Open Letter.

Dear Readers,

It has come to my attention that I might be scaring you a little. 

I’ve had childless friends email me and say that my blog has made them afraid to have them, and some people with only one child say they are now afraid to have more. Or, they kindly inquire about my mental state … which is understandable and appreciated.

I don’t want to frighten you with my honesty. In fact, I have no agenda other than to keep myself sane. Sometimes things happen, like I find my 18-month-old sitting on the dining room table playing in his older brother’s bowl of cereal, or he throws up on his third pair of clean pajamas or drinks toilet water AGAIN while his older brother eats butter with his hands out of the butter dish in the kitchen, and the only way I know to deal with it is to put them to bed and then write about it. 

So, let me be frank: I am stressed out and terrified. I’m afraid to take medication while pregnant, so I’m going to muddle through until the baby is born. And then I shall promptly order up a serving of Lexapro with a side of Percocet. I will not be attempting to breastfeed. I will love my children the best way I know how, which is to make sure I am happy and healthy so I can make sure they are.

Something changed about 3 weeks ago, like I literally felt a hormonal shift. My skin went from glowy to gross and I stopped liking my family. I started thinking I don’t want to be a mom anymore. I started thinking I don’t want to shave my legs anymore. All of these things take too much effort. I just want to crawl in a hole where no one can find me and eat Gummy Worms and watch Bravo TV until this baby is born.

I have also started to have panicky thoughts. What made me think I could handle three kids?! What will I do with another one?! She’s going to have colic, and I AM GOING TO DIE.

Last night I had to ask Husband to remove my toenail polish because I can’t reach my feet. That Husband, he’s a very kind man. He said, “Harmony, you can handle three kids. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but you CAN.” And you know, I thought I could too, at one point a long time ago when I could still see my feet. Now I’m an absolute hormonal mess and I feel like I can barely handle backing out of the driveway, let alone care for an additional person.

But. Pepper is on her way and I have to get it together. And I will. I had a very similar period of freak out before my other children were born, and we have made it this far. I sometimes space out and daydream that I am living some other life, but do I WANT that life? No. I want my life.

Strangely, I feel called to motherhood the same way a doctor presumably feels called to medicine, teachers are called to education, and church pastors are called to the ministry. Medical school is no picnic. Teaching sounds like a bitch, and I can’t even fathom leading a group of people to Heaven. 

Check. Please.

So, there are parts of everything that are tough, but you keep going because you love it despite of that toughness. And ultimately, the crap that you drag yourself through makes you better at your job and more grounded in what you’re doing. All of my work is worth it in the end, and I think it’s important for me to admit that this gig is pretty much the hardest, craziest thing I have ever done. 

I’m not perfect, I am a disaster. And so are you. It’s time we all laughed at ourselves, and STOP LOOKING AT PINTEREST, FOR THE LOVE.

Love and Laughter at myself and others,


Open Letter.

Dear Well-Meaning Gentleman at Albertson’s,

You seem like a nice enough person, but I could not hear a damn word you were saying to me while TWO was throwing a tantrum in the store. As you can see, I’m quite pregnant and struggled to wrangle my one-year-old as he writhed on the floor, arched his back, and screamed bloody murder

You sat there and watched me the entire time I worked to wrestle TWO’s wiry body into the shopping cart, sipping your coffee with amusement. I can‘t say I blame you, it really was quite the spectacle. 

I saw your mouth moving and I assume your words were directed at me, or maybe at TWO? Who knows … all I could hear were my child’s highpitched wails. When I ran into you again at the end of my very-quick trip, I was able to make out your question of, “What’s wrong with him?!”  

Believe me sir, if I knew, I would be dealing with this in the first place. In fact, I would probably be rich and someone else would be doing my grocery shopping for me while I rested at a spa somewhere. If I knew what makes toddlers lose it for no apparent reason, I would write a book about it and make a million freaking dollars. So NO, I don’t know what‘s wrong with him.

My sweet boy just started throwing serious tantrums this week, and he puts his older brother to shame. Yes … I have a 4-year-old and our third is due in June. Yes, I do know what causes that, thank you very much for asking. Now good day.

Thank You,

Open Letter.

I have a group of girlfriends I “talk” to daily via Facebook’s email system. If someone (a.k.a. “the man”) is monitoring what we say, I don’t know if he thinks we’re funny or psychotic or both. Honestly, our discussions are probably too much for “the man” to handle, if he is indeed a man. 

The reason why we chatter virtually is because the real men in our lives don’t really get our problems or care to hear the minutiae of our day, and I do not care to have a phone conversation with screaming or crying in the background. No thank you. I’ll pass. 

Anyway, here is an open letter to the monitor of Facebook’s emails, otherwise known as “the man” … whoever he may be.

Dear The Man,

Hi! I’m the more talkative pregnant one who uses a lot of bad words, capital letters and exclamation points, not to be confused with the less talkative pregnant one or the postpartum one or the one from Chicago who is going through major life changes or the two childless ones who are the most sane of the bunch.

When I said I wanted to kick my husband and show him what true pain feels like, I didn’t mean it. There is no real need for concern. Have you ever gone through hormonal upheaval? It’s a bitch.  

We cheer for each other through life’s victories – big and small. New jobs, new babies, new haircuts, new outfits, new breakthroughs. Conversely, we suffer through each other’s sorrows. No problem is too small or suffering too great. We band together and we carry it like it’s weightless.  

It is the way we were made.

This is a judgement-free zone, so keep your snit to yourself. And next time someone has a wardrobe crisis, feel free to chime in. A man’s opinion is always appreciated.

Thank You,


Open Letter.

Dear (some, and you know who you are) Members of Facebook,

Stop trying to convince me that your life is perfect and awesome! And your house always smells of freshly baked blueberry muffins! And your children always smile like that! 

I am not fooled. You are as big of a mess as I am, and I am a pretty big mess. Don’t front. You know you haven’t shaved, your kid said a bad word today (that was learned from you), dinner came from McDonald’s, and you are grouchy and gassy. 

Stop it.

Thank you,

Open Letter.

Dear Pottery Barn,

I came to see you, and it seems that you skipped right over Thanksgiving. 

I do not appreciate that. While I do love your Christmas decor, I do not like that it was out before mid-November. What about the pumpkins? The cornicopias? The orange-colored place settings and such?

William-Sonoma has it together. There was nary a Christmas dish in sight over there. They are honoring Thanksgiving. You should hang your bay leaf wreathed head in shame. SHAME.

Thank you,


Open Letter.

To My 33 Followers (and whoever else reads this blog),

I am now a member of the BlogHer Publishing Network! This means I’m trying to make a little money. It’s not that I’m greedy. It’s just that we have two kids in diapers, one kid who requires hypoallergenic formula, and I like to enjoy a Starbucks beverage at least once per week.

Would you please click on the ad to the right? Thank you. And thank you for reading my blog. Oversharing via the internet is much cheaper than therapy. 


Open Letter.

Dear Husband,

Today I found a screen open on our computer, which showcased this t-shirt. 

I accept that I am a League of Legends widow. However, I have to draw the line at THIS. 

This is bad.

If you choose to purchase and wear this item (shudder), I will still love you, but I won’t be seen in public with you. Also … we may have to seek counseling. 

I never thought I would say this, but I would actually prefer that you wear this shirt instead. Something about it is strangely virile.

Thank you/Love you,

Open Letter.

Dear ONE,

You have hated naps since birth. It’s a good thing I have an addiction to coffee, and was never much of a napper myself. However, since I got pregnant and had to cut back on uppers, it’s really become a problem for us. 

Why is it, that on most days, you spend the naptime hour in your room shouting things like “MOMMY! IS NAPTIME OVER?! HELLLLOOOOOOOOOO ….” 

Or, my personal favorite, “I SEE THE SUN! IT’S TIME TO GET UUUUP!”

And yet, on the days that I cave from exhaustion and drink so much caffeine that taking a nap myself is impossible, you konk right out. It’s just cruel.


You and Ollie the Octopus look so peaceful. That must be nice.

Your Mother

Open Letter.

Dear Merry Maids,

I believe today marks the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

My husband will come home and say that our house looks exactly the same as it did when he left this morning, but you and I know the difference.

You worked your magic on the downstairs toilet and scrubbed away that black stuff that has been there since we purchased this house. You cleaned the blinds and put little gold stickers on the toilet paper rolls. You folded my towels fancy-like.

You were worth every penny.

Thank you,