Two Pink Lines And A New Beginning

 So there we were. The kids were grown. The house was finally quiet. The laundry piles were smaller. The fridge stayed full longer. And for the first time in… what, two decades? We could actually hear ourselves think. 

We were officially empty nesters—a phrase I used to think meant margaritas on the porch and spontaneous weekend getaways. And for a minute, it did. We slept in. We binge-watched shows that didn’t involve singing animals. We had adult conversations that weren’t interrupted by spilled juice or someone screaming “MOOOOM!”

It was glorious.

And then… bam.

Two pink lines. 

I stared at that test like it owed me money. I wasn’t late—I was late-late, and my body wasn’t exactly screaming “fertile goddess.” I had just mentally settled into the next phase of life. The “we did it, we survived, and now we nap” phase.

We had lost a baby a few years prior. Quietly. Painfully. I didn’t talk about it much because grief like that wraps itself in silence. I thought maybe that chapter had ended for good. So when I found out I was pregnant again, I didn’t feel joy—I felt disbelief. Total, paralyzing disbelief.

Cue three more tests.

And a “Are you sure?” look to my husband.

And a whole lot of me Googling phrases like “false positives over 40.”

But then I saw my baby. That first ultrasound, when the screen lit up with the tiniest, most perfect bean—I swear, something cracked open in my chest. That was it. That was the moment. No more doubt. No more fear. Just me, a sonogram picture, and a love so fierce it knocked the air out of me.

I was all in. We were all in.

Then came the gender reveal. I wasn’t expecting to cry. (Which is hilarious, considering I cry at literally every ASPCA commercial now.) But when those cannons burst open and pink powder exploded into the sky, I lost it. Right there in the front yard with all of our family there to watch, I look over at my husband and see a kind of smile that I hadn’t seen in a while. We both knew our lives were about to change FOREVER!

Tea parties. Tiny bows. Tutus. Sticky kisses. Stuffed animals with names and backstories. I saw her everywhere.

I never imagined starting over. I really didn’t. We were done. We had checked all the parenting boxes and lived to tell the tale. And now? We’re doing it all over again—but this time with more patience, more gratitude, and yes… more back pain.

But I’ll take every second of it. Because this little girl? She’s not just our surprise. She’s our second chance. Our healing. Our miracle wrapped in pink.

So no, we didn’t plan this.

But maybe she did.

And let me tell you—she’s right on time. 

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My 9-Month-Old Is Refusing to Crawl — And Honestly, I Respect the Hustle

 So my 9-month-old has officially entered the “I could crawl, but I’d rather just vibe” phase of life.

We’ve hit all the milestones leading up to it. The sitting. The rolling. The weird full-body planking like she’s training for baby CrossFit. All signs pointed to crawling… and then? She just… opted out.

Like, nah. Hard pass. Love that for her.

Every time I put her on the floor with the encouragement of a motivational speaker (“Come on baby! You can do it! Mommy believes in you!”), she gives me a look like, “Why? The toys come to me. You come to me. Crawling sounds like capitalism and I’m not interested.”

She can crawl — I’ve seen her pivot, wiggle, and scoot with the strategic planning of a tiny general. She just… won’t. Because, apparently, crawling is for peasants.

And yes, I’ve Googled “what if my baby doesn’t crawl” more times than I’d like to admit. I’ve read the articles. I’ve seen the forums. I’ve spiraled at 2 a.m. watching her lying completely still like she’s in a baby spa, while everyone else’s baby is out here doing laps around the house like they are a competitor in the Kentucky Derby. 

But here’s the truth I keep reminding myself of: babies are weird little humans. They do things in their own time. They always figure it out — often just to spite us. So maybe she’s not crawling today. That just means she’ll probably skip crawling entirely and go straight to demanding snacks and car keys.

And when that happens, I’ll wish for these days when she stayed exactly where I left her.

Until then, I’ll be over here cheering on her stationary rebellion and pretending I’m not secretly relieved I don’t have to baby-proof the house just yet.

Stay strong, fellow floor sitters. Your time will come.

Did your baby skip crawling too? Let me know in the comments below. 

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The Belly That Built My Babies: A Love Letter to My Body at 40

 I used to look at my stomach and wonder if it had betrayed me.

It didn’t look like it used to — smooth, flat, conveniently hidden behind low-rise jeans and the kind of confidence only 25-year-olds would have. Now, it folds when I sit, jiggles when I laugh, and has a soft curve that wasn’t part of the original packaging. 

But here’s the thing I’ve come to realize at 41: this belly, this body — it didn’t betray me. It carried me.

It carried me through heartbreaks and breakdowns, pregnancies and panic attacks. Through toddler tantrums, late-night drives to soothe a screaming baby, and the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel soft. And still, it shows up for me every single day.

This stomach? It’s not a failure. It’s a map of my life.

It stretched — literally — to make space for  entire humans. It withstood labor, healing, and the violent, slow-motion acrobatics of postpartum recovery. It gave me my babies, then stayed soft enough to cradle them against me while they slept.

Sure, now it jiggles when I run. (Okay, when I speed walk with enthusiasm.) But if I really think about it, this extra softness isn’t a flaw. It’s the evidence of life lived — of love given, meals shared, belly laughs had, and one too many late-night tortilla chips.

And you know what? I’m tired of apologizing for it.

I’m done with sucking it in for photos, wearing the “flattering” tops, and treating my body like a before-and-after project. I’m not a “before.” I’m not an “after.” I’m a right now. A woman in her 40s who is still evolving — and who deserves to feel good in the skin she’s in, even if that skin has some stretch marks and a slightly confusing relationship with gravity.

Do I still have moments where I look down and wish things were a little… tighter? Of course. I’m not a saint, I’m a woman with access to a mirror. But now, I try to meet those moments with grace instead of critique. Because this body is still here. Still working. Still showing up, even when I haven’t always treated it kindly.

And frankly, if someone has a problem with my soft middle or my strong thighs or my laugh lines — they can kindly go take a long walk off a short pier. This body and I are finally on good terms, and that’s a relationship I’m not willing to sabotage for the sake of someone else’s idea of beauty.

So here’s to the belly that built my babies. The hips that carried the car seat. The arms that have held and comforted and carried more than they ever expected. Here’s to every inch of me that has fought, failed, healed, and thrived.

I may not be the same woman I was at 25 — but honestly, I’d rather not be.

She didn’t know how strong she was yet.

And now, at 41, I’m not just learning to love this body for myself — I’m doing it out loud, so I can show my daughters their worth was never measured by their waistline. If they see me walk proudly in the body that built their world, maybe they’ll never waste a single day wishing theirs were different.

Because this reboot isn’t just mine — it’s a legacy.

Easier Doesn’t Mean Easy: The Truth About Motherhood In My 40’s

Momma: The Reboot, at 40

I said that being a mom in my 40s is easier—and I meant it. It is. But if I’m being completely honest… it’s also not.

Because easier doesn’t mean easy. It doesn’t mean I don’t cry in the bathroom or snap at my husband for asking if I’m okay. It doesn’t mean I didn’t grieve the job I left behind or that my hormones haven’t turned me into someone I barely recognize some days.

It just means I’ve lived long enough to hold two truths at once:

This is the life I love.

And it’s also the life that’s stretching me in ways I never expected.

Let’s Talk About the Job I Walked Away From

I left a job I loved—not tolerated, not clocked in and out of—a job that made me feel purposeful, creative, confident. It gave me an identity outside of bottles and nap times. I didn’t leave it lightly.

I chose my baby. I chose to be present. I chose this chapter with full intention.

But sometimes, I still miss that woman. The one who had meetings, deadlines, lunch breaks with adults. The one who felt seen for something other than how many diapers she changed or how good she is at calming a meltdown.

I don’t regret it. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt to let that part of me go.

The Hormones Are Out Here Wrecking Me

Let’s get raw for a minute.

Postpartum in your 40s is no joke. My body feels different. My moods swing like a pendulum in a windstorm. I say things I don’t mean and feel things I can’t always explain.

Some days I wake up as Wonder Woman. Other days, I’m sobbing over spilt milk and questioning everything.

And the guilt? Oh, she’s loud. Loud enough to make me think I’m failing—when I’m just feeling.

I Miss Me—And I Love This Life

This is the hardest part to admit:

I love this new life. I really do.

And I also miss who I was before.

There’s this tug-of-war between contentment and identity. I pour so much of myself into mothering that sometimes I look up and wonder where I went.

It’s lonely sometimes, even with a baby in my arms.

It’s beautiful, and it’s exhausting.

It’s full, but it costs something.

But Here’s What I Know:

• I’m not the same woman I was—and that’s okay.
• Losing parts of yourself doesn’t mean you’re lost forever.
• Motherhood isn’t the end of me. It’s just… a remix (a reboot if you will).

This season is showing me parts of myself I never knew existed—strength, softness, humor in the chaos, grace when I stumble. I’m learning to mother my child and myself at the same time.

So Yes, It’s Easier. But It’s Also Harder.

And I’m allowed to say that out loud.

I’m allowed to grieve the old me and still embrace the new one.

I’m allowed to cry in the bathroom and still show up with love.

I’m allowed to want more someday, even when this is everything right now.

This is the reboot, after all. Not a reset. Not a return. A real, raw, messy, magical reboot.

And I’m still writing it—one pajama-wearing, messy- hair, hormone-fueled, baby-snuggling day at a time.

Thank you for being here and reading my words. If you’ve made it this far, I hope something in this post made you feel seen, less alone, or maybe even a little lighter.

Motherhood in your 40s—heck, life in your 40s—isn’t always tidy or simple, but it’s real. And if you’re walking a similar path—figuring it out day by day, loving deeply, crying randomly, and wondering where “you” went—I see you.

We’re in this together, pajamas, hormones, coffee, and all.

Until next time,

Momma: Rebooting 💛