I’m not going to lie or sugarcoat it: My daughter turned one last month and I’m still working a postpartum stomach that is disappointingly similar to how it looked when I went back to work two months after she was born.

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According to a quick Internet search, I’ve entered the time at which my eldest can start forming longer-term memories. Dear God.

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Two weeks after the birth of my second daughter, I was hormonal and full of enough mom guilt to venture out for the first time alone with two kids.

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The things I have done as a mother would disgust and frighten pre-baby me. But now that I’m a mom, I’ve got “mom balls,” as my friends and I deemed them. Cojones, if you will.

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I will not forget ...

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I wish I could tell you how I went from deciding I’d be practical and not throw my eldest a big party for her third birthday, and clicking “order” on $60 worth of Frozen cupcakes.

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Last Sunday was one of the days that will flash before my eyes when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil.

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New moms, pull up a chair. Or a pillow, rather.

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Last night I cleaned up one of the grossest messes yet of parenthood.

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I don’t know about you, but being forced to put on real pants and a bra is not my idea of Mother’s Day.

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