Two more weeks. That’s all I’m saying. Two more weeks and I am on a plane to Chicago and Florence Welch is going to absolutely destroy me in the best possible way. But first — this week.
Outlander is back on in the background while I write this and I just want to sit with that for a second. The first time I watched it I was in Nick’s recliner in the wee hours of the night, breastfeeding a brand new Evelyn, completely delirious and completely in love. Now I’m arguing logic with a clever, sassy three and a half year old who has opinions about everything and is almost always right about them. She is the first to tell me “you have nice boobies, Mommy” — which, thank you, but we are working on Nick’s filter because she did not come up with that on her own. She is the first to announce to any room that something smells stinky. And she has perfected the slow, deliberate pointed finger that says I am watching you in a way that is both hilarious and mildly threatening. She’s three and a half. I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned. Both. It’s both.
The time has gone so fast it genuinely takes my breath away. I’m anxious and excited about what fall looks like when a few hours open up in the day — but we’re not talking about fight club. You know the rules.
The week has been full of the usual trials. Nick’s work threw us a curve ball and all I can say is nothing gets fixed overnight, and we both know his worth. We keep moving. We always do. The good news is we’ve finally settled into a gym routine that works without the Childwatch anxiety — though I’m still taking Evelyn three times a week because building that resilience matters, even when the universe seems personally committed to testing it. Case in point: she slipped on the icy ramp into the YMCA this week and split her lip and cracked her nose on the pavement. Both bleeding quickly and stopping before I got to the reception counter. A conspiracy. An actual conspiracy. There is something out there telling me Childwatch is not meant to be and I refuse to accept it. She went anyway. By the end of the week she went in without me. Small win. Huge win. We’ll take it.
And then there was this morning.
I want to be careful here because this is not about throwing anyone under the bus. It’s about something I think a lot of us navigate and nobody talks about honestly enough — the juggling act of regulating a toddler, regulating yourself, and trying to communicate with a partner who is also, in their own way, struggling to regulate.
We have been sleep training Evelyn for a year and a half with the HATCH. Red light stay in bed, green light get up and go. We have it down. It works. This morning at 5:45am she was at her gate — not unusual — and the move, the established move, is “light’s not green, go back to bed.” Instead Nick got her up, took off her wet pull up, and put her in our bed. With Sally. At 5:45am. Normally by that time I’m already up, coffee in hand, making his lunch and her breakfast before the demands of toddler life officially begin. Today that did not happen. Today it was kitten chaos and hissing between two creatures who have not yet made their peace with each other, followed by closet lights on, bathroom lights on, and me lying there processing all of it in real time.
And here’s the thing I want to be honest about. In that moment I wasn’t just annoyed. I was actively working through it. Talking myself off the ledge I toe when consistency gets disrupted — because consistency and control are my safe place, always have been, and one morning off schedule can send my nervous system into a quiet spiral that nobody else in the room can see, except probably Nick. So I was doing the work. Telling myself it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Reminding myself that one day I will actually miss the little body that climbed into our bed. One day she won’t be three and a half. One day she’ll be heading into her senior year and I will lie in that same bed and give anything to have her snuggled behind me again.
We aren’t talking about that fight club either. 🖤
But I was in it. I was doing the work. Evelyn eventually asked to go back to her room — thank God — and we got moving.
I was getting coffee when he looked at me. I looked up and smiled. A real smile. I have been making conscious efforts lately not to snap when I’m still waking up and processing things and I was genuinely proud of myself in that moment. What I got back was “what’s that look for?”
And there it was.
I was defensive when I said there was no look, that I smiled at him. The morning went silent after that. Him rushing around, no words, a stiff goodbye kiss, and then the door. And now I’m here — home with his silence and his frustration over something I didn’t do — and somehow I’m the one carrying the emotional weight of all of it. Mine, his, and the tiny growling person who is already on warning number one and it is 7:03am. My coffee feels more caffeinated than usual. My right nostril is full and also useless. We are thriving.
This is the part nobody puts on Instagram. The part where you’re doing everything right and it still somehow becomes your fault. The part where you’re proud of yourself for not snapping and it doesn’t matter. The part where the morning unravels before it even started and you just have to keep going anyway.
So we keep going. Coffee first. Always coffee first.
Timeout was called shortly after. And in the middle of it, classical music playing in the background, she looks at me and says “I don’t want to listen to jello.”
She meant cello.
She’s three and a half, has opinions about string instruments, and is currently in timeout. Sometimes having a smart kid is its own kind of exhausting and I mean that with my entire heart.
And just like that, 7:15am, he’s at work and the apology comes through. Which I appreciate — I do. But I want to point out, for the record, that we have an agreement. I don’t send novels when I’m upset (Stop Texting Your Husband Novels (A Love Story)). He doesn’t initiate disagreements before heading out the door. I have held up my end. And yet. Here we are. Apology received, acknowledged, moving on — because that’s what we do and honestly that part we’re pretty good at.
Meanwhile the tiny energy vampire I created is making her rounds. In the 45 minutes since he left: I have separated her from the teenagers because she is growling and yelling at them for absolutely no reason. I have separated her from picking up Sally at least 15 times already. She has informed me that the classical music playing is not the kind she wants — no word yet on whether “Jell-o” is acceptable, but also does and doesn’t want to listen to trumpets. She has told me to close the bathroom door because the hair dryer is “too loud.” And she is currently in her room with the gate closed, grunting as she attempts to physically dismantle it.
It is 7:15 in the morning.
HAPPY FRIDAY. 🖤
Now. The article.
I came across something about how couples are having sex at the wrong time of day and honestly? It tracked. Testosterone is highest in the morning. Cortisol is elevated — and yes ladies, we keep hearing about cortisol and belly fat, but just like exes, everything serves a purpose. Estrogen is higher earlier in the day, dopamine is fresh, serotonin is lower. Morning is for activity. Evening is for recovery. In theory, morning is the move.
In theory.
And can we just talk about the mental load of being a woman in your 40s for a second? Because it is a lot. Eat more protein. Focus on fiber. Strength train. Not too much cardio though — cortisol, ladies, cortisol. Wash your face before bed. Worry about the neck sag. Address the chest wrinkles. Take your magnesium but not too late or you’ll fall asleep mid-sentence. Balance your hormones but also your nervous system but also your macros but also your mental health but also your relationships but also your career but also —
Breathe.
We are juggling approximately everything all the time and somehow still showing up. The perimenopause wall is real and nobody handed us a manual. We’re out here figuring it out in real time, comparing notes, and doing our best. That’s not nothing. That’s actually everything.
Oh — and I jumped on the creatine bandwagon. I did my research, I made my decision, and I have zero regrets. I’m not even a full week in so I’m not about to make any dramatic claims, but my recovery after strength training has already felt quicker and better and that alone is worth talking about. The real effects won’t settle in for a couple more weeks but I will report back. In the meantime — Bang for the Buck is the brand I grabbed. Simple, affordable, and absolutely worth trying if you’re dipping your toes in. We’re out here doing the research so you don’t have to. You’re welcome. 🖤
For those of us in our 40s, most mornings start with waking up and immediately calculating when we can take a nap. But we were feeling ambitious. An attempt was made. And it was going fine — genuinely fine, no notes, not tracking time — until it was exactly 6:15am and from the hallway came the sound we know better than anything else on this earth.
“Mooooooommmmy! Daaaaaadddddy!”
The Hatch had trained her well. The light turned green. She was up. She wanted waffles and whipped cream and she wanted them immediately and there was no stalling, no pep talk, no “just five more minutes.” Green light toddler cockblock fully engaged. Life happens. Moving on.
The portrait series is still very much in motion — my first subject is locked and loaded, and like so many women, she’s busy and quietly talking herself into the confidence to be photographed. I feel that deeply and I’m not rushing it. This is a process and it matters that it’s done right. I’m hoping that once you see what this actually looks like, more of you will want to be part of it. The plan is to have something to show you before Chicago — no promises, but that’s the goal.
And Outlander. I forgot how much I loved it and phew — sexy, sexy. Something about that time period and that accent makes women absolutely feral and I am not immune. Consider it research.
Two more weeks. Waffles, whipped cream, and Florence Welch. We’re almost there. 🖤
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