Frequently on this blog and on my social media channels, you’ll find me making fun of myself. If anyone out there is keenly aware of her faults as a mom and person, it’s me.

As a mom, you lose some things. For example, my memory? Not quite reliable, per se. I may or may not forget what I’m going into the bedroom for the second I leave the kitchen. (Read: I may.)

Andrew has found the biggest way to step up and help me feel half-human again during the day. And it’s just by doing this one thing: He wakes up in the morning with the baby and allows me to get an extra hour of sleep.

I am more than late to the party on the unearthing (and savoring) of this essay, but if you’re a mom or dad, please take a few minutes to read one of the truest essays about parenthood ever written.

In retrospect–and with a 5, 3 and 1 year old under my belt as my experience, so I guess not all that much experience, but certainly plenty enough to have some perspective–I can say that the moments I experienced any level of mom guilt have all been wasted moments.

I never technically planned on breastfeeding–not at least for any lengthy period of time.

Special shoutout to my kids for taking what started off as pink eye and mixin’ it all up with some good stuff so that when it finally landed on me, it’s some sort of viral punch bowl consisting of postnasal drip, raging cough, pounding headache and a weird back pain thingy. Oh, and bronchitis.

There are lots of things that are just so abundant down here in Florida. The top three that come to mind? Parking spots, stretches of smooth pavement (I HATE POTHOLES SO BADLY), and sunshine.

Hey you. Yeah, you. The one who’s sitting, scrolling, exhausted, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Welcome to the sisterhood. Motherhood. We’re a wily bunch here.

The snuggles. The growing-up-way-too-fast. The PJs until 11am. The messy family rooms and late bedtimes because they needed to hear “just one more book.”