Dear Bee,

It’s quiet tonight. You’re asleep in your crib on those perfect pinstriped sheets of gray and I keep thinking of all the things I can’t wait to tell you in the morning, but you’re only nine months old and can’t yet comprehend the weight of my words. So instead, I think of what I’ll tell you when you’re older. When you understand more, or when you become practiced in championship eye-rolling in response to my embarrassing sentimentality.

And I’ll tell you so much, Bee. I’ll tell you how I met your father and how we moved to Los Angeles on a whim so he could pursue his dreams. And how you weren’t really in the plans then, but how quickly plans change, and how necessary it is to change with them. I’ll tell you about how we moved to the midwest because family is the most important thing in the world. How you are the most important thing in the world.

And I’ll tell you everything else. About life and love, and about how I was a real live person before you came along. A person that didn’t wake up with bags under her eyes, except for those select few mornings when your father and I would stay up entirely too late watching reruns of The Cosby Show and eating Chinese take-out. A person that didn’t smell of the unfortunate combination of digested breast milk and unwashed hair. A person that wore heels and fancy dresses and never left the house without a dab of mascara.

A person that was made all the better when she became your mother.

And even though I don’t miss those days of carefree spontaneity and TV marathons, I do often think of who I used to be, pre-baby. Pre-you. And I think of every detail I can’t wait to share with you:

That the hair you pull each day inspired my first novella: Autohairography.
It was never published in the way I dreamt it would be, but I’m ever-so-proud of it. You will be, too, because I’m going to force you to read it when you’re older in an effort to keep you as far away from Sun-In as possible. You’ll see. And you’ll thank me when your hair isn’t the same rust-colored shade of an overstuffed sofa upholstered in 1982.

The eyes that greet you each morning once saw Bono in a coffee shop in Los Angeles.
At least, I think it was Bono. There was a security guard, and a man that resembled Bono very much so. And many, many fans. So I’m going to say yes, it was Bono. And you likely have no idea who Bono is, do you? Oh, Bee.

The lips that kiss your forehead first kissed your father ten years ago.
He was my first love, your father, although I didn’t realize it at the time. I thought I’d had many first loves, and you will too, Bee. But your true first love is the one you choose to love. The one you choose to commit to, despite tough times and fights in the kitchen and dirty boxer shorts scattered throughout the bathroom floor. Your first love is the one you’ll decide to spend the rest of your life with. And what a lucky person that will be.

The voice that sings you lullabies used to perform in a show choir.
I will add, however, that the above voice was quickly demoted to a lip-syncing position because although I was a lively dancer on stage, I was also innately tone-deaf. (I’m sorry for all of those lullabies, by the way, sweet Bee. I’m trying.)

The hands that bathe you fold in prayer each night.
I pray for your protection. For your future. For opportunities and experiences and role models. I pray that you will be comfortable and content and never face hardship. And because I can’t guarantee any of those things, I pray that, most of all, you will learn to know happiness.

The legs you cling to when you’re feeling shy appeared in an advertisement for GAP.
They are legs that were inherited from her mother, and they are smashing indeed. (I think I gave them to you, too, you lucky thing.)

The feet that balance your belly in a riveting game of ‘Airplane’ once walked out of an executive office suite to pursue my dreams of becoming a writer.
I am a writer now, Bee, and I’m grateful every day for that gift. I get to empower, encourage, educate. I get to share my words with thousands of people. I get to share myself with thousands of people. I can’t wait for you to share yourself, too, in whatever way you choose. Because you have much to offer this world. I see it in your smile, and I feel it as you fall asleep on my chest at night.

Bee, you’re growing so fast, changing and transforming into a new person each time I greet you in the morning. And that’s what we do as people, dear. We grow. We change. We transform ourselves into better people, kinder humans. We become women, then mothers. We leave the old and embrace the new, replacing TV marathons with teething rings. And then we replace teethings rings with carpool lanes and carpool lanes with high school diplomas. And soon you’ll become your own transformation, and I’ll be back to eating Chinese take-out on the sofa with your father, no longer smelling of digested milk (but likely of mothballs).

Indeed, it is a quiet night tonight. And in a few moments I’ll be tiptoeing into your room to watch you slumber on those pinstriped sheets. Because tomorrow morning you’ll have changed, and tonight will be but a memory of the baby you once were. Of the woman I once was. Of the mother I am.

And of the person I can’t wait to watch you become.

It started the night before – the Mother’s Day mudslide of discontent. I climbed into bed with Ken, asking him if I had a present to unwrap in the morning. And his face sort of contorted in an exaggerated way like, “Yes of course I do – it’s your first mother’s day – this one’s in the bag,” but what he really said was “Oh my gosh, No – I’m a horrible person. I totally forgot.” And really, it only goes downhill from there, right?

Here’s the deal. I’m a pretty great expectation manager, so I’m a bit surprised/disappointed/embarrassed with how obsessed I’d become with celebrating my first Mother’s Day. I can’t even remember the last birthday I celebrated - really celebrated – so I didn’t expect this holiday to be any different. But it was. Because the first Mother’s Day is important, and not really for the sentimental reasons that we’re supposed to be celebrating. It’s important because the first year is so crazy mind-boggling hard, because the scars of childbirth are still lingering and your hair is still growing back and your 9-month-old keeps swiping nursing pads from inside your shirt while you’re on the phone with the electric company.

It’s still fresh. You’re in this weird time zone where you remember your last Mother’s Day just one year ago so vividly – how you were halfway through pregnancy with all the freedom (naivete?) in the world, dreaming of tiny onesies and wooden toys. And how different being a mom is vs. how you pictured it, pre-baby. It’s this weird mix of “I cannot remember what my life was like before this sweet baby” and “Oh wait, I totally do – I had a personality and perky breasts and a closet full of non-nursing-friendly dresses. Amazing!”

And all of those emotions and memories and perspective shifts kind of boiled to the surface this weekend and I let myself get swept up into the Mother’s Day-ness of it all. Because it was a hard year, and for once, I felt like I deserved a bit of a celebration.

For the record, Ken did forget Mother’s Day, but he did also sneak into the kitchen to clean at 3am and then surprise me with a kind love letter and single tulip from our backyard. Which is kind of perfection, right? There were no chocolates or massages or candlelit dinners, but there was thoughtfulness and truth and appreciation, which always win in my book.

But here’s the thing – even if Ken had remembered Mother’s Day and surprised me with a bouquet of everything-I’ve-always-wanted, it wouldn’t be enough to replace the void I didn’t even realize existed – the one where I bid farewell to my former life and embraced the routine of a face-wiping, diaper bag-toting mama.

When you lose someone you love, the general consensus seems to be that the first year is the hardest. Everything is still raw, and with each passing holiday or occasion or season, you remember what the former was like. The last time the leaves fell, the final summer popsicle you enjoyed. It’s a constant reminder that your new life is different, and the old one will never return.

And it’s not the holiday’s fault. It’s just time and perspective and the circle of life and all things good and holy, Amen. And it’s a void chocolates can’t fill.

I don’t know that the cycle ends, either. I can only imagine how, next year for Mother’s Day, I’ll be mourning the loss of this chubby baby and welcoming – with reluctant and sticky hands – a barreling toddler. And so it goes, year after year, a combination of remembering and forgetting and mourning and anticipating – swinging pendulums that remind us of the grand clock tower of life.

On second thought, I suppose chocolates wouldn’t hurt. Because that’s all we can really ask for, right? A few simple pleasures and a day with the ones we love – those that are running alongside of us as we chase the minute hands in tandem, breathless and full of hope.

My mother and I have a great relationship for the most part. Sure, she sometimes bites her fingernails or chews her carrots too loudly – but I like her. I really do. And I owe her like crazy. Because until I had my own baby, I didn’t realize how totally and utterly encompassing this mothering gig can be. (I know, I know.) The sacrifices and sleepless nights and frenzied mornings – they were lost on me until this kid came along and started spitting up on my blouse. So this Mother’s Day, I wanted to kick it up a notch and celebrate my mother in the best way I knew how…

Naturally, my husband wanted to do the same for his. So we dreamed up a weekend getaway one state over to take our mothers to see the musical Wicked. A night of room service, hot tubs, grand tier seating and general mother-daughter-son-granddaughter adventures. And it was lovely.

I’m a late bloomer here, so it’s taken me a long, long time to recognize that memories don’t just happen. To be fair, sometimes the best memories are of the simple, everyday variety – waking up to clean sheets, a loving husband and the morning paper. But the rest? There’s a reason memories are made.

They require planning and crafting and coercing and bending. They require swapping of schedules, depositing of money. Remembering of toothbrushes.

And they are exhausting. It’s wonderful to be with the ones you love, yes. But like every great adventure, there are sour moments. Fussy babies and eye rolls and short fuses – evidence that the moment is real and alive and genuine. And we smile for the camera, pausing to document this grand adventure while – in the back of our heads – we’re distracted, mentally checking our suitcases and itineraries and tickets.

When we’re vacationing as kids, everything is adventure-minus-responsibility. We eat and ignore the bill, play and ignore the clock, swim and ignore the sunscreen. Yet as adults, responsibilities seem to cloud the adventure. Did we pack enough towels? Where did we store the snacks? What time is check-out?

I’m still working on the balance, but I’d say our first adventure was a success. (We’ve got the pictures to prove it.) And chances are, in five years, I’ll take a peek at those photos and forget the traffic jams and lost tickets and car seat tears. Instead, I’ll see genuine smiles on the faces I love. Pure, adventure-filled (yet mildly responsible) smiles. And that’s the sort of stuff memories are made of.

If you’re a freelancer like me, your local coffee shop might hate you. Because chances are, when laundry is beckoning and dishes are piling and you’ve got a deadline you simply cannot focus on, you jet to the caffeinated mecca down the road for a few hours of free Wi-Fi, fresh air and focused work time. And sure, you might think you’re doing the fine establishment a favor – keeping their seats warm and their pastries fresh – but how do you know when you’ve overstayed your welcome? What’s the etiquette code for your favorite office-away-from-office? Ever-the-curious one, I consulted my favorite local barista and, together, we came up with a list of rules for the Coffee Shop Squatter:

Rule #1: Buy more than one drink.
And no, that doesn’t mean purchasing a small tea and requesting a tap water to nurse over the next four hours. If you’re using a coffee shop as you would an office, treat it accordingly and consider all purchases an inexpensive (but heavily caffeinated!) rental fee. If food is available, order lunch or a snack as well.

Rule #2: Always tip.
Again, chalk this up to your “rental fee” and bear in mind that, in a coffee shop, the barista is king. You want to be on their good side, at all times.

Rule #3: If you’ve visited the restroom more than once, you’ve likely stayed too long.
This is a general guideline, so if you have a small bladder or a runny nose, you’re exempt. But in most cases, 2-3 hours is plenty of time to sneak in some work and still respect the owner’s space.

Rule #4: If it’s busy, get out.
An obvious, but oft-ignored rule. Don’t be the person who squats his/her table during busy lunch hours.

Rule #5: Abide by the power cord policy.
Be mindful of your power cord. Is it sprawled across the room so patrons have to step over it? Are you hoarding all available outlets for your phone, computer and iPad chargers? This goes without saying, but being courtesy to other patrons (who might actually be there to drink coffee and visit) is just as important as respecting the employees.

Rule #6: Ask permission.
It never hurts to ask permission to set up shop temporarily. Remember – the barista is the keeper of this domain, so if you want to go above and beyond, be honest and explain that you’re on a deadline and would love to work for a few hours, but plan to be respectful of their time and space, as well. Chances are, the employee will appreciate the gesture and welcome you any time, and you can guarantee you’ll never be the recipient of a caffeine-fueled angsty eye roll again.

Rule #7: Be courteous of space.
We’ve all seen her – the college kid who has sprawled out an entire year’s worth of dissertation notes onto two tables and is holding eight chairs hostage? Don’t be her. If you’re working alone, plop yourself at a small bistro table for two (or better yet, the single-stool bar when available).

Rule #8: Spread the love.
If you’re a frequent coffee shop squatter and need a space to work daily, consider balancing your time between various coffee shops – rather than becoming a burden on your favorite. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, in that some coffee shops love having a regular stop by daily. But if you sense you might be overstaying your welcome, you probably are. Time to branch out and spread your wings, little freelancer.

Rule #9: Headphones, always.
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been in the working zone and, suddenly, Mariah Carey is singing eight octaves too high from a cell phone speaker across the room.  And then Celine Dion. And then Aretha Franklin. And pretty soon there’s an entire diva concert happening (and I didn’t buy tickets). Look, I listen to music while I work, too. It’s totally fine – great, even. Just don’t forget the headphones.

Rule #10: Conference calls aren’t coffee-shop friendly.
Not only is it mildly unprofessional to attempt to shout fourth quarter budgets over a cappuccino maker’s hum, but I’m guessing the other patrons aren’t interested in how many silk pants you intend to sell this month. In general, do your best to keep phone time at a minimum, and if you need to hop on a conference call, keep it short (and quiet).

So what do you think, friends? Are you a frequent offender of the above guidelines? Do you have any coffee shop pet peeves? I’d love to hear! Now go forth and freelance.

p.s. If you’re curious, yes, I did write this from a coffee shop, and I’ve got $18 less to my name. Well worth it.

I read a fascinating study this morning explaining that children who bike or walk to school have a far greater ability to concentrate. I mean, it makes sense. Exercise is sort of the answer to everything, right? (I’m saying this begrudgingly, as I have very little motivation to utilize my yoga pants for anything other than curling up on the sofa with a great book.) Yet then I discovered how few children actually bike to school. And how one school even banned bikes. It’s disheartening to see, especially when you consider that cars, the desired mode of transportation, are far more dangerous than bikes.

So in an effort to jump-start my own biking adventures just in time for National Bike Month in May, I’m sharing a few of my favorite biking goodies for young and old. After all, if a polka dotted helmet doesn’t inspire my family to get off the couch, what will? Enjoy!:

• 

  Six-Pack Bike Bag

  Headed to an outdoor concert or last-minute cookout? Strap on the 6-pack bike bag and exercise those girl scout preparation skills. Available for $91 at Charles & Marie.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#six-pack-bike-bag
• 

  Bike Helmet & Cover

  Safe and stylish, this bike helmet arrives with a classy cover for the trendy tot. Available for $87 at Finnish Design Shop.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-helmet-cover
• 

  Bike Horn

  Those cab drivers will never know what hit 'em when you honk your handy retro-inspired bike horn. Available for $7.06 at Amazon.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-horn
• 

  Bicycle Basket

  Has there ever existed a more stylish bike basket? Available for $79 at Amazon.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bicycle-basket
• 

  Braided Bike Lock

  Keep your ride secure with a one-of-a-kind braided bike lock. Available for $59 via Better Living Through Design.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#braided-bike-lock
• 

  Walking Bike

  No pedals, no problem. Available for $315 at Amazon.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#walking-bike
• 

  Bicycle Wine Rack

  For evening dinner parties, arrive with a fully-stocked bike wine rack. Available for $34 at Oopsmark.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bicycle-wine-rack
• 

  Biking Skirt

  Ladies, headed to work on your bike? Iva Jean's pencil skirt offers a secret zipper for a roomier biking experience. Genius! Available for $160 at Iva Jean.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#biking-skirt
• 

  Bike Bell

  Because what is a bike without the bell? Available for $7.99 at Amazon.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-bell
• 

  Retro Bike

  A fan favorite, Public bikes are perfectly vintage-inspired. Available for $850 at Public.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#retro-bike
• 

  Vento Kids Caddy

  Tote your kid in style with this Swiss-inspired caddy. Available for $184 at Leggero.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#vento-kids-caddy
• 

  Everyday Bike Bag

  Whether you're headed to the grocery or coffee shop, stash your goods with this functional (and beautiful!) everyday bike bag. Available for $80 at Public.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#everyday-bike-bag
• 

  Bike Stickers

  Bribes (err, stickers) are the perfect way to get your little to ditch those training wheels. Available for $5.99 at Perpetual Kid.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-stickers
• 

  Wooden Tricycle

  As adorable as it is classic, introduce your toddler to biking in this beauty. Available for $206 at Smallable.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#wooden-tricycle
• 

  Family Bike

  The ultimate luxury for family biking. Available for $1550 at Madsen Cycles.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#family-bike
• 

  Polka Dot Helmet

  Who doesn't need a polka dot helmet? Available for $39 at Kiddimoto.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#polka-dot-helmet
• 

  Bike Tattoo

  Celebrate your love for biking with a rad tattoo (temporary, of course!). Available for $5 at Tattly.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-tattoo
• 

  Bike Plaque

  For the enthusiast mourning the loss of his now defunct ride, I present the bike taxidermy plaque. Available for $77 at Bicycle Taxidermy.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#bike-plaque
• 

  Rent-A-Bike

  Need a bike for a last-minute adventure? Rent it! Available from $12 per day at Spinlister.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#rent-a-bike
• 

  Chalktrail

  Watch in wonder and awe as Chalktrail transforms the pavement behind you as you bike through the neighborhood. Available for $19.95 at Fat Brain Toys.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/25/the-ultimate-bike-guide/#chalktrail

p.s. What NPR has to say about biking to school. Plus, the walking school bus movement!

As I’m making plans to celebrate Mother’s Day next month, I’ve been reflecting a bit on how much my mindset has changed in the last year. For me, Mother’s Day was little more than another Hallmark holiday, topping the short list of Traditions-I-Sort-Of-Celebrate-Begrudgingly like Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day and perhaps even National Grilled Cheese day. (I know. I’m terrible.) And now I’m a mom and, suddenly, this holiday means way more than a simple floral delivery and phone call. Cue the chorus of “Perspective” in B minor.

It goes without saying that I have a new-found respect for my mother that teeters on total and utter disbelief in her ability to survive my childhood. My mother is a retired school teacher who taught 4th graders while raising three girls of her own, and the very idea that she listened and disciplined and shared with a room full of 9-year-olds and then returned home to do the same with us is nothing short of miraculous. (She also didn’t drink coffee, so I’m not entirely sure she doesn’t possess robotic inners…)

And that’s what parenting does to you, yes? Swaddled around that tiny bundle of joy is a fresh blanket of perspective, wrapping you and yours with a woven mindset of new stories and realizations and understanding. So I’m not necessarily surprised that my mornings of diaper changing and food puree-ing and baby rocking have restored in me a new admiration for my own mother.

But what I didn’t anticipate was how this new perspective would usher in a new respect for all of humanity. For not only my mother, but for the many mothers who changed my diapers and my band-aids and my life.

I have many girlfriends who aren’t mothers in the technical sense. They’ve never kissed a scraped knee or rocked a baby to sleep. They’ve never been the recipient of a crayon drawing or pre-teen eye roll. But they are mothers. To me and to everyone who is blessed to know them.

There’s my college roommate who ran to the gas station at 3am to grab Saltines and 7-Up for me during a particularly messy bout with the flu.

There’s the wise store clerk who taught me the secret to cream blush blending (Hint: Use your ring finger!).

There’s the college professor who inspired me to chase my dreams, the midwife who delivered my firstborn and the NYC cab driver who gave me a free fare to the airport when I’d lost my change purse.

Young or old, male or female, “mothers” or not, I was nurtured and loved and respected by these individuals. I was mothered – and for that, I am grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day to you, friends. Because whether you realize it or not, you are a mother to many.

Every time spring rolls around, I get the itch to update my home in small ways – fresh tea towels, a new throw pillow, a few scented candles. It’s the perfect way for me to usher in a new season and celebrate the small, subtle changes in weather. In that vein, here are a few spring-inspired items that are deserving of a new home in your home, don’t you think?

• 

  Happy spring!

  Click through for today's most springtime-inspired products for every budget and every home!

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#happy-spring
• 

  Paper Notes

  Who says your office doesn't need a bit of freshening up? Available for $30 at A+R.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#paper-notes
• 

  Cushion Cover

  Nothing says spring quite like technicolor polka dots! Available for $7 at IKEA.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#cushion-cover
• 

  Pik Vase

  A new vase is the perfect excuse to welcome a fresh bundle of spring into your home. Available for $95 at A+R.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#pik-vase
• 

  Bird Feeder

  Let your favorite warblers in on the fun with a handsome home away from home. Available for $19.95 at CB2.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#bird-feeder
• 

  Tea Towels

  After a long winter, your tired tea towels are begging for a refresh. Perfectly patterned in bright hues, this duo is the perfect replacement! Available for $32 at A+R.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#tea-towels
• 

  Lounge Chair

  Infuse your home with a touch of retro flair as you lounge away the [longer!] days. Available for $199 at CB2.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#lounge-chair
• 

  Table Cart

  Bar carts are enormously useful, and this springtime hue makes a household staple all the more inspired. Available for $295 at A+R.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#table-cart
• 

  Filing Cabinet

  Give your tired office a jolt of color with minty fresh organization. Available for $159 at CB2.

  /babble-voices/erin-loechner-first-time-around/2013/04/10/8-spring-must-haves-for-the-home/#filing-cabinet

Happy shopping, springtime pals!

I’m going to prep you on something: this isn’t going to be a perfectly-polished post that reads like the author was somewhat sane when she penned the words. It’s a different beast entirely, one where I’m letting my fingers type and my thoughts run and the pinball inside of this machine bounce back and forth until things slowly make sense. I’m going to processandtype, instead of process and type. And here we go.

When I was pregnant, I published a guide to registering for your baby. A guide that I had researched and read and studied, and one that I was sure was complete. And then the baby came, and it was surely not complete and it was actually all wrong, as if I had accidentally registered for a bunny instead of a human. There was no diaper pail, if that gives you any possible insight as to how strangely minimal this registry was.

But I slowly filled in the blanks and made many-a-late-night Amazon orders and now, eight months later, we’ve survived.

And every now and then, one of my readers will ask if I still love this sound machine or that tub or those sheets. And my virtual face gets red and I blush because the answer is almost always No, I was absolutely crazy when I chose that and I’m sorry to have steered you wrong and please go read someone else’s site that knows how to be a proper mother and didn’t forget the diaper pail.

And then I realize, that mother does not exist.

A registry is a tangible, public example of the nest you’re building for your baby. And it’s kind of a raw experience – one that is expected of you, but one that you’re not quite ready for. It’s the high school senior’s version of choosing a major to pursue in college. You’re not ready because you’re still a baby yourself, but you have to start somewhere and hope that those around you won’t judge you for naively thinking that you’ll excel in calculus and you don’t need a diaper pail.

My registry embarrasses me now, and I often want to delete the entire guide in hopes that an expectant mother will start their search elsewhere, silently blaming another mother for suggesting they order a tub that is completely useless to her.

But I can’t delete it, because it’s a part of my story and my experience and my journey. It’s the sum of many conversations about hopes and fears and baby bottles. And it’s incomplete, yes, but so am I.

And I think life is a lot like that. Our writing is a lot like that. We’re bloggers and mothers and non-mothers and story tellers, and we’re incomplete. We’re guiding ourselves down a journey – leaving breadcrumbs along the way, pieces of our baby registries and our advice and our souls. And then the breadcrumbs scatter and we look back and realize that they were the wrong breadcrumbs and insane breadcrumbs and omg what were we thinking sharing those pieces with the forest? Who were we to think that life could sustain itself on these stories – that we wouldn’t want to immediately turn around and take back each piece and lower the cloak over our eyes and hide behind our basket of bread?

Because when you’re in the forest – when you’re in the thick of it – that’s all you have. You have your bread and yourself and your stories. And then life happens and you realize how far you’ve been walking and how much you’ve grown and you read your old registry or that dated post or that old email and realize that you’re not in that place anymore. You’re further along the road, and you’re face is as red as the cloak you’re donning, embarrassed by the breadcrumb you left behind.

But it’s not really about us, is it? Because there will be others embarking on your same path, and your breadcrumbs – the stories you cast aside – might sustain them. They’re in the forest now. And they need your bread.

What they don’t need, as it turns out, is a diaper pail.

Share your stories, friends. Share your bread and yourselves and your baby registries and your lives. And please, don’t delete the breadcrumbs along the way.

Friends! I’ve shared many-a-list on baby registries and my own must-haves for those bleary-eyed newborn days (see here, here, here, here and here), but today I’m thrilled to have Beso.com spotlight my all-time favorites all in one spot. Please head over to Beso.com to see the full list and, while we’re on the topic, I’d love to hear what must-haves you guys swear by? Spill in the comments below!

Happy registering, Mamas!

Beso and Babble are giving away $3,000 to shop in your favorite babies and kids stores — click the banner below to learn more and enter!

I went to college with a girl who refused to wear shoes, even on the chilliest, windiest, snowiest nights in the Midwest. She said she wanted to spend every day of her life grounded and centered and that footwear just sort of got in the way of that hope. And although I won’t be throwing out last season’s flats any time soon, I think she was right. Footwear gets in the way of a lot of things. And I can’t help but wonder if, in today’s age of “Mommy Wars” (a term I think we all despise by now?), we should be kicking off our combat boots in favor of bare feet, vulnerability and hope.

It’s been said many-a-time that before you judge, criticize or accuse someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. Because the woman wearing stilettos at the grocery store – the one you think is donning a skirt that’s too short or lipstick too red or hair too sprayed? She just lost five pounds and feels amazing and unique and beautiful, and she’s gathering ingredients for a healthful, celebratory dinner. She sees your sideways glance, but it doesn’t matter to her, because she’s centered.

The mother sporting teetering wedges and a designer blazer to playgroup – the one you just labeled a trophy wife? She has a job interview later this afternoon and feels nervous and low and emotional, and a kind word of encouragement from you would make all the difference in her world. But you’re eyeing your last-season sandals and feeling overwhelmed and depressed and wishing your house had three garages and a marble bathtub and fancy topiaries that, if you owned, you’d never forget to water.

The woman who showed up to your daughter’s school play in sneakers and yoga pants – the one you thought was inappropriately dressed for the occasion? She came straight from cleaning her late father’s attic, digging through piles of cardboard boxes and memories and unspoken words, and the tears she’s wiping from her eyes have little to do with how adorable her son looks in his sheep costume and everything to do with the kind of legacy she wants to leave for him.

Shoes provide protection from the elements. They shield the roots of our bodies from floods and snow and rocky terrain, but they don’t protect us from the sticks and stones of judgment. And, from where I’m sitting, these “Mommy Wars” are little more than judgment and criticism and perhaps a bit of inferiority packaged into a pageview-generating headline.

A few years ago, I ran into my eternally-shoeless college friend at an alumni event. She wears shoes now (leopard flats, to be precise) and I asked her when she’d made the decision to start wearing them again. She explained that she’d become a mother and it was essential that she set the right example for her daughter. And as important as it is to be grounded and centered, children need to be protected from the elements. So, to protect her daughter, she shielded her from her own ideals and values and perspectives.

And I suppose that’s why the idea of “Mommy Wars” is so disheartening. We are part of an exceptional sisterhood – a group of women who breastfeed and don’t breastfeed and breastfeed for a long time and who work from home and stay at home and work long hours and work for free. We’re mothers. We care for our children in ways that are as different as the shoes that line our closet. We are sneakers, running after toddlers and wiping noses and packing lunches. We are pumps, attending conferences and leading meetings and hosting office hours. We are slippers, making pancakes and cleaning countertops and folding laundry.

Yet we’re showing our children that there is only one shoe. That it’s a one-size-fits-all and works for every situation, all the time. No exceptions allowed, no returns or exchanges or money back guarantees. And we’re showing them that, if the shoe doesn’t fit, there must be something wrong with our feet. With our neighbor’s feet and our sister’s feet and the bank teller’s feet.

I’m afraid we need to walk more, and I’m starting with a mile. (If you care to join me, I’ll be the gal in hot pink sneakers.)

Hear more on the Mommy Wars from Raising America:

We’re continuing this conversation all this week, because we want that lasting peace, dammit. Read more posts on this subject in this section all week (you can start with Catherine’s kick-off post.) And tune in to HLN’s Raising America (12:30 EST) to watch The Mommy Wars: the Peace Talks, a 5 day collaboration with HLN’s Raising America aimed at wrestling this so-called ‘war’ into peaceful submission.

For more on ‘leaning in’, and for buckets of inspiration toward being intentional and empowered in our choices (motherhood-related or otherwise) and our lives (including inspiring stories from many Babble bloggers that you know and love), visit the Lean In community. And maybe join the Lean In community. It’s a movement for all of us.