Motherhood has had its own playlist for me. Looking back, I have found a list of songs that have become the soundtrack for my journey as a mom. 

***

Let Her Go by Passenger

“Well, you only need the light when it’s burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go.”

I still get the same feelings when I hear Let Her Go. It starts and the emotions come flooding back; lonely, confused, uncertain and exhausted, oh so exhausted. Even eight years later, just the first few lines whisk me back to those early days of motherhood. 

It was a song I played over and over when my oldest son was only a few weeks old. We spent hours alone together during my maternity leave, usually in the nursery room that my husband and I had carefully painted and decorated during the nine months I was pregnant. The walls were a color called “Gentleman’s Blue” and it had touches of wood and metal. I felt prepared before my son’s arrival, but then he entered my life, and our awkward dance began. 

I listened to this song on repeat in those first few weeks of motherhood. Maybe I just needed to fill the lonely void in our house when we were alone and my baby wasn’t crying or it could have been that I wanted a way to somehow digest the emotions I was feeling. Now, looking back at that song, I’ve noticed that it is slow and melancholy. It mimicked the flow of my days and the feelings that surrounded being a new mom. 

***

“You’ve Got A Friend In Me” by Randy Newman

“You’ve got a friend in me
You got troubles, I’ve got ’em too
There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you
We stick together and see it through
‘Cause you’ve got a friend in me”

Luckily for me, I outgrew that first song and found a new one. When my son turned two, we moved to a house that had a large space of wooden floor between our living room and dining room. To kill time during those dreaded late afternoon hours before dinner, I’d put on “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” and my son would reach up his little arms and say, “Mama, hold you.” We’d spin in circles, his chick fuzz hair blowing in the air. Each spin would make me dizzy but he’d use his tiny fingers to sign, “More, more,” and again we’d twirl. 

His giggles filled the afternoons and got us to dinner, then bath, and then finally bedtime. We listened to this song because we both needed to move. He needed to burn the last bit of energy in his always moving body and I needed to fill my long days with entertainment and stimulus, because being a mom to a toddler sometimes felt excruciatingly lonely. 

This new stage of motherhood did have a quicker beat unlike those earlier days. I felt more comfortable with my son. We were learning how to find our own rhythm and create movement that didn’t exist before. Our daily walks and park meetups replaced the loneliness that surrounded those newborn days tucked away in the nursery. 

***

“Swish, Swish” by Katie Perry

“Swish, Swish
Another one in the basket
Can’t touch this”

My playlist continued to evolve after my son started elementary school. He taught me a new “cool” dance move that all the kids in his class were doing. He would put on the trendy song from a list I titled, “Ronin’s Music.” It was filled with songs that he loved and I tolerated.  No longer could I put on my own music, but instead, he would grab my phone and play DJ.  We’d stand on the same dance floor we once twirled together on, but this time he tried to instruct me on how to move my straight arms and hips in a way that would floss them. Somehow, my mom body just couldn’t find that rhythm. 

We learned to move together in a funny mother/son harmony though. The beats at this stage of motherhood brought me a new sense of confidence and freedom and I didn’t feel quite as awkward about making a fool of myself or correcting the many mistakes I made.

***

Eye of the Tiger by Survivor

“It’s the eye of the tiger
It’s the thrill of the fight
Rising up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor
Stalks his prey in the night
And he’s watching us all with the eye of the tiger”

Fast forward to today and I no longer find myself dancing in our house, but rather, in the car, chauffeuring my son to and from baseball practice and games. We listen to the Eye of the Tiger on repeat to get him pumped up to play. With the song stuck in my head all day, I dance on the bleachers, the loudest mom at the game, beaming ear to ear as my son, the baby I once cradled in my arms, rockets the baseball to the outfield and sprints around the bases. 

We may not be holding onto each other spinning around in our living room anymore, but we still move to the beat of the same song. I am feeling totally different emotions these days, ones of sheer joy and an overwhelming sense of pride for the human that I created. My cheers and waving catch his attention but he rolls his eyes at me in embarrassment.  I am proud though as my boy is spreading his wings and succeeding on his own turf. 

****

Our playlist is going to continue to change. On the day he gets married, we will put on a song and I will dance with my boy again before sending him off to his wife. His soft pudgy fingers will be replaced with the hands of a man.

I wonder how I will feel at the moment when I realize my job is almost done and our playlist is ending. Will I feel scared and alone like I did when he was a newborn? Will I feel exhausted yet playful like those toddler years? Maybe goofy and carefree like when he was in elementary school?  Or will I feel an overwhelming sense of pride like I did when he was on the ball field? I think I will only truly know when that day arrives, but no matter my feelings, to relive my journey, all I will need to do is play a song off my motherhood playlist.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Lyrical”. 

The post My Motherhood Playlist appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

Dear Future Mama,

Motherhood is wonderful. Yes, that is true, but I do want to let you in on a few little truths that no one warned me about before I became a mom. Please don’t let these scare you, just tuck them away and pull them out as needed.

Truth #1: You and your baby will BOTH leave the hospital in diapers. You will be wearing what I liked to call “fishnet granny panties.” Don’t worry though, you will soon get your sexy back, I promise!

Truth #2: You are going to gain a new appreciation for dairy cows. Be prepared to leak milk at the most inconvenient times. Count on it happening when you are in public. 

Truth #3: Sucking boogers out of another human’s nose is actually going to be very satisfying! I know it sounds gross now, but just you wait!

Truth #4: Getting four hours of sleep is actually going to feel wonderful. It might not sound like a lot right now, but in those early newborn days, count this as a win.

Truth #5: The first few times you try to have sex after delivering your baby will probably feel like the first time all over again. Having a baby attached to your body all day will make getting in the mood next to impossible but trust me, this won’t last forever (insert wink emogi).

Truth #6: Potty training is messy! If the book says it will take three days, toss that one out the window. There will be accidents, and probably lots of them, but your child will not go off to college in diapers, so give yourself grace.

Truth #7: Forget all those cute baby clothes because your baby will either spit-up or have a blowout the minute you put them on. And while we are talking baby clothes, get the ones without snaps. Zippers will be your best friends at 1:00 am. 

Truth #8: For the next 18 years, you won’t be able to have nice things. DON’T buy the white couch!!! No matter how much you try, your kids will draw on, break or somehow manage to leave teeth marks on every nice piece of furniture you own.

Truth #9: These questions will make their way into your Google search; “Is my baby’s head too big?” “Is my baby’s head too small?” “Is my baby gaining enough weight?” “Did my baby gain too much weight?” “Why isn’t my child speaking?” “Is my child speaking too much?”  Let me save you the search…your child is just fine!

Truth #10: Despite all of these ugly truths, you are going to learn to love this human more than life itself. You will get peed on, shed countless tears, feel so tired it hurts, and your patience will be tested to levels you can’t even begin to fathom, but all that will fade away when your baby first smiles at you or when your toddler runs up and gives you a hug. Don’t give up mama, because the real truth is, your best is more than enough!

Love,
Katie (mama of three)

What advice would you give future mama self? Leave me a comment with some words to her.

The post Dear Future Mama, appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

***

My husband and I talked about baby names even before we were married. Sitting together, dreaming of our future, we couldn’t help but imagine who our kids would be. We’d throw around possible names. Some were totally ridiculous, others very traditional, but it became a game to try to piece together our future family. 

The summer before I got pregnant, we were sitting outside having a picnic with some friends when they started telling us about a family they knew. The husband went on to list the names of their boys and when he said “Ronin” my husband and I turned to each other with a look that meant, “Oh, I like that name. Make a mental note to add it to our list.” 

Neither of us said anything until we were in the car.  My husband went on to describe to me what a Japanese Ronin was. It referred to a type of samurai, one that paved his own path. In his eyes, it sounded “bad-ass.”  In my mind, I wondered if a little baby could hold such a big name but I was intrigued. 

The following year, we found out we were pregnant with a boy. The minute I heard the gender, I felt an overwhelming sense of duty to raise a boy that would be strong and confident yet a loyal gentleman. I don’t know if any other mothers experience this, but at that moment, I felt a need to fulfill a very important job. I was committed to raising a boy that could one day make the world better. 

Knowing the gender meant that we could scrap all the girl names we had generated and start seriously looking for the one for our future son. We had a few listed that made it past our double veto system. While driving to work one morning, mulling over the names in my head, I started tearing up realizing that the name Ronin contained the first three letters of my dad’s name. We had already discussed naming our son after one of our dads, but let’s face it, my grandma’s taste in names was quite different than mine and Ronald was instantly scratched. But, in choosing the name Ronin, we could still honor my dad.

So that was it, we were going to name our baby Ronin, our little masterless samurai. We didn’t share the name with anyone, keeping it our little secret until he was born. My friend once warned me, “Be careful what you name a baby, because your child will grow up to become that.” To me, that always sounded so ridiculous. There was no way that I could pick a name that would then come to embody another person…right? 

Well, let me tell you about my son. Before he was born we found out he was breech. Despite everything I did (and I tried it all from multiple trips to the chiropractor, laying upside down on pillows and talking to my unborn baby willing him to turn around) he remained breech until my scheduled C-section. He decided he wasn’t going to follow the typical path and give me the birth that was expected. 

After he was born, I wondered if this big name suited my little guy. His sweet, baby blue eyes and ginger colored hair didn’t seem to look like what I thought a Ronin should be. Months went by though and he developed his unique look and an even more unique personality. 

I was the mom running around, chasing my baby at music class. Never wanting to sit down and follow along, he became the little rebel in the group of quiet lap sitters. At the park I was constantly running after him.  He would dart across the field, fearless, never looking back to see where I was. He had a sense of independence that scared me as his mother. I felt like if I didn’t chase him, he’d never stop running. 

He was incredibly cooridnated too. I like to say that he started running before he started walking. He was always moving, never wanting to be still. His need to be physical was not something we taught him. One day, when he was not quite one yet, I was picking him up from daycare and the aid asked me if he had an older brother or cousin. Curious, I said, “No, why?” She went on to explain that he loved to wrestle and tackle some of the older boys and thought he was possibly exposed to that at home. Despite everything I did to teach him to be gentle, that just wasn’t him. His favorite game was to play “push” on the couch. 

From the minute he started walking, his knees were always bruised and scraped up. He had a way of taking some of the biggest falls but would get up and say, “I’m ok,” and continue to play. My mom friends at the park would look at me and ask how he was not hurt and honestly I don’t know. He should have come up to me crying, needing a kiss on his boo boo, but he would just run off like it was nothing. Maybe it was because he was just determined to keep playing and stopping because he was hurt would just get in the way of that. To this day, he doesn’t have one pair of jeans without holes in the knees.

I often think about my friend’s words and wonder if in choosing his name, I created this boy. I looked at the other mom at the library story time, sitting nicely with their toddlers in their lap, singing The Wheels on the Bus, and wondered how I ended up with the one crawling under the librarian’s easel. Did I create this? Could I really have done this to myself?

Slowly, I am seeing that his independent nature might not be a curse but rather a blessing. My little warrior started preschool at the age of three and while all the other kids clung to their mother’s legs, afraid to let go, mine bolted through the doors determined to explore every inch of the play yard. Fearlessly independent is how the teachers described him. I have started to get a glimpse of what a Ronin could be for this world. Although he was a handful as a toddler and in early childhood, there are moments when I realize his stubbornness and independence could actually turn into his greatest asset in the end. 

Naming a child is tough. You are essentially choosing something that will be their identity for their entire life. So the question is, does a name define who a person is to become? Maybe, in choosing my son’s name, we actually wanted him to be a fearless warrior willing to follow his own path. I knew I had a duty to bring a man into the world who would fight for what is right. Our world needs  men like that. At the age of seven, I think I’ve only seen a glimpse of the Ronin that my son will become.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click HERE to view the next post in the series “A Name”

The post What’s in a Name? appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

noun

​​1. the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the act of being passed on in this way.

Example: a Chewbacca Christmas ornament 

*****

Each year, our Christmas tree is topped with a six inch Star Wars Chewbacca ornament, the most unlikely tradition for this holiday season. 

In 2010, my husband and I lived in a small apartment in the middle of Los Angeles. It was our first Christmas together as a married couple. 

On our tiny kitchen table, the one that was only big enough to fit the two of us, we put up a two-foot Christmas tree. At the beginning of the holiday season, my mother-in-law had sent a box of my husband’s childhood Christmas ornaments. As we decorated our miniature tree, he pulled out each one, nostalgia flooding back to him.

When we got to the last ornament, my husband smiled with childlike glee in his eyes as he opened the box containing his Chewbacca. This ornament was probably from the 80s, made out of plastic and featured the classic Star Wars character holding a gun. 

The loving newlywed wife that I was, obliged and let him put Chewie on the top of the tree, not really having many other options but secretly hoping that our future held many large fir trees with a giant star or beautiful angel decorating the tops. 

But, year after year, it is Chewbacca that finds his way to the top of our annual tree. Maybe it is just a tradition I can’t let go of because of that memory of our first Christmas together, two young kids madly in love needing only each other to find joy that holiday season or maybe it’s simply because I am outnumbered in a house with 4 boys.

Each year I debate whether we should switch to something more classic or “normal,” but it is Chewie, gun and all, that tops our tree. Proportionally he is the absolute wrong choice. Our living room can now hold a 7-foot tree, one suited for a very large tree topper, but this 6 inch ornament reins supreme and has proven to hold his own amidst big bows and twinkling lights.

Chewbacca has been with us as we moved from our tiny apartment, to our first house and now our current home. Three different sets of little boys’ fingers have grasped this ornament and positioned him at the top of our trees. He has watched us as we’ve added more ornaments to our collection, like baby’s first Christmas and homemade preschool keepsakes. 

Who knows what Chewbacca will see in our future, but one thing is certain, this unusual Christmas tradition, one that might not have seemed believable to myself as a young newlywed, will forever hold a place on our tree. 

*****

Traditions sometimes come from the most unlikely of places.

What special Christmas traditions do you and your family share?

The post An Unlikely Tradition appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

I love our homemade stockings, hanging from our mantle, each one stitched in gold thread with the names of the five of us. 

I love holding a stack of envelopes in my hand each day, eager to open them up and see the faces of friends and family on their Christmas cards. 

I love the first familiar notes of Andy Williams’, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

I love packing the kids up in the car when the sun goes down, hot chocolate in hand, to admire the festive light displays.

I love the glowing candles and twinkling lights that illuminate our house in the wee hours of the night. 

I love pulling out all the decorations we’ve collected throughout the years, remembering each Christmas we’ve celebrated together.

I love my little boys in matching Christmas pajamas, sitting on the couch reading books from our Christmas library. 

I love our Chewbacca ornament, the unlikely tree topper from our first year of marriage, that has become our family’s annual tradition. 

I love that my husband has “a system” for hanging the outside lights, one that has taken years of trial and error to develop.

I love wrapping presents. I really do! The sound of the scissors slicing through the paper and the gifts being enveloped in red and green. 

I love all the festive sweaters, scarves and Santa hats that come out this time of year.

I love making candied fruit from the millions of oranges exploding from our citrus tree. 

I love baking cookies with my kids, White Christmas playing in the background, sprinkles and flour covering the countertop and floor. 

I love homemade cioppino on Christmas Eve with our table, stomachs and hearts full.

I love Santa and the belief in something so magical and wonderful that anything is possible. 

I love Christmas!

Christmas time can be stressful with all the gifts and wrapping and lists but I challenge you to throw on a Santa hat, crank up the Christmas music and stop and smell the mistletoe!

The post I Love Christmas! appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

I couldn’t help myself though. They were all so unique and different. Some were striped, others smooth and orange, and some even had strange bumps all over them. Bumps that my toddler tried to pick off in the store before we bought them.

How could I say no to one when I said yes to another? I stared at these pumpkins and saw my three boys. Like the pumpkins, they are all being raised in the same patch, but could not be more different from each other.

My independent first born led me to believe that sending a child off to preschool was a piece of cake, that is until my emotionally attached middle child threw me a curve ball. This mild mannered, rule following, middle child though, showed me that potty training did not have to be a 6 month long disaster like it was with his older brother. And the baby of the family? Who knows what unique tricks he’s got up his sleeve.

All I know is that their differences have kept me on my toes as a mom and have given me some of life’s greatest joys.

So what thought did I have while I stared at my overflowing shopping cart? I realized in that moment that variety truly is the “pumpkin” spice of life!

The post Variety is the Pumpkin Spice of Life appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

It meant
Morning sickness again
Seeing that number on the scale again
And losing my body again

It meant
Sore muscles from baby rocking again
Spit up on my clothes again
And diaper changes all day long again

It meant
A frustrating sleep schedule again
The witching hour chiming again
And unexplainable crying again

It meant
Building a frozen milk stash again
Leaving my baby to go to work again
And pumping in a closet again

It meant
A feeling of loneliness again
Losing my identity again
And rediscovering my marriage again

I was faced with a fear of the known
But it meant loving another child
So I chose it all over again

*****

Maybe this is the true gift of motherhood; when we are faced with some of our biggest fears, we choose them anyway because of the love we know they will hold.

*****

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale —an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Unmaking Fears”.

The post The Fear of the Known appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

As our first born, I guess you can say we put in extra energy into making things special for him. His birth announcement was a custom-made card created by my husband and his first birthday was over the top for our standards. So for this Halloween, we didn’t just want him to dress as a Transformer, we wanted his costume to actually transform. 

I hopped on the internet and searched for inspiration and low and behold, found the plans for a costume that transformed from a car into a robot. We bought the plans from Etsy, purchased sheets of foam board and, equipped with an x-acto knife, hot glue gun and a gallon of paint, took to building this dream costume. 

It took at least 8 hours, no joke. My husband was locked in the garage cutting, glueing and figuring out how to piece this thing together. On Halloween we surprised my son with his creation. 

It truly was the coolest costume I have ever seen. His little body fit perfectly and when he crouched down he became a bright, yellow sports car. 

But Here’s The Kicker

After all the work and effort we put into this costume, my son wore it a total of five minutes. FIVE MINUTES!!!! It was big and bulky and he couldn’t walk two feet in it without complaining. All of our hard work ended up in my husband’s arms as my son ran from house to house collecting candy and NOT showing off his cool costume. After that night, it sat in our garage for about a year, neither my husband nor I able to throw away our hard work.

I tell this story not to brag about how crafty we were but to open up about how this Halloween failure changed me as a mom. The next four years that followed, my son either wore a costume we bought on a whim while shopping at Costco or one that was delivered by Amazon straight to our house.

I always thought I could be the kind of mom who made homemade costumes for my kids but the Halloween of 2017 gave me a different perspective on who I needed to be. It released some of the pressure I had put on myself to be that perfect mom. There are parts of motherhood that I will go all out for but I have learned where to draw the line. 

This year, on September 9th, my sons told me they wanted to each be Star Wars characters for Halloween, so the next day I hopped on my phone, gave Amazon a little scroll, placed an order for three costumes and had them all delivered by September 12th. Done and done. My boys are beyond excited for Halloween and never once questioned the fact that their costumes took me two minutes to order instead of two hours to make. 

Do I sometimes wish I could pull out a sewing machine, like my mom did when I was young, and whip up an amazing homemade costume? Of course, but then I remember the hours we put into that Transformer costume and I realize that in this case I am going to give myself a pass.

I guess you can say that a Halloween costume transformed me as a mother, and every October, there is no better treat for me than the realization and acceptance of that.

The post The Transformation of a Mother appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

How do I answer that without dumping some deep emotions on this little girl?

I quickly mulled that question over in my mind, trying to come up with a simple answer for her. I couldn’t go into the birds and the bees and tell her how she actually needed to ask my husband. I didn’t want to divulge the truth that I secretly prayed that each of my pregnancies would give me a daughter, and I also couldn’t discredit the fact that I am so grateful for the three boys I do have.

“Great question, Elle. I guess God thought I needed boys,” was how I replied and she skipped away, pigtails bouncing as she went, satisfied with my answer. 

It was as simple as that for her, but for me, it took me back.

My husband and I talked about the kids we would have even before we were married. We would have a boy and a girl. Her name changed over the years from Giada to Dillinger then Pepper, but she was real to me. She was always destined to exist.

When we found out at our 12 week ultrasound that my first baby was a boy, we were excited. I knew my husband wanted a boy and I wasn’t worried because we were planning on having another child so the next one would be my girl. 

He was born in April of 2014 and I entered the world of boys. Having been raised with just a sister, I felt like a foreigner to this space. Boys have a different energy and humor. It took some time, but I started to adjust and eventually adapt to boydom, but I still believed that I would be rescued by a daughter. One day, I would play tea party with her, help her buy her prom dress, and watch her walk down the aisle and get married. She would become my best friend when I got older.

Three years after my first son was born, we decided we were ready for our second child. In November of 2016, we found out that we were pregnant. I was sick and putting on weight at speeds that quite exceeded my first boy pregnancy. “This is it,” I thought! “My girl.” I felt it in my bones. Right before our 20-week ultrasound, I dreamed about how I was going to reveal the gender. Pink balloons? Pink confetti? Pink “Little Lady” sign?

At the ultrasound the only words I could hear were, “It’s a boy.” 

“Can you double check?” I asked as I fought back tears. “How silly am I? No one cries at an ultrasound. Pull it together.” I thought. I think I insulted the technician, but I asked her to show it to me no less than three times just to be sure. 

I went home, told my mom, then hurried to the bathroom to cry in private. 

No pink balloons, no pink confetti, no pink “Little Lady” sign. 

Instead of a Pinterest-worthy gender reveal, I grabbed my son’s blue Crayola marker and a piece of printer paper. I scribbled the words, “It’s a boy,” sat my son on our swing outside, commanded him to smile and snapped a picture. I didn’t care that he had a cold and his nose was all red or that his jeans had holes in both the knees. I sent the gender reveal picture via text to eager friends and family members then shut my phone off. I didn’t want to hear congratulations from my friends who were also pregnant but having girls. I didn’t want to hear, “Brothers are the best,” or “Now you don’t have to buy new baby clothes. You will save money” I wanted to shop. I wanted to spend excessive amounts of money on bows and pink dresses. 

My husband came home later that night, and much like he is with everything in life, he calmly proceeded to reassure me that everything would be great. We talked about boy names and although he was in love with one, I wasn’t ready to accept a boy name quite yet. I simply didn’t want to even look at names.

I let myself wallow in this lonely feeling for a few weeks. I put on a smile when people would say, “Oh two boys, you will have your hands full.” The more he kicked and moved around in my belly though, the more my heart began to soften. 

My second son was born in August. It was a long labor but when he arrived, I reached out and held him close to my chest, boy parts and all, grateful for this new little life that I had given birth to.  

In the following year, I slowly watched as my two boys turned into brothers and friends. They loved like brothers and fought like brothers. A friend had given me a “Boy Mom” hat shortly after the birth and I eventually started to accept the truth that I was, in fact, a mom of only boys. Occasionally, I would still do a double take when a little girl in a cute dress walked by or when I saw a sign for ballet lessons, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much. 

As my middle son moved through the baby stages, I held on to all of our baby gear. My husband would show me the box of newborn clothes or the baby bouncer and ask, “Donate?” I would just look at him and smile and he knew to store them in the garage. 

To my surprise, that feeling of being “done” did not come over me. Instead, a pit in my stomach kept nagging at me to add another child to our family. Maybe it was my desire to get my girl or just the vision I had of our family dinners in 20 years surrounded by people, but something kept telling me that our family wasn’t complete yet. 

We eventually decided to try for a third child. We both agreed that boy or girl, we wanted another baby no matter what the gender. Yes, I did want a girl and everyone knew it, but the past five years had taught me about the rare sweetness of boys and the bond that is special between a mother her son. 

So we did it. We got pregnant for the third time. With this pregnancy, I decided not to find out the gender of our baby. People around me thought it was crazy, including my husband, but to be honest, I was protecting my heart. I hated the way I felt when I heard I was having a second boy. I felt guilty for being upset. I feared my unborn child would feel my sorrow as he grew inside me. I worried that my feelings were totally unjustified when thousands of women around the world struggle to conceive or have healthy babies. 

I held onto the hope that if I went through hours of hard labor and heard the news, “It’s a boy,” that maybe the sheer relief that labor was over would be enough for me to accept the fact that I was not destined to have my daughter. 

I knew it though. Deep down in my soul or I guess you could say my womb, I knew that we were having a boy. It was still unknown through ultrasound but I had a dream about a baby boy and I slipped and called my baby, “he,” throughout the whole pregnancy.. 

A week past my due date, after days of preterm labor and eventually being induced, I was the first to see it and announce, “It’s a boy.” He came out perfect and healthy, my third son. 

*****

They are my trifecta. All three boys are different in their own way, yet each has made me more and more complete.

So the answer to that little girl’s question, “Miss Kate, why don’t you have any girls?” 

Somewhere deep in the universe, someone knew I wanted a girl but needed these boys.  They have taught me things only boys can teach, like how to be strong yet have a gentle side, how to be brave but still show emotions, and how to look the world straight in the eye and defy it. I needed them as much as they need me. 

Ultimately, I think I wanted a girl because I was afraid of failing with a boy. I’m a woman, I was raised with a sister. Having a daughter would have been easy for me. These boys of mine have shown me though, that despite all the mistakes I have made, I do have the patience, creativity, energy and love that only a boy deserves. 

I have grieved my daughter, the girl I hoped would become my best friend. I have said goodbye to those dreams, and in doing so, I found something more; the undeniable love for three boys.

The post Miss Kate, Why Don’t You Have Any Girls? appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

But for my boys, bubbles are the enemy line, encroaching in on our front yard, threatening our very existence. The battlefield is marked by a fence, guarded by my kids, and the bubbles don’t stand a chance.

These soldiers of mine are equipped with their best weapons, like foam swords and boxing gloves, or are ready for hand to hand combat. One by one, bubbles go down, surrendering to the mercy of my troops. Each burst bubble is a cry of defeat. They are surrounded on all sides as my three soldiers work to fight off the attack and prevent escapees.

In motherhood, I have learned that in order to survive, I have to adapt.

Each day, I am realizing how differently the minds of my boys work than mine. I am constantly trying to match their energy, or at least keep up with it. My dreams of quietly coloring at the table or having afternoon tea parties faded with each birth of a son.

This didn’t mean I surrendered in defeat though. Nope, I chose to adapt. I learned that to survive in a house full of boys, I had to embrace their energy and competitive nature. I had to turn bubble popping into a battle for survival, much like how daily strolls have become adventure quests, couch pillows have turned into shields, sticks transform into swords and pillow cases make the best superhero capes.

Adapting is just part of the motherhood journey. So to all moms, I salute you.

Leave me a comment below and tell me how you’ve had to adapt in motherhood.

Our Favorite Battle Gear

Here are some things we use to turn bubble popping into a true battle.

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Fists or Karate Chops

Our Favorite Bubble Wands

Foam Pool Noodles

Foam Swords

Boxing Gloves for kids

Foam Bats

Water Guns

Extra Large Bubble Maker (This makes the best big bubbles and it’s so easy to use).

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