This House of Love


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Nine Years Later

When I was pregnant with Charlotte someone in the Starbucks line imparted a piece of wisdom to me. This is a frequent occurrence during pregnancy – advice, words of wisdom, warnings, congratulations – strangers offer them all.  Few are gems, but for some reason this woman’s words still echo through my mind to this day, four years later. Perhaps it was the fact that she was toting two little ones, her hair was askew, and her smile was both defeated and effervescent at the same time. It’s possible that I recognized a future soul sister in her. It could be that I was hungry for guidance and support. Whatever the reason, I listened. And even though I often forget what I’m saying mid-sentence, or even more frequently return from the grocery store with half the things I need and double the things I want, this phrase embedded itself in my brain. Presumably forever.

“The days are long, but the years are short,” she had said kindly yet frankly. I committed the line to memory as we continued to banter light-heartedly. As I mentioned, I will have had hundreds of run-ins with people by the end of both of my pregnancies. But, this one. This one clearly felt different.

Eventually, as those first months of sleep deprivation and hormonal rollercoaster rides melted away, and I dug myself out of the trench that is the transition from pregnancy to postpartum, life went on. At both a snail’s pace and break neck speed. My days often felt undeniably (and oddly) long AND short; I spent them mourning the loss of the family I grew up with, no matter how dysfunctional it may have been, while trying to balance the creation of a new one. I was happy and sad. And then I was pregnant again. Charlotte soon turned two. Adam arrived. My daughter started school. She was quickly out of diapers, and he was sitting up. The next thing I know my kids are three and a half and eight months, and my heart has octupled in size.

And within the proverbial blink of an eye, the tragic calendar count I have been conducting amidst all of life’s curveballs gets much closer to a decade than to any other convenient measure of time. Nine years to be exact. Nine years since Mom was killed. If you had asked me to write about my life that day in Starbucks four years ago, my reflection would have been much different. I was so fractured then. Despite having found love, buying a home, working steadily, and being pregnant, I was slogged down by sadness. I was in the deepest pit of grief still, attempting to crawl my way out. My stance was that the woman who had given me life, only to have hers selfishly taken away, was missing out on all these events that she had begun dreaming of the moment I was born. It felt so wrong to rejoice without her. So, as my life continued on an uptrend, as did the difficulty of moving on.

But now, as we approach this ninth “anniversary” of Mom’s death, it is clear to me that this extra time passed has helped to heal a good deal of my wounds, and that my frame of mind is evolving. It is true that some days I still spend a little sadder than others. I catch myself standing at the edge of the gaping hole that grief always leaves behind in its wake, teetering between the me that is present in all my current love and slipping back into the me that is rooted in my painful past. But what also remains true, and what I often remind myself of, is that I have lived nine whole years since Mom died. Within those nine years I met the love of my life. A stubborn, handsome, funny, incredibly loving, supportive, relentless, nutty man whom Mom would have loved. We moved a bunch of times, sold a home, bought one. We planned our dream wedding. We honeymooned. We made babies that we adore more than life itself. We live our lives every day, not loving every moment, but valuing each one. We have done all these things, and despite the sadness I felt amidst many of them, I often look back with so much fondness. These are the highlights of my life. They would have been the highlights of my mother’s as well. She would never want my happiest recollections to be so tainted.

Thus, if my grief, heartbreak and *parenthood* have taught me anything, it’s that every moment matters. So, as I begin this tenth year without my mom, I choose to reflect on that wise saying a nice lady in Starbucks once shared with me. “The days are long, but the years are short.” Why should I waste these precious minutes scarred and jaded, when they will so rapidly weave together to create the fabric of my whole lifetime? This annual commemoration  (also conveniently always “celebrated” around Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), I vow to try my best to be content in every beautiful, poop, tear, and laughter-filled moment I’m gifted with. Because before I know it, the days of my live will morph into years. And I’m planning on filling mine with more than enough happiness for both Mom and me.

 

 


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Why I Blog

When I first entered the blogging world, my goal was to simply create an online diary. I had felt so isolated during those first few months of motherhood; the majority of my days were spent with no social interaction beyond my infant daughter and a few groups on Facebook. But I had so much to share, so many feelings and thoughts about this new, amazing, terrifying adventure. So I started a blog. I had no plan for it. I just wanted a place to vent.

As time went on and I wrote more, my emotional load became much lighter. I realized that when I share my feelings, the thoughts that normally just circulate endlessly through my head are given a different place to be: online. Which is scary. Scary as shit, if you ask me. Putting your unabashed thoughts and feelings into the hands, hearts, and minds of others is terrifying. But, the beauty (and danger) of making your feelings public is the ability to receive feedback. And I will admit not everyone always understands what I do.

But then there are those people who reach out to me to say that knowing my struggle is helping them with their own. That knowing that they’re not alone changes everything. And that’s why I blog. To share my stories (whether serious or light-hearted, silly or sad) and hope they help someone. To read other people’s stories and know that I have a community. To learn and share, to love and understand.  To be inspired…

So, with that said I’m taking my thirst for inspiration to the road (well, just a couple freeways actually) and am joining a slew of other wonderful BlogHers at #BlogHer16 ! I’ll be sharing the process on my Instagram (@house_of_love24), Twitter (@chesler_amy), and Snapchat (@thishouseoflove – wtf?! sooo many apps to keep up with!). In fact, you can even find me on the BlogHer16 app. I want to be inspired by all of you and look forward to the fun and knowledge I will leave with! Join me, won’t you?


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A Salute to Parenthood

 

Your wake-up call is before the crack of dawn,

Because your life is controlled by your cranky spawn.

You feed them, you dress them,

You just can’t impress them.

They aren’t very thankful, yet you love them the same,

Even if they always ask “Why?” and often complain.

 

You’re housekeeper and driver, tutor and cook,

You keep them in line with one smoldering look.

Tailor, Accountant, Doctor and Baker,

Even do-it-yourself Christmas wreath-maker.

  

Parenthood is a difficult, never-ending career,

Filling you halfway with love and another part fear.

But despite these complaints and your lack of rest,

Parenthood really is the best of the best.

 

No feeling can top watching your little tike grow,

Standing by his side while he learns to throw,

Or helping her up when she’s had a big fall,

Teaching them to be kind, proud, and stand tall.

 

Although Parenthood is a hearty sacrifice,

The payback truly is more than twice as nice.

Seeing the world from a child’s view is priceless,

Even if you’re constantly in diaper crisis.

 

So when Parenthood has you feeling overdrawn,

Wear a happy face and “keep on keepin’ on,”

Because today’s hurdle may be tomorrow’s success,

And the more love you have, the more you are blessed


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Worry Wart No More

Although I have several faithful people to rely on, I still prefer to do things on my own. I’ve always been this way, even if I am anxious and worrisome as a result. My mother was a strong, independent woman and I always admired her for these reasons. I try to exemplify these positive attributes of hers even if it stresses me out, and it earned me the nickname of “worry wart.” Thus, I am the woman who left the hospital two days after my c-section. I am also the one who decided it was a good idea to take my toddler and newborn to brunch just three weeks into being a parent of two. As I packed them to go the words of my girlfriend who had become a mommy twice over not long before ran thru my head incessantly, “I didn’t take them out by myself for at least a couple months.” Was it really that bad? I would soon find out; the three minute drive was over and I couldn’t turn back.  As we piled out of the car, I started to sweat.

We walked thru the parking lot and into the quaint little cafe that we frequent quite often without being hit. I call that a success. Our venture continued with us being seated. My luck continues!… And then shit hit the fan. Moments in, and by moments I mean a mere five to seven seconds into our peaceful brunch date, I poked my toddler in the eye. Doesn’t sound so bad, because let’s be real, we’ve all done it. But it actually kinda was. The poke was deep enough to lodge one of her incredibly long eyelashes into her eyeball. The little sucker slid under her lid and it took a good five minutes of crying to dislodge it. But the damage was done. She was in a pissy, whiny mood. You know the, I don’t give a shit about life because I haven’t eaten yet today, Kinda mood? But like, ten times worse because it’s not your husband – it’s your toddler. Thankfully, my only stroke of genius that day was to allow my daughter to bring with her to the restaurant only what she could carry in her tiny, little arms. So she brought a huge puzzle. Was it a logical choice? No. But she’s two. And it ended up being awesome because the very moment I pulled it out, her incessant whining ceased. However, it was then that my three week old started crying.
Enthralled in her puzzle, I was bought some time. She would be occupied for at least ten minutes. Would the food come before that? Would Adam stir in his car seat again once I rocked him back to sleep? Would I have to eat my breakfast over his head while breastfeeding, hoping not to drop runny eggs on him? Why the hell do I always order runny eggs? All of these questions flashed through my mind. As I attempted to quiet my newborn and do a Paw Patrol puzzle with my daughter, I couldn’t help but day dream of being somewhere far, far away. I closed my eyes and imagined mySelf on  a remote island, laying on a chaise lounge, sucking down an incredibly tasty but strong pina colada, listening to Bob Marley. When I gathered the courage to open my eyes again and take it all in, I couldn’t help but laugh. The scene before me was actually quite comical. My first time around I would have worried about having the cranky baby at the brunch table, but this second time at the rodeo is drastically different. I sat back with a silly grin and acted as audience member to my own sideshow. With a diff lens it was actually pretty hilarious, the disheveled woman tending to the the puzzle-doing, eye-rubbing toddler and the hysterical infant. Let me tell you, it felt a whole lot better to laugh than stress about it all.
In the end, I had to nurse my son before the food came. He was still nursing when it got there. And he was not done nursing when I wiped the runny egg off of his onesie. After my daughter got some food in her system she was no longer scary mean either. So, despite having a rough start, all’s well that ends well, I guess. That’s the key to keeping your sanity as a parent, right? Just know that Shit will hit the fan. Pretty often, most likely. But, as Bob Marley said, “everything’s gonna be alright.”


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Where Does Hatred Come From?

A quick disclaimer: I am in no way an expert on this subject. I have no impressive degree from an Ivy League school. However, I grew up in a household in which one of three of its members was filled with a hatred so compelling it sparked violence. Thus, Id like you to consider my theory on the subject as a result of a twenty-two year case study.  So, why did my brother come out the way he did?

I am a firm believer that no one is born with the desire to hurt others. We, as humans, naturally need each other to survive. Some of us may be more genetically inclined to be aggressive, but our relationship with others is purely social. So, why is it that some can ruthlessly murder others while others dedicate their lives to improving society? I believe the difference is simple: attachment.

I have been told Jesse seemed “different” as early as the age of three. This was the age my father left our family. This was the same year I was born. The same year my mother was forced to become a single mother. All of these factors would change someone. I have a child who is now three. I feel the incredibly strong attachment we have to each other – if I left her now, I am sure it would effect her infinitely. It would cause a little piece of her to disappear – her confidence, stability, and feeling of security in the world would lessen.

But would it cause her to hate others indefinitely? To lash out and desire to hurt people? I don’t believe so. But, imagine the pain she would feel if she was faced with several other experiences similar to this. Times when other people abandoned her or let her down. The more isolation she feels, the less empathy she would possess. This was my brother’s case.

He was short, he was teased, he was never really accepted by his classmates. He was ostracized for characteristics that were out of his control. He had been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome as a young child, his tics making him seem even less “normal” than he already was. His behavior became more deviant as time went on, as his laundry list of diagnoses increased. He began to get into fights at school. He was angry and volatile. His school did nothing; this was not in the hyper-sensitive days of late. Back then it was “kids will be kids,” and “Do you think he’s cut out for school? Maybe he should get his CHSPE.”

So, in short, as he entered young adulthood and attempted to find connections, everyone but my mother told him he wasn’t worth the trouble. Mom believed in him infinitely. She knew he was capable of so much more than what people had begun to expect of him. The pressure to meet my mother’s standards despite everyone else’s grew too much for him, and he attempted suicide. Twice. As a middle schooler, I watched the trials that both my mom and brother were going through. I watched society tell her what she was doing wrong. I watched society tell him how much less value he held because he was different, and how he ought to behave to fit in.  It was nearly unbearable for me to witness; I cannot even begin to conceive how hard it was for both of them.

And after twenty-five years of being told he was different, feeling little connection to those around him, and being attached to nothing but his desire to make people feel as little as he had all his life, Jesse killed my mom. But, quite often people like Jesse hurt strangers. They pack their cars with guns and their minds with plans, and execute others while they’re at school, sitting in movie theaters, or celebrating their freedom. Because people like Jesse, who have never really attached to anyone soundly, often feel the need to show others just how awful this isolation can feel. That’s where the hatred comes from.

So, what can we do to change this? The solution does not lie in any one person’s control. It is not solely our government’s job to outlaw guns. It is not only about how a parent has failed their deviant child. It’s less about guns and parenting, and more about love. Whether you’re Christian or Jewish, Muslim or Islamic, Atheist or Greek Orthodox, our duty as humans is to help others. To open our hearts to others and aide those in pain and in need. Allowing people to feel part of the human race or tribe, rather than an anomaly or a member of a smaller, less important faction, that is what will end the hatred.

As the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing, “Red black or white, This is my fight, Come on courage, Let’s be heard, Turn feelings, Into words.” Let’s start a dialogue that allows the pained to be heard and the isolated to feel accepted. Then, and only then, will we see the hatred begin to melt away. And until we can open our hearts, stay safe, everyone.

 


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“And Justice for All”

*As seen in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America*

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let  faith
be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.”

~Maya Angelou

      The sound of the helicopters reverberated against the mountains, filling the
canyon with a deafening noise. It was almost one in the morning, but the normally quiet
streets were bustling. I was standing outside my house, tears streaming down my face. I had been crying for hours, but it felt like a minute; I had no concept of time. Earlier that night, I had returned home from work to find my mother lifeless. She had been killed during a heated argument with a family member and her killer had fled, leaving me to find the grisly scene.
In those excruciating hours, friends and family arrived and filled our suburban
street. I cannot recall everyone who showed up; their faces meld together in my mind like
a collage of love. All I know is that I eventually made my way to a neighbor’s home; the
owners were longtime friends of my mother’s, and they had graciously opened their
doors to the circus outside.
I sat on their couch, being comforted and awkwardly hugged by people coming in
and out. They said all the right things, but their words sounded empty and my heart ached
too much to believe them. Eventually, a man I had never seen before entered the room
and sat down with the crowd that had gathered.
“Hi Amy. My name is Detective Michael Valento,” he began. “I’m here to bring
you and your mother justice.”
Justice. It sounded like such a familiar concept, one I had been brought up to
believe was around every corner in America. Our country was built on justice and
fairness… but nothing about that night seemed just or fair to me. Despite fully knowing
its meaning, in that moment I couldn’t fathom ever feeling that justice had been served.
My mother could not be brought back to life.
“Th-thank you,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say.
A few months later, Detective Valento was a regular part of my life. Our phone
calls became an almost weekly occurrence. Each time we spoke Mike vowed that he
would do everything in his power to ensure my mother’s killer would be sent to prison as
expeditiously and as permanently as possible. I believed him at the time, but as the
months wore on, and the number of hearings grew, I lost hope.
Despite my emotional struggle, I grew to know and care for Mike. He was a kind,
gentle man with a heart of gold. His intentions were of the purest, and he symbolized the
hope I once had. He was a wonderful advocate. He continued to call me often, checking
in to see if I was okay, asking how my wedding plans were going, updating me on
everything that was happening.
Alas, the months turned into years, and very little happened. Justice and the
American way were not prevailing. My hope morphed into anger. I was angry my
mother’s killer hadn’t been accorded his punishment. I was angry my mother was gone. I
was angry that a system I had been reared to respect was so clearly failing. My mother’s
murderer was playing the system, and he was getting away with it. Or so I thought.
One particularly hard day, nearly four years after my mother’s death, I came close
to losing it. I had been in court all day and I was mentally, as well as physically, drained.
Mike had been in court with my fiancé and me, sitting by our sides the entire time. I
turned to him and pleaded, “When will this end? Why is he being protected? Why hasn’t
he been convicted? Life needs to go on.”
Mike thought carefully for a moment. He looked at me kindly and said, “I know it
doesn’t seem like it, but this is all for you and for your mother. You have to understand
that our legal system, although at times seemingly imperfect, is protecting you. If we
didn’t cover all of our bases right now he could appeal and possibly be free one day. So,
for now, we must be patient. I know it’s hard, but in America good things come to those
who wait.” Again, my heart was so heavy I couldn’t quite grasp his words, but this time I
accepted the situation. I waited patiently for another year.
Five years and two days after my mother’s murder, a judgment was delivered. My
brother was given a sentence of fifteen years to life. I was as relieved as I could be.
Justice had finally been served and I could begin to repair my own life, which had been
shattered that horrific night. I remember as we fled the courtroom for one final time,
Mike had leaned in for an embrace.
After our hug he pulled back and said, “See. I told you all would be right in the
end.”
At that moment my heart filled with warmth that it had not felt for a while,
warmth ignited by someone who had been a complete stranger a few years ago. This
man, despite knowing nothing of the content of my character, dedicated a large portion of
his life to fight so I could regain control of mine. Mike’s actions showed me the
camaraderie and strength America instills in its citizens. His upstanding dedication to his
country and position of service helped change my life for the better.
Detective Mike Valento of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department
exemplifies everything that is right in our country and with our police force. And
although there is no reason left to carry on a relationship with him, my adoration, respect,
and gratitude for him will never diminish. For, it’s men and women like Mike who gave
me my strength, hope, and life back, and I can never be thankful enough.

~A.B. Chesler


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This House of Love

Let me [re]introduce myself. I’m Amy Beth Chesler, or A.B. Chesler as the literary world may (or may not) know me. I am a lover of food, laughter, and adventure, although I hate to get dirty. I chose to title my blog “This House of Love” because Amy Beth can be translated, loosely and in a couple different languages, into that phrase. My mom assembled this name for me, with the help of my then three year old brother, because she wished for me a future occupied by a warm and loving family life.

I am a victim of domestic violence. I am also a survivor of it. My mother, however, is not. She was an incredibly strong, determined, warm, caring woman. I will love and miss her with every fiber of my being every day until I die. Thankfully, things are infinitely better now as I fulfill my own role as a wife and mother. I’ve found my niche in life; I was born to be Mommy. I knew this from the beginning.

What I didn’t know is how much poop and snot I’d have to deal with on a regular basis. Similarly, no one told me that some days I would laugh so hard I would cry, and others I would feel swallowed whole by my loneliness. Everyone neglected to tell me how terrifying, thrilling, isolating, eye-opening, and powerful parenthood is. They also didn’t mention just how awesome (in the truest sense of the word) it is to have your heart, a true piece of you, walking around outside of your body, living their very own life. How dare they.

I am also a writer, although it’s scary to say so. It’s a profession that requires you to make something from nothing, a grand story or thought-provoking poem, from just the depths of your mind. If your tales aren’t well received, your writing is not the only entity receiving rejection. But, just like my sentiments about motherhood, I knew I was meant for the writing world. As a child, reading was my escape from the harsh realities that were my life.  I wrote my own stories to enter an alternate universe, one filled with much less pain and isolation. As an adult, writing is allowing me to process my past and consequently and eventually arrive at my life’s destination: a house filled with an infinite amount of love.

Feel free to join me on this crazy journey by following my blog via the link to the left. And remember, “Let love win.”


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Seven Sure Fire Signs You Live with a Toddler

Life with a toddler is… special. So special that at times it’s absolutely necessary to stop what you’re doing  and confirm that this is, in fact, your reality. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Here are seven ways that your life mirrors every other poor sap who has a roommate under the age of four.

1) You’ve had the most asinine, outlandish arguments that you just can’t win, even though you are 1000% correct. For instance, you’ve had to explain to your two and a half year old at least a dozen times that no, she can’t drive to the grocery store or Grammy’s house. Appealing to logic (i.e. “It’s illegal,” “Your feet won’t reach the pedals,” “It’s MY car,” “You’re FUCKING TWO”) just won’t work. Ever.

2) You’ve made a public appearance with your very own caped crusader: Super Girl, Spider-Man, or a makeshift superhero who designed their costume out of a blanket and a robe sash. And said super hero has caused more mischief than solved any social issues. But damn, are they cute.

3) You’ve dealt with about eleven different illnesses in the matter of half that amount of weeks. A day or two after you’ve kicked your cold, croup is knocking on the door. Then a week and a half passes and you’ve been gifted with the flu. Merry bloody Christmas.

4) You have perfectly honed your role playing skills because your little one has requested you bring any and all inanimate objects in your house to life. Your rocker? The seat cushions have told the wildest bedtime stories. Your favorite blanket is actually named Bernie and has thirteen children he’s simultaneously putting through college. The spatula you cooked breakfast with danced the Macarena right after “she” flipped your eggs.

5) You’ve caught yourself saying things that you could never have imagined in a million years if it wasn’t for your toddler’s antics: “No, your poop does NOT belong in the toaster!” “Please eat your food with your fork, not your shoe!” “The cat does NOT want your Legos in her butt!” “Mickey Mouse is NOT allowed to go swimming in your pee-pee!” Or my personal favorite, “Please don’t put your finger in my nose!” Yep. This is very much your life.

6) You’ve been forced to watch the same movie, play the same game, listen to the same song, and read the same story everyday for the last month. It’s safe to say you know every line or strategy by heart. By now, you’re both thoroughly looking forward to and scared shitless of finding out what your child’s next obsessions will become.

7) Even though your days can be difficult and unnerving, your toddler manages to make everything simultaneously much more difficult and simple at the same time. And you wouldn’t have it any other way, because being around someone who is just mastering the English language is the “funnest” ever. Seriously. Who else can you spend an hour discussing poop and farts with?


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This is my Life.

It’s nap time and I’m using it to write a blog entry. Nap time is coveted; I wait for it every day. Even though I love to play with my daughter, hear her silly, little laughter, and revel in her joy…. I love it when she’s asleep. I can get my chores done, work out, feed myself leisurely, even ::gasp:: take a shower. The opportunities are endless……. Today, I chose to write a blog.

I have nothing to share except the monotony of my life. I wake up, feed my kid, play with my kid, put her down for a nap, clean, work out, play with my kid some more, feed her again, play even more, feed her again, bathe her, and then put her down to sleep. And then sometimes I cook some more, other times I watch “Jeopardy.” I do this over and over.

It sounds boring, and at times it is, but I really do enjoy it. I was born to be a mom. Motherhood has its challenges, as does everything worthwhile, but it’s not all bad. Sure, it doesn’t offer pay raises (or even pay at all), a fancy office, a bathroom that gets cleaned by a staff (sigh), but the incentive is there. I mean, come on, where else would you get to clean up your boss’s shit… Several times a day?

All joking aside, I am blessed to have a child who challenges me, makes me laugh, loves me unconditionally, and reminds me every day of the innumerable joys the world has to offer. I am lucky enough to have a husband who takes care of us and loves his girls, too. I am rich with love.

I may not have my own company, or a fancy brand that turns my name into a world-wide phenomenon. I don’t have a fast-paced career or expansive set of degrees. What I do have is a little chaos and a lot of love, which is the perfect balance. This is my life, and I am content.


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11 Things Every Parent Learns the Hard Way

No matter what advice you’re given (and we all know everyone has a plethora of tidbits to share once they find out you’re pregnant), some things are just destined to be learned the hard way:

1. Do NOT dress your baby in that adorable party outfit you chose months ago until RIGHT before the event. It’s incredibly hard to resist the urge to play photographer and capture their adorableness pre-party, but you know three minutes into your photoshoot, the diaper (and consequently the outfit) will be soiled (literally). The worst is when the outfit of choice has been ruined AND you’re late to said event because you were too busy cleaning up a poop explosion.

2. Meal time is not really meal time once you have kids. It is now “shove-food-in-my-mouth-while-standing-and-rocking” time. To add to that, another little gem I learned the hard way: babies don’t even get it on your birthday. They don’t know that you’ve been hankering for a feast of crab and mac ‘n’ cheese; all they know is that you’re sitting next to them, arms deep in a pile of food that they either want, or want to pull you away from. So, enjoy every bite you can shovel into your mouth. Oh, and learn to lift ‘n’ swap your kid high enough over the table so that their socks don’t sweep up morsels.

3. No high-tech expensive toy can stand up to a gadget made from something that didn’t start its life off as a toy. You can spend hundreds on the latest and greatest electronic doo-dad, but all your kid is going to want is a spoon and an upside-down Tupperware container. Or the string of your hoody. Or the toe of their sock. Really, anything but the toy you just bought them.

4. Bed time is in their hands. Even if you create a routine, your sleep (the time & depth of it) is totally dictated by this tiny, little person. Even if you “sleep while they sleep” (which is an age old gem everyone loves to share), the slightest whimper resonating from that monitor can wake you from the deepest of slumbers. Believe us when we say, sleep becomes priceless, a hot commodity. Along those lines, long gone are the days of being sad that you’ve missed out on an event. If your attendance is replaced by sleep, those moments are not wasted.

5. You know what else is a hot commodity? Showers. Abs. Makeup. Haircuts. Spit-up free clothing. Hell, anything even remotely glamorous. And by glamour, we mean anything that allows you to do something solely for yourself and not for the little munchkin that has infiltrated your life. All of these aforementioned activities have now become for the either childless people or for your never-ending to-do list.

6. Sure, “date night” is important. But sometimes, “sit there and stare at the TV in silence night” is important too. Props to you – you’ve just spent an entire day juggling, dancing, singing, cleaning poop, and conversing with someone that doesn’t do any of those for you in return. Your voice, feet, neck, and back hurt. In this moment, nothing but a little “Orange is the New Black” and a beer sounds good. So, veg. You deserve it. If your partner wants to veg with you, awesome. If they want to watch something else, chances are you’re already saving up for another TV.

7. Even though you may resolve to cook, save more money, and buy more groceries, oftentimes you just can’t. That song and dance I mentioned earlier really takes it out of you. You’re damn tired by the end of the day and slaving over a hot stove is the last thing you feel like doing, especially during a sweaty ass January evening in Los Angeles. Soon, your planned meals become pre-packaged and microwaveable (which is even better than I can pull together). Before you know it, your recipes become so short, they’re as simple as dialing up your local Chinese restaurant for delivery. We all know there are worse things in life.

8. As much as we thought our child would not, could NOT be that snotty, dirty Linus-looking being, they are. It’s inevitable. Children are an unending source of snot, poop, mayhem, and mess. You can fight it, but as soon as you swipe that booger away, you know there’s a new one in its place. Just accept that it’s going to happen, and clean them as much as they will allow you to, until its their job to clean it. Then celebrate.

9. Asking other parents when their children met milestones is a slippery, dangerous slope. We hear that every child meets said milestones at a different pace, but it never stops us from asking, “Oh, does he/she sit up yet? Are they speaking? Do they roll over?” Half the time we’re either waiting to hear “no” so we don’t feel like our child is the only who can’t, or we’re looking for a time to brag. My husband calls this Neener-Neener-Neener, My Kid Has a Bigger Weiner Syndrome. The only thing it does is help us compare our kids. And we all know, no one compares to your little one!

10. It often annoys our childless friends to see our Facebook posts/pictures/videos about our kids or the topic of being a parent. They may mention it to us or they may post a passive aggressive status update about how their feed is filled with babies. What they don’t understand is that, yes, every smile, giggle, “goo goo,” and “gah gah” is worth sharing. In fact, even as I type, I’ve taken a few pictures of my little one who is sitting next to me, smiling and babbling to her plastic ball. See? I couldn’t even help sharing that. Watching a human being grow is freaking rad. And it’s even cooler when you take into consideration that your bodies manufactured this one. Memo to those annoyed: skip past our posts if you feel you must. Just know we’ll share in your joy if and when you post your own.

11. Parenthood is the hardest, most unnerving job in the world, but very little is more fulfilling and heartwarming. It’s a rollercoaster of love, happiness, worry, and anxiety. As the movie “Parenthood” explains, “[it’s] just so interesting to [us] that a ride could make [us] so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some [don’t] like it. They [ride] the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. [We] like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.”