One of my favorite things about my life is never knowing what kind of text or email I’m going to wake up to. Sometimes it’s a mucus plug, sometimes it’s a breastfeeding issue, a picture of a baby rash, etc. I never know what my phone will reveal before my first cup of coffee, and I love it. This morning it was a few texts from one of my pregnant besties. The story of how she had just been completely fondled by the TSA, trying to get on her flight for a work trip.
I totally must have forgotten to brief her on “flying pregnant” protocol. My family and I travel a lot, so I wrote “When Babies Fly”, to humorously review traveling with kids. Today, the prequel, I bring you The Pregnant Terrorist.
When I found out our first baby was a girl, I was thrilled. After almost two years of girl life, I wasn’t ready for that to be over. I silently hoped our second little bundle was a girl as well. Nothing made me happier than finding out I was going to be a girl mom again. Sure, I’ve had scary thoughts of teenage life with these two sweeties, but nothing could damper my happiness of raising girls. WRONG! O how wrong I was!
It’s not the drama, the attitude, the whining and crying. It’s the other girls. Apparently, we now live in some alternative universe where “mean girls” start in pre-school. Now, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I was prepared to counsel my girls through middle and high school bullying. BUT pre-school, are you F’ing kidding me? This isn’t going to be the post where I rant and rave about my daughter’s experiences with “mean girls”. This is the post where I make sure my daughter doesn’t turn into one.
I started this investigation for myself and after everything I found, I have to share. The fact of the matter is I don’t just want to be able to defend myself, my kids, and my home; I don’t want to ever be in the position where I have to. My goal is to get you guys protected, so you don’t have to defend.
A little backstory for this letter comes from a promise I made myself last year around this time. It sounds so cliche, but turning 30 used to really freak me out. Even two years ago I dreaded that number. 10 years ago I would have told you I’ll be lucky to even see 30. So last year on my 30th birthday I promised myself that 30 would be MY year. I was going to do everything that I had wanted to try, but was afraid to. I was going to make 30-year-old Sarah the best Sarah. In following through with this promise to myself, I had to do a lot of uncomfortable things. Reflect on my past self and really own the mistakes that hindered me from truly loving my present self. To say 365 days is enough time to accomplish all of that would be a lie. But, the first step is always the hardest, and self-reflection is a big bad jerk-off.
“To understand who you are; you have to understand who you’ve been.”
Dear 20-year-old Sarah,
I am your older wiser self, I beg you to listen to my advice, but I know you won’t because you are an extremely stubborn young lady.
I recently received a text from an expecting momma reading “soooo I don’t have a birth plan”. When I had my first babe almost 4 years ago birth plans seemed to be just emerging as mainstream. Now you can’t find a pregnancy checklist without the daunting “make a birth plan”, “review your birth plan”, “make multiple copies of your birth plan”, “plaster your birth plan to your vagina”.
So basically, if you don’t have a birth plan you are already a horrible mother. Which is why I had one of course. A birth plan so elaborate and decisive that it would be criminal for me not to share.
I just need to vent about a few things really quick. I’m sure some of you guys can relate and some of you have much bigger problems, so my apologies in advance.
-First of all, my almost 4-year-old has been in pre-school for a full month now. That means for an entire month at least one person in my house has been sick at all times. There has yet to be one day when I don’t get snot smeared on my shirt.
This is personal writing that I did not intend to share. So the letter below is a very raw piece I wrote to my child. I feel compelled to share all of this now because of the shadow and stigma attached to any child labeled “less than perfect”.
This is a piece I wrote for Eve the night before she had her “evaluation”. I write both girls letters on and off so they have them when they are older. I did not realize how scared I really was until I read this back to myself.