I joke a lot on this blog about motherhood. I highlight the crazy stuff, I share lots of stories, and overall try to keep it as real as possible. But no matter how much I joke, I hope the truth always shines through–I am crazy in love with my kids.

It’s funny how quickly bad news travels–especially things that aren’t supposed to get back to you. Things that are mean. Inconsiderate. Judgmental. Just all-around crappy.

I don’t have enough phalanges to count the number of times people have asked me why I quit my job in TV news.

It occurred to me recently just how very physical being a mom is. Lifting, moving, rocking, nursing, holding, changing them.

It hit me as I surveyed the family room one night recently, standing smack in the center of the same three-foot radius where 75% of any given day revolves—the kitchen sink.

Parenting is nothing if not an emotional roller coaster. Like, The Hulk of emotional roller coasters.

There are several occasions in life which force a woman to confront the inevitable and apparent fact that—despite what her inner 19-year-old brain and sometimes fashion sense is telling her—she is undeniably, objectively, and painfully.. a grown up.

There are many points in motherhood when we share our stories. And boy are there stories to share.

Her tiny body—a little astronaut, I joke, in her footie pajamas, “docked” on me—lies across mine, her face pressed against me as she nurses, her tiny curled fist resting on my chest.

Let’s talk about gossip. It’s the ultimate double edged sword: How delicious it feels to wield it, but how it stings when that blade is turned on us. If we’re being honest, we’ve all been on both sides of that sword.