People tell you that “it goes so fast” when you have kids. That’s always the first thing they say when they find out you’re pregnant. “Cherish these moments because it goes so fast.” I have always been aware of the fact that life moves quickly, long before I had a child. As a kid, I remember hanging out with my family at a park or ball game and trying to remember every detail because I knew it wouldn’t be like this for long. I stayed up too late building legos with my brother because I knew he wouldn’t always think I was cooler than his friends. As I built relationships with friends, I did the same thing when we skipped school or went shopping or laughed so hard we cried. I treasured every year of college because I knew it was the most freedom I would ever have. I started dating my husband and I seem to have accumulated so many photos in my mind of how he looks in different lights. Backlit by the light pouring out of the coffee shop windows, a streetlight shining down and making his brown hair look blue, sunlight flashing across his face as I glanced over from the passenger seat.

All of these moments went by too quickly, but the moment time stopped was the night my son was born. He was born at 10:31pm and I was exhausted, but every minute of that night was at least an hour long. There was a terrible storm with bright lightning, pouring rain and loud claps of thunder right outside of our window. My husband held him close to his chest, swaddled in a blanket and a blue and pink hat. I remember this child looking at me, helpless and scared, with wide, gray-blue eyes in the dimly lit hospital room. For the next six months, life was slow. Those first 6 weeks were the longest I have ever experienced. Recovering from a C-section while sleep deprived and learning to breastfeed and parent amongst a steady stream of visitors made the days seem to stretch on like weeks.

The days after returning to work, longing for the moment when I could hold my child again while pumping in a chilly supply closet, felt like an eternity. Worrying over every cough and sneeze, milestones not yet reached, percentiles, vaccines, milk supply, formula supplementing, healing, losing weight, and new gray hairs consumed my thoughts.

These are moments I don’t want to cherish, or even remember. They are moments that make me want to put off trying for another baby. Thinking about trying to go through all of that again with a TODDLER?! HAHAHHAHA, just send me to the funny farm now. Anyone with 2 or more kids less than 5 years apart has suddenly become a saint in my eyes. Whenever I meet someone with a 6 month old, I want to say, “You made it! It’s okay. It gets better now.” Instead of encouraging them to “savor it” and “hold on,” I listen patiently, look them in the eyes and tell them, “it won’t last forever.”

I’ve been acting for 18 years now and theatre has been submersed into my soul and tightly woven into the threads of the fabric that makes up my life. I didn’t realize how complicated this relationship had become until recently. I performed in Almost, Maine when I was pregnant, then took a two year break from the stage. Working full-time meant I only had such a small amount of time with my son anyway, I couldn’t bear to give up any more of him. It felt selfish.

Then, one of my oldest friends, who has been on this theatre journey with me the whole time, had an actress drop out of a show he was directing. He turned to me with an email that started out, “I know you don’t act any more but…” I was shocked. When did this happen? OF COURSE I STILL ACT…it just hasn’t been on a stage for a few weeks…months…wait, years? Years. Where did I go? I talked to my husband, who was surprised that it had taken me this long. He was more than supportive and told me it was something I needed to do.

After a few rehearsals, I felt less stressed, less worried, less angry, less depressed and more…me. Funny to discover that I need to pretend to be another person in order to find myself. I went out with the cast for a drink one night after rehearsal and had FUN. I think I’ve been telling myself that the only time I’m allowed to have fun is with my child. That just can’t be true, your entire world can’t revolve around this tiny little being 24/7 without any breaks.

I’m not saying I need to go out every night, but I didn’t know how important it was to have my own life and continue to do the things that I love. I thought that because I loved my son, he would just become my new hobby and that’s really a lot of pressure for a kid.

I had an amazing childhood and it wasn’t because my parents hovered around monitoring everything that I did. They were on a bowling league, went out with friends, worked full-time and somehow, we still have beautiful memories and are all extremely close. I don’t know how I didn’t realize this sooner. Having a child doesn’t mean giving up everything else, it just means rebalancing the spinning plates on the pole. Maybe they’ll crash at some point, but it doesn’t mean I can’t start over, I’m pretty sure they’re Corelle.

My husband, as wonderful as he is, seems obsessed with putting a will together. I know it’s super important but honestly, is there anything more depressing? He always brings it up at the worst times. The first was one night during a homemade candlelit dinner, shortly after we were married. We were listening to our wedding soundtrack, enjoying a great meal and, without warning, he suggested we make a will. I promptly burst into tears.

Last night, we were doing the dishes and he asked if I had made a resolution for 2016. I never make resolutions because I have yet to meet anyone who has actually kept one for more than a month. Why make New Year’s special? I can lie to myself any day of the week.

Anyway, he says our resolution should be to make a will. Again, nailing the timing. New Year’s resolutions are supposed to be about hope, right? “I hope I’ll weigh less, I hope I’ll get married, I hope I’ll be a better person, I hope I’ll get a promotion…” A will is the opposite of hope. It’s only useful when hope is gone.

Yeah, okay, I have a kid. It’s stupid not to have one, but I could not dread this any more. I’ll probably cry the entire time we’re putting it together. Is it acceptable to just write it out on a sheet of notebook paper and shove it in an old book? I feel like this might be a little friendlier that going through all the official bullshit.

After 16 glorious days of holiday break, I have to resume normal life tomorrow. I’m so anxious thinking about going back to sitting at a desk all day that I can’t sleep. Every day, I resent my desk at work more. I hate being inactive. I want to be up, doing something-anything-besides sitting and typing. Then I come home and I just feel tired, and the fact that this time of year is always so dark doesn’t help.

I constantly struggle with my decision to work full-time. I want to put my degree to use, set a good example for my son, make a difference in my field, but I miss my family. I only get to spend an hour with my son in the morning (40 minutes of that is in the car), and maybe 2 hours at night. I do believe daycare has helped him grow so much, but I want that time with him. Any moment can be an adventure, life is never dull around a child.

I’d also really enjoy being able to keep up with anything around the house. Bills, chores, cooking, landscaping, general household maintenance. Everywhere I look, there is a pile of stuff waiting to be organized and put away. I have so little free time that I just can’t bring myself to do it.

In four years, my little guy will be off to kindergarten, and then maybe I’ll feel better about working. I won’t have this constant guilt weighing on my shoulders, because he will be in school when I am at work. Unless we have another one. Then the guilt will be extended by a couple more years.

Every year around Christmas, I start thinking about the traditions in our family. Most of what I love about Christmas is based on old traditions and starting new ones. I’m not the biggest fan of change, so I love that there are some things that stick around for awhile. While I hang on tight to old traditions, I am also so excited to be able to start new traditions with my son and husband. Here are my favorites:

Waiting at the top of the steps. My brother and I always had to wait at the top of the steps for our parents to get up before we could see what Santa brought us. We were told that if we went downstairs to see the gifts before then, they would all be donated to charity. After they finally woke up (it’s probably hard to sleep with two kids loudly whispering and fake sneezing/coughing right outside your door), they made us continue to wait at the top of the steps so they could get their coffee and camera ready. Our dog was also banned and could sense the excitement, he would prance around, whining and trying to sneak past us. After agonizing for what seemed like HOURS, they would finally give us the okay to come down and we would race to the living room to see the Santa gifts.

We’re grown now, but this tradition carried on well after college. It was fun to act like a kid again and it made us all laugh. We still do this to some extent, it’s just evolved. When I moved out and got a dog, I started making my dog wait at the top of the steps until I got my coffee and camera and then called him down. He was more than delighted to pacify me in exchange for Dentastix and a new Kong. My brother does the same thing with his dog, and my son will participate in his second Christmas stair run at 16 months old.

Christmas beer tasting. This is a newer tradition and I don’t remember exactly how, when or why this got started, but it’s been at least a few years now. Late Christmas night, after the presents have been opened, kids are asleep, A Christmas Story has been watched, and the lights have come on, we gather around the kitchen table. Everyone brings a special or unique beer to share and we pour tastes for everyone to sample. There’s always hilarious conversation and usually some sort of board game.

Christmas bones. Some people make cookies, we make dog bones. Most people we know have dogs, and cookies are overdone, so dog bones it is. My mom found the original recipe in some sort of wildlife magazine. we make something crazy like a dozen batches (300 bones) and give the bags of treats to the dogs of our friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers. We even make a bunch for the dogs on my dad’s mail route-he’s a mail carrier. By the way, it’s completely a myth that dogs hate mailmen. Dogs LOVE my dad.

Apple Butter. One year, my grandma bought too many apples at an orchard or something. So she asked my cousin and I if we wanted to come over and turn them into apple butter. We decided to give it a go and were greatly amused by the variety of old fashioned kitchen tools involved. It’s a two day process, so we get to spend a lot of time together and catch up. We go through the whole canning process, so it will keep for years. The best part is naming the year’s batch. We give a jar to each family at Christmas, so we’ve got to give it a good name. In the past, we’ve used such gems as Applecadabra Butter and Applesawesome Butter.

Fireplace picture. My mom makes all of the cousins stand in front of their fireplace every year for a picture. Nothing too extraordinary, but we all like to make a big scene and pretend we hate doing it. Maybe some of us actually do hate it, but I think it would be pretty neat to see them all side by side. I say “would be” because no one actually ever does anything with this picture and I’m not entirely confident that my mom could even locate them all. We put on this huge production and have nothing to show for it.

I have a million more because, basically, my December is just a month of traditions. I honor the old and welcome the new. I’ll spare you the long list and leave you with those for now. It’s high time for an afternoon eggnog and a cookie…could I make this into a tradition??

As my sweet, tiny baby grows into a tornado of a toddler before my very eyes, my husband and I are beginning to think about Santa. Our little boy is only one now, but next year, there could be questions. If not then, most certainly by age three. After a rather short discussion, we both agreed to share the magic of Santa, just as it was shared with us.

Even though I felt like this was an important childhood experience to have, I was originally concerned about the moment when he finds out that it’s all a sham. I wondered if it would be upsetting for him, if he would be angry and accuse us of lying. I agonized that it would shake his very core, his faith in people, his ability to believe in God. I worried that he would be okay, but it would break MY heart when I realized he knew that I’d been the one secretly drinking milk and eating cookies.

I tried to remember the moment when I discovered the truth about Santa, and to my surprise, I could not. I think it was a gradual process, sort of connecting the dots here and there. I vaguely remember a brief conversation with my mother where she reminded me that my younger brother and little cousins still believed and I needed to help keep it alive for them. I remember soon after my brother found out, my dad said something like, “If you don’t believe in Santa, then he isn’t going to bring any more presents.” So we kept acting like we did. And we still do. So there are still Santa presents for us on the mantel when both of us are in our 30’s. Maybe this is weird, but it makes my parents happy and I still get presents: double win.

I asked my brother if he remembered finding out the truth and he had an experience similar to mine, just sort of filling in the blanks over time. My husband was the same. Maybe we’re lucky, but the majority of people I know weren’t traumatized by finding out that Santa “wasn’t real.” It didn’t make them hate their parents or doubt the existence of God, and they couldn’t even remember the specific moment when it happened.

They do remember the nights spent reindeer-spotting, the careful detail that was used for the placement of the cookies, writing long letters and dropping them into special mailboxes, the first big “ask” to Santa that came true, and fighting sleep in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that bright red belly. When I ask people to tell me something they remember about Santa, they smile. That’s my answer right there. Will I tell my son there is a Santa? Absolutely. I want to give him every opportunity in life for happiness, fond memories, and magic.

I took a Costume Construction class in college and loved it, so my husband bought me a sewing machine one year for Christmas. I’m still a beginner, but I love simple projects. My most recent endeavor was to make our Christmas stockings. This is fairly easy, but I couldn’t find a complete tutorial online that explained everything, so I had to piece together different ones. This made me feel like I should make my own tutorial, in case someone else has this exact same problem. Note: I used two different stockings for this tutorial…sorry if that’s confusing, but flannel is the outside fabric and the lining is either cars or owls.

I wanted to make a classic Christmas stocking, with a cuff at the top. I envisioned them being made of soft flannel, but I didn’t want them to all look the same, so I picked four flannels that all went together. Flannels aren’t really something that match, so I chose a color (red) and made sure they all had it somewhere in the pattern. That’s also the color I chose for the cuff.

I bought a yard of each fabric because I knew I’d probably mess up at some point. You will also need a fabric to serve as the lining. I didn’t really care what the lining looked like, so I just used some leftover fabric from my son’s birthday shorts. Yes, it may be owls and cars, but I figured it would make an interesting story someday. You could probably get by with 2 yards of lining fabric for four stockings, but again, I always get more in case I mess up. Wash all your fabric and iron it.

A note on lining: You might be like me and foolishly think, “I’m not going to put a lining in a stocking, no one will see it! What a waste of time!” This would be a mistake because then your stockings will hang very sadly. The lining stiffens them up a bit so that you can actually tell that they are stockings. Plus, it is so easy to do and doesn’t take any extra time.

First, find a pattern. There are so many free stocking patterns online, but this is the one I chose because it is exactly how I wanted them to look. If you can’t find one you like, make your own! Print the pattern, tape the pages together and cut it out. If your fabric has a “right” side (the part that people are supposed to see), fold it in half so the right sides are together and all you see is the “wrong” side (the part that you don’t want people to see). Do the exact same thing for the lining, then stack both fabrics together. Pin the pattern through all four layers of fabric and use some sharp crafting scissors to cut out the stocking shape.

When you finish, you should have four pieces of fabric (two lining and two flannel) that all match up perfectly. Remove the pattern and repin the pieces together just as they were. Here’s what mine looked like, I flipped the toe over so you can see the other side.

Then, this will sound totally crazy, but sew all four layers together, leaving the top of the stocking open. Next, get ready to have your mind blown. Reach into the stocking, between the two lining layers, grab the toe and turn it inside out.

You should see the right side of the lining. Reach into the stocking again, between the two flannel layers, grab the toe, and turn it inside out. WTF?! You should now see the right sides of the flannel and it should look like a stocking without a cuff.

I don’t know how this witchery works, but I was really impressed and may have done it 10 or more times, then proceed to demonstrate it to my husband 5 more times in order to properly marvel over the magic. Obviously, I am easily amused.

Make sure you reach inside and get the stocking fully turned so that it’s the right shape. Then iron the stocking.

Next, you need to make a loop to hang the stocking. If you don’t want to make it, just find some nice ribbon and cut a piece about 6” long. I wanted my loops to match the stocking, so I used the same fabric. I cut a piece about 6” long and 2” wide. I folded the long ends into the center, ironed them down, then folded the whole thing in half, ironed it and sewed as close as I could to the edge.

Turn the stocking inside out again. I wanted the toe to point to the right, so I pinned the loop on the left, lining it up with the seam. If you want the toe to point left, pin the loop on the right.

It can be a little tricky to figure this out, but you want to pin the loop upside down, with the closed end pointing towards the foot of the stocking. You can let the two ends of the loop stick out over the top of the stocking a bit to make sure you sew it.

Now, we make the cuff. Measure the opening of the stocking, double the measurement and add ½” to 1.” I went with 1” because I am prone to messing things up on the first try. This measurement will be the length of the cuff. I wanted it to be about 4” wide when finished, so I cut a piece that was 8” wide and folded it in half.

Iron it, then sew the short ends together, so that it makes a circle.

Put the cuff around the top of the stocking with the raw edges (not folded) together, lining up the seams. Pin it to the stocking. It’s okay if the cuff is slightly larger than the opening of the stocking, just try to distribute the extra fabric evenly. The loop will be under the cuff. Sew all around the top edge. I think it’s officially a ¼” seam, but I just tried to keep the edge of the fabric even with the edge of the presser foot. The fabric layers will be pretty thick in the loop area, so your machine might have trouble going over it. If it does, just sew that section by hand.

Turn the stocking right side out, then flip the cuff over.

The loop should stick right out of the top.

Get everything flipped and folded just right, then iron it and you are done!

I have grown so accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night that it is now part of my routine. The minute you become a parent, everyone starts asking if your child is sleeping through the night. By the time that this blessed miracle actually occurs, it’s too late. The uninterrupted 8-10 hour sleep cycle of your youth is ruined, a distant memory. I’d like to believe that it will return again someday, but my husband snores and my dog jingles his tags. I used to be able to tune these noises out, but now I seem to have developed super sleep hearing powers.

So here I sit at 2:30am on Thanksgiving morning, awake without reason, waiting for my body to tell me that it’s ready for its second nap. It’s not all bad, these unnecessary wake up calls have their perks. The house is peaceful, dark and quiet (at least it is upstairs, away from the snores). Sam stuffs himself under my feet or rests his head in my lap, grateful for an opportunity to once again have my full attention, the original two. I get the bills paid, emails caught up, and window shop the giant mall that is the internet. I eat a snack without having to share any bites. If I have to be awake, might as well make it count.

As I started up the stairs this morning, I began to notice a foul aroma, building in intensity as I climbed higher. I dreaded the contents of the diaper I was about to change, but nothing could have prepared me for the carnage I was about to witness.

I could hear my delightful baby happily chirping and squeaking in his crib as I opened the door and turned on the light. The smell reached its maximum potential and I struggled not to gag. As my eyes adjusted, I was alarmed to see dark spots on the sheets in the crib. Large brown smears covered the once teal elephants. Sleepytime Puppy was slumped dejectedly over in a corner, another victim of the disaster. The soft, pastel blanket I had often cuddled my sweet-smelling boy in before bed was now something I couldn’t bring myself to touch with a ten foot pole.

My mind raced and my heart started to pound as I struggled to comprehend what had caused this unwelcome introduction to the morning. Finally, I allowed my disbelieving eyes to drift over to my joyful son. He giggled as a loud gasp escaped my lips. Never before had I been so reluctant to approach him, but the feces-encrusted hair and pudgy, fudgy fingers conflicted with my maternal instincts.

I glanced around the room frantically, trying to find some way to clean him and the crib without actually touching either one. Gingerly, I wrapped a (temporarily) clean bath towel around the young monster and promptly deposited him in the tub. After much scrubbing with plenty of soap, I could finally bring myself to give him his morning hugs and then proceeded to trap him in his highchair with a waffle. Then I calmly went upstairs to light a match and burn down his room.

When I made the decision to return to work after maternity leave, I was heartbroken. I felt guilty, worried and terrified, even though I liked the daycare, their staff and my job. After dropping off my son, I sobbed in my car every morning for at least the first month. I would cry as I pumped or hid in the bathroom. Occasionally, tears would start as I simply sat at my desk or in a meeting. When I left work, I was filled with a feeling close to panic as I raced to pick him up, like I just couldn’t get there fast enough. He consumed my every thought and a call from the daycare midday would send my fragile hormonal mind into a frenzy.

I wrestled with the decision to work, wondering if I would regret not staying home to raise my son on my own. As the months went on, I was surprised to notice that it got easier. The body shaking sobs turned to sniffles, I could make it through an entire work day without ruining my makeup, I no longer felt the need to yell at people who were driving too slow during the evening rush.

I began to marvel at the way my little boy seemed to blow through every milestone early and with ease. I was surprised by his social nature, he seemed to love everyone, delighting every friend and relative with outstretched arms and huge smiles. He was content to play on his own for short periods as I unloaded the dishwasher or cooked dinner. The daycare teachers gently prompted me when it was time for me to take new steps that I wasn’t sure I was ready for, like eating cheerios and trying sippy cups.

It dawned on me how much I might have held him back if it had been up to me to raise him on my own. As a mother, it’s natural to want to hold onto to the sweet, tiny baby for as long as possible, but being a parent is about constantly letting go. Sometimes, you need someone to remind you to let go. As a new parent, it’s especially hard to keep up with all the tasks they should accomplish by a specific age. Good daycare teachers already have this knowledge and training engrained in their being. I’m fairly certain that if I had decided to be a stay at home mom, I would have given him 100% of my attention and in return he would cling to me for dear life. I’m naturally introverted, so we would have stayed at home most days, with only each other for company. He would depend on me for everything, cry when he encountered new people, be uncertain about how to engage with other children and refuse to eat new foods because I was afraid to let him try them. He would likely not be eating with a fork, helping me put away toys, opening and closing doors, and accomplishing any of the plethora of tiny tasks that never cease to amaze me.

I’m sure there are plenty of stay-at-home moms who are rockstars and have developed tiny geniuses based on carefully planned playdates and activities, but I just don’t think I’d be that good at it. I’m not saying I didn’t teach him anything or that I’m a total failure. He’s a great dancer and ball player and that’s definitely me. He loves reading and swimming and singing because I taught him those things. He is gentle and generous with our middle-aged dog, loves to be outside and always has time for hugs and cuddles and those are things they just don’t teach as well at daycare. I was reluctant to admit it at first, but it really does take a village to raise a child. People are all so different and unique and they need to see and understand that from an early age to develop patience and tolerance.

So rest assured new working moms, it will (eventually) be okay. Great, even. Appreciate that maternity leave, however unreasonably short it may be, and return to your job with the knowledge that it won’t be this hard forever. It might even be better than you could have imagined.