinse off your head.” “I'm dripping in vomit, I am showering.” “Joe, I might not be exposed, we can't both go down,” and then I let Joe bully me into holding my sweet, sick baby. Don't get me wrong, I love being Billy’s person; I love when he needs or wants me. But I was trying to be pragmatic.

So I put Ernie down for the night, and then tended to Billy. Ernie was just starting to be chill in the bassinet and he’s a team player. He didn’t go to sleep, but he didn’t make a scene either, god bless him for that. I held Billy in my arms until Joe was done showering. Then I got ready for battle.

I wrapped the crib mattress in trash bags and layered towel, crib sheet, towel, crib sheet, towel, crib sheet, so if Billy vomited in the night it was an easy pull-off trade-out. Then I taped trash bags down around the perimeter of his crib, and lined our Taylor Swift Eras Tour movie popcorn bucket with trash bags, and left more trash bags in the bottom to replace their predecessors.

I banished Joe to the floor in Billy’s room to sleep. I didn’t want his ass anywhere near me. If I had managed to dodge this bullet, I wasn’t surrendering yet.

As he slept, I bleached the house as if I had killed someone in every room. Then I showered and got into bed. And I prayed that the tummy bug would stop with Billy and spare the rest of our family.

The next day brought no more vomit. And I praised the gods for favoring us. That night, Joe and I went to bed together victoriously. Our first tummy bug face-off and we had won!

The next morning, after Joe joined the family for breakfast, I hugged him and kissed him. “We did it!” I said to him. “I’m so proud of how we handled that.” And then I kissed him again on the lips.

He looked at me and said, “I vomited last night. But I threw everything in my bathroom out the window and sprayed it all down.”

Huh?!

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I think I’m fine now.”

But he was not fine. Within five minutes he was vomiting again in the kitchen sink. I sent him to his office to sleep. I dropped Billy—who was fine now and 24 hours symptom-free—off at school, & then I went to Costco and got everything Joe would need to solo parent the next day because I knew it was coming for me.

Honestly, when shit's that fucked up, I actually just start laughing because WHAT THE FUCK? I laughed psychotically all the way to drop-off, Costco, and back for pick-up.

Before bed that night I ate my favorite yogurt, key lime pie flavor, thinking maybe I’d enjoy it coming back up. I pumped, took a shower, & readied the Taylor Swift popcorn bucket by my bed.

By 4:00 a.m. I was puking my brains out. I texted Joe and his best friend James and paid James $60 an hour to take care of Ernie while I died in our room.

It’s actually the chillest 24 hours I have experienced since having two under two. Norovirus seemed like a vacation in comparison to rearing a newborn and a sixteen-month-old. I was so fucked up I couldn’t even scroll on my phone. It was brutal and blissful. I got up to pump for Ernie every two hours and that was it.

So this morning when Joe was vomiting, I went straight to laughter, and then I got a little excited—am I about to have another lil noro vacay?

A girl can dream, but for now I’m just a solo mom of two under two.

Anyways, I hope you and yours are well and in case no one’s asked: how was your day, mama?

I KNOW that it is not Joe’s fault that we didn’t have supplies on hand to deal with the skunking at 5 o’clock on a Saturday morning. But it is really hard to not feel like it’s not, not his fault when he’s seen this skunk in our backyard like three times over the past two weeks. Joe has even been charged by this motherfucker. Like, we’ve known there was a threat of skunk. So much so that last week I even said to Joe, “You should order some peroxide, dish soap, and baking soda JUST IN CASE THAT FUCKER GETS ONE OF THE DOGS!” Unfortunately Joe did not place that order. What he did do was take Icky potty at 5 a.m. when he scratched on our bedroom door to be let out.

Then Joe explained, “I opened the back door and Icky ran out. Then I went back into the kitchen to get some chips to eat so that Icky would want to come back into the house quickly—” I’ll pause here to inform you that we are horrible dog owners, and even though Icky received a certificate of completion from J9sK9s puppy training school, it was more of a participation trophy than an actual achievement for good behavior. Our dogs do not come when we call them; they will only come if we have a snack that they want, that we don’t want them to have, or if we pretend that we are welcoming guests into our home.

Often we will knock on the walls and shout loudly, “Oh hello! Welcome, please come in!” so that the dogs will come to attack the poor imaginary visitor who was dumb enough to come into our home when invited—this is also why we don’t really have guests. Ever. Which isn’t actually that big of a bummer when you really think about it.

SO, Joe said he grabbed some chips then, “I went back outside and see Icky by the hole in the fence where the skunk has been coming in and going out.”

Here’s where I get a little frustrated. DID YOU READ WHAT I HEARD? I’ll repeat it and see if it sinks in: “the hole in the fence where the skunk has been coming in and going out.”

This motherfucker knows how this stank-ass badger has been getting into our yard where our poorly trained dogs go potty at peak skunk hours, and he has done nothing to fix the problem?! Are you also having a hard time not feeling like it’s not, not his fault?

“I see Icky and the skunk like staring at each other, but it was so weird. Icky wasn’t being crazy, he just ran back into the house! And I didn’t smell anything, so I figured maybe he didn’t get sprayed, but then you woke up and said, ‘Was Icky sprayed by a skunk?’ And I realized he probably had been.”

Deep breath.

I was awake because 4:30 a.m. is when my enteric nervous system triggers my daily bowel movement—and this is probably my karma for being a bitch in high school, but let’s focus on our common enemy: Joe—I mean THE SKUNK—because intellectually we know that Icky getting skunked WAS NOT JOE’S FAULT!

Right? We “know that”... because it’s not... right? But it’s not not his fault either. 'Cause he knew about the hole in the fence and he did nothing. And I had asked him to get supplies just in case, but did he?

Shakes her head no.

So at 5:00 a.m. I got my happy ass out of bed with a bit of an attitude while instructing Joe to get Icky back into the kitchen where he could stop spreading the spray.

Then I got in the fucking car and went to sketchy Ralphs to get the peroxide, Dawn dish soap, and baking soda. Lemme tell you, sketchy Ralphs is even sketcher at that hour. Then I came back to the house and instructed Joe to strip the bed while I washed Icky. And then he returned with just the top sheet and quilt and said, “Do you really want me to do all of it?”

And that, dear reader, is when I had to remind myself that I control my own cortisol, because the only thing that’s worse than having to clean skunk stink up at 5 a.m. is adding a blow-up, psycho-rage fight with your husband, who’s not entirely to blame for the incident—but who’s also not entirely innocent either.

So no, I didn’t kill him (my husband) or the skunk. But I’ve never wanted to kill something more—the skunk! Just the skunk! Don’t @ me!

Because the truth is, I love my husband. I have a really fucking good husband, but you’d never know it considering how I drag his ass online.

My husband rubs my feet and entire body for forty-five minutes every night. He engages in gossip he doesn’t give a shit about because he knows I give a shit about it. He thinks my postpartum body is sexy, and he’s not just saying that—he really means it. He thinks I’m smart and talented, and he supports me 100% in every ambition I have.

And he’s a superior father: he knows our kids' doctor, he takes Billy to and from school every day, he reads to them, he plays with them in the most beautiful way. He wakes up early to make honey water for Billy, he researches diets for the boys that will set them up for success, he knows how the sleep training goes, and he knows how to manage a nighttime wake-up. He’s cute, he’s funny, he shows up, and he loves it.

So sure, he’s a dumbass for not plugging the skunk hole, for letting Icky back into the house, and then for asking if I wanted the entire bed stripped. But I fucking love that dumbass, and I’m grateful for everything else he is responsible for—especially for putting up with how nasty I am while I drag him on the internet.

When I’m faced with really frustrating instances like this, I try to remember this thought experiment I probably saw on an Instagram reel that said, “If we put everyone’s problems in a hat, would you want to trade yours in to see what you’d get?” Or something like that; I’m paraphrasing, and I’ve had a long day. We just got back from a two-year-old's birthday party with a petting zoo and a pony—give me a break. My point is—FUCK NO. I’d never trade these problems, because like a simpler Instagram reel I saw said, “These are the problems I used to pray for,” or something.

The point is, come skunk or high water, what a blessing it is to have a house that I get to de-skunk, a dumbass husband, two dumbass dogs, and a couple of the finest babies Heaven had to offer! I love my life!

I sure hope you and yours are doing well, and if no one else has asked: How was your day, mama?

Anyways, my nanny held up a pair of my socks and asked me if I liked this brand and, if so, where I got them. I said, “No, I do not like those socks. They are almost like accidental compression socks. I got them at Target because I was embarrassed by all of my socks when I started Mommy and Me and realized I’d have to be barefoot and shoeless in front of other potentially judgmental moms.” I was truly so excited to be asked about my socks because even though my sock options are, hmmm let’s say bland, they are intentionally curated because I am insanely insecure about socks and my feet since I am actually barefoot 98 percent of the time. My best friend has informed me that there is a Reddit page dedicated to how disgusting I am for patronizing a Costco barefoot—IT WAS ONE TIME! My gawd!

So then I told my nanny “I don’t know if you have noticed, but there are times I will remove my socks before walking shoeless in my house—THOSE are the socks that you want. And those are either Bombas or New Balance. I take those off because I love them so much I don’t want to destroy them by walking around in them on my disgusting, filthy floors.”

My poor nanny. Regularly she asks a yes-or-no or a short-answer question and I always end up baring my soul. The thing about her is she’s just so good. Like a genuinely good person—the Bombas or New Balance of people. And because of this, every time she asks me something, I panic a little and want her to know that I’m aware of how not good I think I am.

i.e.: I look stupid in my Target socks, and my floors are so disgusting I don’t want to ruin my socks on them.

I don’t know why I’m like this. Simultaneously self-loathing, but also compulsively self-promoting. I mean, I started a fucking Substack so people could read my diary—a crazy choice for a person whose inner monologue is usually “YOU SOUND STUPID, AND MY GOD COULD YOU BE MORE PALE?!”

Back to my filthy floors—heck, why stop at my filthy floors, my entire house is not just cluttered or messy, it’s dirty. And not the white lie to guests who you just killed yourself cleaning for “I haven’t cleaned” dirty, it’s like “no literally I haven’t cleaned” really fucking dirty.

But here’s the thing: I’ve decided there are only so many hours in a day, and I want to maximize my joy. I want to enjoy my hours, not worry about how clean or tidy my house is. I have two baby boys under two! NO SHIT MY HOUSE IS FUCKING DIRTY!

One of my favorite parenting slogans is “Am I saying no because it’s inconvenient, or is it dangerous?” And I try to only say no to danger, but even some dangerous activities I’ll greenlight because I also like a teachable moment. So if it’s messy, but safe—HAVE AT IT, MY GUYS!

To prepare for the births of my children, I listened to hypnobirthing tapes. I loved them! I even used them for postpartum affirmations, which I have found help a lot with my anxiety and rage.

If you’re struggling, here are the greatest hits from those tracks:

1. Any rest that I get is restorative.

2. I am okay with doing less around the house.

3. I inhale calm, I exhale worry.

I prioritize joy in my home; I’ll have a tidy house in a later chapter. And for now, that means I preserve my good socks by taking them off inside so that while other moms may judge me for my filthy ass house, they will never judge me for my sock options.

— My husband just came into the kitchen where I am only using one burner on the stovetop, ON LOW, and said, “It feels like the oven is on,” and twenty minutes ago he commented, “It’s hotter in here than it was yesterday,” as if I could control the weather and intentionally made the valley a blazing inferno just to cause him discomfort. MEN ARE CRAZY!

I hope you and yours are doing well, and if no one else has asked: how was your day?

My husband and I “accidentally” had two under two. He would tell you he’s the helpless victim of a baby trap, insisting I intentionally got pregnant against his will. “You said you wanted to have sex! You never want to have sex! YOU TRAPPED ME!” But he’d be the first to tell you he loves being trapped.

Truth be told, I manifested the fuck out of Ernie. I’d been running my mouth, telling everyone I was pregnant with twins. When I actually found out I was pregnant with Ernie, Joe looked at me with terror in his eyes and sweat beading on his forehead: “How seriously have you been manifesting twins?” It’s one of the few times I’ve seen him truly respect my power.

“I’ve told at least three hundred thousand people online that I’m already pregnant with twins!” We spiraled for hours. I was still nursing Billy and only six months postpartum, recovering both mentally and physically from a traumatic emergency C-section.

Now it’s 4:17 in the morning, and I’ve been awoken by Big Ern crying in his bassinet beside our bed. He’s not crying too hard, so I take my time. I set two pillows up just so, ensuring I’ll be comfortable when I return with Ernie to nurse. One of the nurses I had after Billy was born encouraged me to always get comfortable first and bring the baby to my breast—instead of bringing my breast to the baby. A mother’s instinct is never her own comfort first, so it’s nice to be reminded.

With Billy, I would have sprung from bed, tits flopping, and ripped him from his SNOO at the first coo, terrified his cries would wake my husband. Now I know better. Now I know that no matter how “tired” a man claims to be, that motherfucker has probably just slept so goddamn soundly the dead would be jealous.

I hear a lot of second-time moms say the second baby is a breeze because they’ve done it before, like they know everything now and can just relax. I don’t feel that way. I feel like I know too much—like I’ve heard too many horror stories about how things can go wrong. With Billy, I wasn’t worried, and it all worked out. Then TikTok and Instagram Reels brought the world’s heartbreak directly into my feed, and suddenly I felt the grief of a million mothers dealing with the unspeakable. We are incredibly blessed to have two beautiful, healthy children. But while I haven’t been officially diagnosed, I’d put good money on me having a touch of the postpartums. I’m pluralizing it to save time listing all the varying postpartum mental illnesses women suffer from—more on that later.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. We sleep on a mattress on the floor because we have a French Bulldog, which is another stupid thing we did. Frenchies have dumb bodies and jumping is terrible for them, so after a couple of IVDD scares, so out of an abundance of caution we opted to ditch the bed frame.

I run hot, sweaty, and stinky—always all three— so I sleep strictly in massive underpants and a nursing bra. Fumbling through the darkness, I lean over Ernie’s bassinet and beam down at his sweet, wiggly little body and his devastatingly sad face as he fusses. It’s his first wakeup of the night. We put him down at eight, which makes this a solid sleep stretch. I’m groggy, but not at my wit’s end. Even if I were, something about this sweet, innocent boy who trusts me implicitly eases my frustration.

I don’t mean to paint a picture of a perfect, patient, grateful mother. I’ve had nights where I’ve knelt beside the bassinet and silently screamed into the dark while trying to soothe a belligerent, overtired baby who refuses to sleep. I’ve even—not so silently—strongly suggested that my babies should “just shut the fuck up” during particularly brutal nights. But tonight, I’m fairly chill, and so is my sweet Ern.

As I lift him, he relaxes in my arms. He’s an easygoing baby who only fusses when he needs something, and I can tell he’s hungry. We go back to bed. I pull a breast out and offer it to him. He latches, and for about a minute, we sit in silence before my milk lets down.

This time around, I struggle with DMER (Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex), which feels like an understatement for what I’m actually dealing with. It’s a sudden, terrible wave of intense anxiety and dread the moment my milk lets down. I have a mild case—some women have it so severely they stop breastfeeding altogether—so for that, I’m grateful. I’ve realized so much of motherhood is eating the shit you’ve been served and chasing it with a shot of “It could be worse” to help it go down smooth.

My dread is brief, usually lasting only fifteen to thirty seconds. It could be worse, I think, reminding myself I have nothing to fear but the feeling itself—when suddenly, I’m struck by the next godawful crisis: I have to shit.

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He used to only cry for Mama, but now it’s strictly Dada. He started calling for my husband after I had our second baby, Ernie. It’s been one of the hardest transitions for me when it comes to having two babies. I love being a mother; Billy was my barnacle for 9 wonderful months before my pregnancy with Ernie took a turn and I couldn’t do as much.

Sometimes I want to scream, “I TAUGHT DADDY EVERYTHING HE KNOWS!” But obviously, that’s a lot for a two-year-old crying at 4:30 a.m. to take in. And the moms of multiples who are the primary parent for both their bigs and littles are so overwhelmed it’s like they’re being robbed of the joys motherhood comes with. So if I’m being mentally stable for the moment, I’ll say I am grateful for my husband and that my son calls for him. eye roll

Ernie is 8 months old. That’s right—we did two under two. It wasn’t entirely intentional, but it wasn’t not intentional. I was shook, but I also shouldn’t have been, and we were thrilled to welcome Ernie when he arrived. I’d do it again, but I do think my body and mind need a chance to recover.

This past week Billy—who is normally a fantastic sleeper and always has been... sorry, it is what it is! We sleep trained our babies, and they sleep. I don’t want to be that annoying mom, but I kind of am when it comes to sleep.

If my kids wake up and don’t put themselves back to sleep, I know something’s wrong and I adjust accordingly—well, usually. But this weird thing has been happening for the past week: my two-year-old wakes up, cries for his dad for a minute or two, and then goes back to sleep. But it happens almost every night around 4:30.

My husband has been eroding the sleep schedule I built. Typically, Billy should be napping for about two hours in the middle of the day. If I were 100% in charge, that nap would come at noon—maybe 12:30 p.m. if we’re playing it fast and loose. But now that Dad’s “in charge,” Billy naps from 1:30 to 3:30.

My husband also keeps saying that “Billy’s just having nightmares,” which, like... sure, maybe? But I doubt it.

I did some Googling (and I’ll probably talk to our sleep consultant if it persists), but everything says these wakes are just a phase. It’s very normal for a person to transition from deep sleep to lighter sleep around this time, and I should stick to the sleep training—the rest will work itself out.

Okay, cool, it’s not that big of a problem since he’s only up for 1–2 minutes tops. So I’ll do nothing. The problem is that now my body is accustomed to waking up at 4:30 a.m. I bet you’re wondering what the other thing my body immediately does after waking up? It’s poop. I have to poop. So not only do I have two babies who sleep independently in a shared room, but I also have super regular bowel movements and, honestly, really good hair.

So now, come 4:30 a.m., I wake up, roll around for 10 minutes, count deep belly breaths, and read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (the most slept-on book of the entire series) for about thirty minutes. Then, just as I get close to falling back asleep, I’m forced to get out of bed and head to the bathroom.

What the hell do I do for myself when sleep training doesn't work on me? I can’t keep waking up at 4:30 every morning just to poop while my babies sleep peacefully because they can self-soothe.

It’s incredibly frustrating. When my kids have sleep issues, I usually look at their naps, total daytime sleep, and desired nighttime sleep, then adjust. So I’ve decided to mess with my own schedule.

Today, I cut out my mid-day nap—the nap that usually keeps me from snapping at my husband. Instead of sleeping, I worked and took Billy to MyGym, an overstimulating place where kids let loose. Personally, I love going there with the boys. It feels like such a privilege to spend that time with them, and I really can't stop counting my blessings.

But here I am at 8:29 p.m., pretty sure I’m overtired, PMSing, and ready to put hands on my husband—WHO DID GET A NAP TODAY.

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to start an online journal where I write about whatever’s on my mind each night. At least if my hands are typing, I can’t beat my husband, whom I love and appreciate dearly.

Ever since I had Billy, time has flown by. I can't believe he’ll be two in a few weeks. My hope is that this journal becomes a way to slow down time—or at least savor it before it’s completely gone.

I hope you and yours are doing well. But if no one else has asked: how was your day?