By Annie

​I started running again after my third child was born. It was those damn last 15 pounds that did it. After my first two kids, the weight just fell off. I didn’t exercise. I didn't diet. Yep, I was that annoying chick who just nursed my babies and lived my blissful size 0 life. But after stretching and collapsing a third time, my torso and thighs, defiant and defeated, simply gave up. I spent a few months cursing my way through bitter elliptical workouts in the basement before I finally decided I hated my body enough to run.
 
More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away. 

"I really hate being a mom today. They're all screaming. Everything is a mess. I'm in such a bad mood that I even yelled at other people's kids." 

By Scarlett

I am sitting on the cold tile of my living room floor. I lean my head against the side of my couch and sigh deeply. I am acutely aware of little things: one of my dark hairs curled around the leg of a dining room chair, a dust bunny in the corner where the stairs meet the floor, two leaves that blew in when my two boys rushed in the house from playing outside. I notice these because if I let my eyes take everything in – the 55 magna tiles strewn all over the floor, the dishes still on the table from lunch, the pencil shavings rubbed into my cotton tablecloth – then the panic rises. 
 
I can feel it like a vise, slowly making its way up my chest and into my throat. My heart pounding in my ears, my field of vision slowly narrowing. I sigh again and force myself to get up. 
 
One thing at a time. I pick up the square Magna Tile pieces. One thing at a time. I straighten out the chairs in the living room. One thing at a time. I carry the dishes to the sink. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. 
 
And then, I start to feel better. Order and cleanliness help me; they are things that I can control. There have been many times in my life that I didn’t have an ounce of control over, which has left me with a lingering fear and inability to cope with unknown and chaotic situations. I get around this is by wiping, scrubbing, and cleaning my house until I reach a state of meditative calm. It’s not until I can see my clean floors and my clean kitchen and my clean dining room table that I can finally relax enough to focus, to fully enjoy spending time with my boys.

By Annie

OK, mamas, we had our glory last month. It's time to celebrate the dads in our lives, and I'm starting by giving credit where credit is due – to my partner in parenting. Let's be honest, we MOTYs aren't always easy to live with. And if we've learned anything from the Brangelina split, it's that if one parent wants to let the kids run hog wild and the other wants them to have bedtimes, it ain't gonna be a smooth ride (plus, all the alcoholism and A-list narcissism... but that's another story). What I'm trying to say is that the MOTY life is a unique brand of parenting, and I'm feeling lucky this Father's Day to not only have a partner who embraces it, but also to have someone by my side who I can learn from. (Confession: Mama doesn't always know best.) Here are some of my hubbie's finest lessons:

1. ​It's ok to let the toddler dress herself in insane mismatched prints, clothes with holes, and off-season attire. If she's happy and safe, who cares?

2. If your child is throwing a hellish tantrum, you should take a picture or video and send it to your partner. Not because you want advice or assistance, but because you’re in this together, damn it, and your partner should feel bad for you. 

3. ​Don’t get so darn hung up on routine. Your kids are going to eat. They are going to sleep. Sure, some semblance of normalcy would make life a lot simpler. But don’t fight the chaos too much. It really is OK. 

"I wish that when my kids were all screaming at the same time, I remembered all the good parenting advice I read. Instead I just say, 'I don't have time for this,' in a bitchy voice." 

By Annie

​Last night the five of us – my husband, our three kids and me – went to IHOP for dinner, a spontaneous adventure on a bland weeknight in June. That sentence on its own is a perfect microcosm for the kind of realization I’m talking about here. Let’s break it down:
 
The five of us went somewhere.
 
It was spontaneous.
 
The experience was pleasant enough that I am fondly referring to it as an “adventure” and not as a soul-crushing challenge to my ability to mother my children without violence and/or public shame.
 
And the outing wasn’t just pleasant. It was… easy. For starters, we just went. As in, “Kids! Time to go!” and then we five independently walked out of the house and got into the car. No diaper bags, no extra outfits in case of a blowout, no bottles or nursing covers or binkies. No toddler snacks to hold them off until our dinner arrived. No toys. Just five people walking out the door.
 
The car ride was a little hairy – the 5-year-old decided he didn’t want to go – but once we got to IHOP, it was smooth sailing. We ordered, we ate, we didn’t spill, and we mostly stayed put in our seats without epically disrupting the entire restaurant’s atmosphere and operations.
 
On the way home, my husband and I even dared to share a cocky “Check us the hell out” glance. But over the course of the night, it started to dawn on me. This sort of thing was happening more and more. On Memorial Day, we went to the zoo and no one cried. Last month, we visited friends and were able to have uninterrupted adult conversation while the kids played upstairs. Is this… is this what our life is like now? 

"Nothing is worse than a sick kid on two fronts: 1. because they're sick and whining all the time and 2. because you feel like a rotten human being for wanting them to just STFU and handle it themselves."