021/365

"How to talk to your daughter about her body, step one: don’t talk to your daughter about her body, except to teach her how it works.

Don’t say anything if she’s lost weight. Don’t say anything if she’s gained weight.

If you think your daughter’s body looks amazing, don’t say that. Here are some things you can say instead:

“You look so healthy!” is a great one.

Or how about, “You’re looking so strong.”

“I can see how happy you are – you’re glowing.”

Better yet, compliment her on something that has nothing to do with her body.

Don’t comment on other women’s bodies either. Nope. Not a single comment, not a nice one or a mean one.

Teach her about kindness towards others, but also kindness towards yourself.

Don’t you dare talk about how much you hate your body in front of your daughter, or talk about your new diet. In fact, don’t go on a diet in front of your daughter. Buy healthy food. Cook healthy meals. But don’t say “I’m not eating carbs right now.” Your daughter should never think that carbs are evil, because shame over what you eat only leads to shame about yourself.

Encourage your daughter to run because it makes her feel less stressed. Encourage your daughter to climb mountains because there is nowhere better to explore your spirituality than the peak of the universe. Encourage your daughter to surf, or rock climb, or mountain bike because it scares her and that’s a good thing sometimes.

Help your daughter love soccer or rowing or hockey because sports make her a better leader and a more confident woman. Explain that no matter how old you get, you’ll never stop needing good teamwork. Never make her play a sport she isn’t absolutely in love with.

Prove to your daughter that women don’t need men to move their furniture.

Teach your daughter how to cook kale.

Teach your daughter how to bake chocolate cake made with six sticks of butter.

Pass on your own mom’s recipe for Christmas morning coffee cake. Pass on your love of being outside.

Maybe you and your daughter both have thick thighs or wide ribcages. It’s easy to hate these non-size zero body parts. Don’t. Tell your daughter that with her legs she can run a marathon if she wants to, and her ribcage is nothing but a carrying case for strong lungs. She can scream and she can sing and she can lift up the world, if she wants.

Remind your daughter that the best thing she can do with her body is to use it to mobilize her beautiful soul."

-Sarah Koppelkam

020/365

I'm not what one would describe as a touchy-feely kind of person.  

I am not cold or distant by any means and I am definitely more of a hugger than a hand-shaker. You better believe that I come in for the real thing if I've known you for longer than a minute and you don't have unbearable B.O. However, I blame this more on my southern charm rather than my personal preferences. 

When Joe and I first started having, ahem, adult sleep overs, it was very quickly established that there would be no touching during sleeping hours. Before and after, it is likely that we can... you know... "cuddle" but if I'm unconscious, ere on the side of caution and, please, not touch me. Luckily, I married someone who is the same way which is likely why we work. Occasionally, I've been known to give a mean elbow to the ribs while remaining completely comatose when his feet manage to forget the agreed-upon boundaries. (Sorry, Joe.) 

Naturally, I worried that this lack of needing physical connection would hinder me as a mom. I needn't worry because Mo, in true fashion, wasn't a cuddler. I actually worried something was wrong with her as a baby because she was all, "Bitch, give me three feet" instead of wanting to be as close to me as possible. She hated co-sleeping and slept like a star fish. We were the perfect mother-child duo in terms of not wanting to constantly be touched. 

Which brings me to Edie.

That child lives for an opportunity to get her some snugs. Randomly throughout the day, she'll crab-crawl her way over to me only to plop her head in my lap for a few moments, like she just wants to check in and make sure that my lap is still there and operational. The nook between my chin and shoulder is likely permanently molded to her sweet head of raven curls. She still prefers to drink a bottle laying down in my lap on the floor so she can stare up at me. She is so sweet that she even still makes sure to wake up around three a.m. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. to guarantee the fulfillment of her daily cuddle quota. 

And I...... love it?! Nothing is more soothing to me than the weight of her head on my shoulder after a warm bath. The fact that she almost always ruins the moment by peeing on me right afterwards doesn't even phase me. 

But that's just Edie being everything I never knew I needed or wanted, by forcing me to slow down, by reminding me that babies don't keep and everything else can wait, by loving me so obviously and with so much affection.

This gig, man.... I often wonder who I'd be without it. I'd surely be a lot less loved.

*Joe's feet will never be welcomed on my side of the bed, though. Just sayin'...

019/365

Five things I learned from our bout of the stomach bug...

1. Nothing tests your maternal reflexes like attempting to catch projectile-style vomit so that it doesn't splatter all over your entire house Linda Blair-style. You've never seen a woman run as fast as you will when a mama hears that first dreaded gag. 

2. Nothing is more pitiful than hearing your babe, in-between dry heaves, ask you what's happening to her and why won't it stop. You find that you actually begin missing her normal 3:30 pm tantrums, her Energizer Bunny tendencies, and her inability to be silent, ever. 

3. Note to self: A green smoothie is the absolute LAST thing you should ever give someone who is suffering from any kind of stomach issue. Also worth noting: green vomit does, in fact, stain walls and everything else it touches. 

4. Keeping a curious and toddling one year old out of her big sister's throw-up long enough to clean it up and sanitize any germy (technical term) remnants is my newest party trick. It involves real skill and maniacal scheming and I can now add this to my very short list of talents. You need to plant a garden? Can't help you due to black thumbs. Preventing a babe from finger painting in neon puke? I AM YOUR GIRL!

5. I'd say that we live a 90% organic lifestyle. I don't believe in anti-bacterial lotion and I have been known to let my kids eat off of the ground hoping that it will strengthen their immune systems. With that said, I really, really like Clorox. Nothing makes me feel safer than the smell of bleach when germs have invaded the home front. 

BONUS: What should one get in return for catching their offsprings' vomit with their bare hands? What are you rewarded with for holding your daughter's hair while she heaves into a plastic mixing bowl at two in the morning, for being at her beck and call, and staying awake all night just in case she throws up in her sleep? A vacation? A bottle of wine to the face? A pretty new blouse made in a dry-clean only fabric? Nope. The fucking stomach bug is what you get, Mom. Except you get it far more violently and you should get it when you have company in town because nothing screams "WELCOME!" like shoving your baby into their arms, running Kenyan-style up the stairs to empty your insides, and then quarantining yourself into your room while they fend for themselves. 

And, because you solidified your campaign for Mom of the Year and must be properly compensated, vomit isn't the only bodily function you have to worry about making it to the bathroom in time for. 

Stay healthy, friends!!!

018/365

Prince's lyrics. 

Chris Cornell's voice. 

A lethal equation amounting to panties dropping everywhere. 

You're welcome. 

017/365

You know those dreams you occasionally have where you wake up and you have a hard time believing that it didn't actually happen? That it was all just a dream? Then, all day, you stagger along having these bizarre moments of déjá vu while simultaneously struggling to remember every last detail because you want to live that dream over and over? 

Mothering Mo is just like that. 

Being Marlo's mother brings with it a bit of delirium. Day-in and day-out, I walk around in a bit of a haze, having a hard time believing that this beautiful creature with the amazing hair and quick wit belongs to me. I have a hard time believing that this is the creature I get to claim as my own, the kid who makes me prouder, yet, simultaneously more frustrated than anyone in the world. 

At this particular age, every stage seems far too fleeting, far to difficult to scribe to my memory and it is one of my biggest fears that I won't remember every last minute detail of her. 

I want to remember the way her hair falls in her face and how she uses her hand to brush it aside. I want to remember how she emphasizes everything with her hands. I want to remember-- particularly for future teenage purposes-- that there is absolutely no rushing her to do anything she doesn't feel ready to do. I want to remember how she loves to write letters to her family and friends because "you do nice fings for the people you love, mama." I want to remember how genuine she is about everything, including things she isn't a fan of. I want to remember how randomly throughout the day she'll lean into me and tell me that she loves me. 

What I've learned from mothering Mo is that children are our biggest advocates, just as we are supposed to be theirs. Nobody makes me feel more beautiful or more capable than Marlo. Motherhood gave me a new perspective on myself, of my capabilities, of my strength, and of my ability to love and be loved. 

At the same time, nobody makes my weaknesses more obvious than her. She has become my greatest teacher and the person who holds me most accountable without trying. She is my mirror, the reflection of all of the baggage and insecurities I work hard to not pass onto her. She is the guiding force of our family simply by being Mo. 

When I was eight weeks pregnant, I had a dream of an olive-skinned, golden-haired, green-eyed beauty who would rock my world and everything I thought to be true about life. In the dream, her name was Marlo. 

I guess in some instances, dreams really do come true. 

Happy birthday, Marlo Mclean. I love you so much it hurts. 

to the moon but so very much further. 

xoxo, mama