How to Parent the Coolest Kid on the Block

It's 7:00 in the evening. The dinner dishes are put away; the children are bathed and in their PJs. Baby Alex and I have ducked into the kitchen, my unofficial writing space. From the living room I can hear the other three members of my family completely engaged in watching "Return of the Jedi".

The Two-Year-Old: That Chewy! That Chewy! That Chewy, daddy!
My Husband (Reading subtitles): There will be no bargain.
The Two-Year-Old: There Chewy! There Chewy right there! (Pause) Where Chewy?
The Four-Year-Old says nothing, having fallen into that wide-eyed, slack-faced TV stupor that makes one wonder if she is comprehending anything she sees.
The Two-Year-Old: Chewy!

Some people call it indoctrination; we call it intentional parenting.

I have two questions for you:
Why are you making me root for a cursed team, and
do you realize I have no idea how to sit upright?

We started before our kids even knew what was happening: Star Wars and Chicago Cubs onesies, a bedtime CD of instrumental Phish lullabies. We were never big on listening to kids' music in the car, so our girls learned to love the music we listened to. Maggie was barely three when I became obsessed with Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' song "Same Love". She called it "her song'" and asked to hear "I Can't Change" every time we drove anywhere. These days she's just as likely to frolic around the house singing something by Foster the People or Cold War Kids as she is to be belting out a tune from Frozen.

There's just something about involving your children in the things you love. Maggie and Ceci, as young as they are, know how happy it makes their daddy to hear them root for the Cubbies or to snuggle with them after a long day at work and watch Tony and Michael - our kids are on a first-name basis - on Pardon the Interruption. We can't wait to take them to their first baseball game, their first concert. The thought of teaching my girls to play pool, as my dad taught me, makes me giddy. And I can't lie, I look forward to educating my children on the difference between good beer and crappy beer once they're legal.

Right now our kids don't know any better; they still want to be like their mom and dad. We know that the day is coming when that will change, and they'll think that everything their parents do and everything we like is totally lame. Maybe they'll get into some teeny-bopper band that uses emojis in its song titles, and we'll totally support that. We'll load them and a bunch of their giggling, squealy friends into the car and shuttle them to an arena where we will watch a group of pre-pubescent boys perform overtly sexual choreographed dances. We will buy them souvenir t-shirts that we think are stupid. We will hope that this is just a phase, that at some point soon they will realize that their parents' taste in music is actually amazing, and then they will get on their knees and thank us for being so insanely cool.

Look on the bright side, Maggie as a baby-
you could be wearing a gold bikini.

Our daughters are going to be who they are; we get that. We can only steer them so far. My husband and I were both swimmers, so we might prefer that they choose to join a swim team over a cheerleading squad, but in the end, of course, it doesn't matter. (I touched upon this some about a year ago in my post  "Who Will You Be? (A Parent's Guessing Game), if you haven't read it!)

In a way, it's kind of nice that our children will likely set aside a lot of the tastes and interests that we have worked so hard to instill in them. Our interests will change with theirs, because no matter what they're into, we will want to be a part of it. It will give us a chance, when we're middle-aged and fading into irrelevance, to broaden our horizons and get involved in something we otherwise would not have. One example: when I was in 7th grade I begged my dad to take me and my friends to a local alt-rock music festival, and he's still listening to the Butthole Surfers. (I've moved on.)

But for now they're our babies, ours to cuddle and dance with, ours to dress in amusing clothing and force to participate in themed family Halloween costumes. Which reminds me, I have to find Maggie a Princess Leia costume for her birthday party. She's having it at the bowling alley and we're calling it "The Empire Strikes Back". Stay tuned for a future blog post titled, "How to Breastfeed a Baby in a Robot Outfit."

A Stopping Point

Stop.

Stop what you're doing right now, the thing where you make lists in your head of all the shit you need to do that you already know you won't do today. Clean your bathroom. Change the sheets. Call someone to repair the siding that was damaged in a storm a month ago. Get to the bank to open a savings account for the baby, even though you've had a check in your wallet from your husband's grandmother since the week after she was born. Write it all down already, tear up the paper, throw it in the trash. Make yourself a new to-do list that says this: Stop making to-do lists.

Stop telling your kids, Just a minute!, when they ask you to play with them, or Sure I can, right after I: wash the dishes, fold the laundry, feed the baby, pay this bill, finish this supremely important task that cannot wait.

Stop assuming the baby needs to eat or sleep every time she cries. Maybe she's over being strapped to your torso or in a bouncy chair because you legitimately fear your other children will trample her if you allow her to lay on the floor and roll around holding her little feet, which is probably what she wants to do, because she's a freaking baby. Maybe a boob in the mouth isn't the answer to everything. Maybe she just wants you to look at her.

Stop picking things up off the floor as if you are accomplishing something. That Play-Doh top will be replaced by a Barbie shoe will be replaced by a half-chewed handful of raisins.

Stop checking your phone. The anecdote you posted this morning about your older two kids, and how they're so hilariously dirty, has gotten 23 likes. So what? And it's not like you have text messages. Your family and friends are all at work. Or, if they are at home with their kids, like you, they are too busy picking items up off the floor to think about texting you.

Stop looking at the clock and wondering when it will be nap time, when your husband is coming home, when you can put them in bed.

Stop thinking about how damn tired you are.

In this moment you are the luckiest person in the world, and you're not even paying attention. In this moment these little girls are yours alone. One day you will have to share them, hand them over to teachers and mean girls and boyfriends and one day, God-willing, families of their own. In this moment they want their mommy, and you almost missed it.

Start here: When the older girls are napping, prop the baby up on the couch. See the way her eyes eat you up. Watch her smile when you smile. Coo to her: Goo. Gah. Hear her baby voice repeat after you. Hand her a rattle shaped like a bear or a cow, you're not sure which. She bats it a little with her hands and lets it drop. Pick it up and shake it gently in front of her face. When she tires of this, lift her up over your head and look up at her. She is delighted, could do this for hours.

Later, when your four-year-old comes downstairs, follow her into the playroom. Clear a space for the baby to roll around. Play dolls: she is Ariel, you are Elsa. Drag a laundry basket into the already crowded space and pretend that it is a pool. Ariel dives right in while Elsa, ever cautious, perches on the side. Switch gears; she is a queen. Help her find the right tiara. Hold a tiny mirror in front of her face as she examines each option, finally settling on a silver and purple number from the Target dollar bin. Make the queen a pretend pizza in her pretend kitchen (pepperoni and green peppers, please), then ask her if she wants a real ice cream cone.

When you get another moment, after your husband has come home and dinner has been mostly eaten and put away, start a game of tag with the two-year-old. Chase each other around and around - kitchen, dining room, hallway, kitchen, dining room, hallway - while she giggles so hard you think she might actually vomit and the four-year-old watches from the table, shakes her head and says, "You two…"

Stop. Is there anything you would rather be doing? Is there anything you should have done today that you failed to do?

Not a thing.

Start being grateful. Start being present. Start being the mom your kids think you are. Start now.

Recent Realizations that Keep Me (Somewhat) Sane

The past few months have been a little wild, what with giving birth to baby number three, starting my time as a stay-at-home mom, and trying to entertain all three kids while school is out. There have been moments, probably daily, when I feel like a mental patient. Or like I somehow mistakenly ended up in a mental hospital, and no one believes me when I try to reasonably explain the mix-up. Or like I would rather be in a mental hospital, because that would be a pretty nice vacation.

Picture this: It's lunchtime. Ceci has finished her meal and is now pawing at my leg, fingers pasty with macaroni and cheese, yelling Mom-may! Get my milk! in this strange, deep two-year-old voice that she reserves for ordering me around. (Pay with me, mommy! Mom-may! Get my shoes on!) Maggie is shoving her plate off the table because she allegedly "doesn't like" the meal that she begged me to prepare for her literally fifteen minutes ago. Alex, who is generally a good baby, usually chooses to begin howling just at this moment, apparently agreeing with me that this sucks and that crying is the correct response. I'm standing in the middle of the melee, trying to speak to these people as if they understand logic, my voice becoming more and more desperate as I plead, "Can't I just finish unloading the dishwasher?"

No. I can't.

At times like these, when I find myself screaming at everyone to calm down (because that's effective), I need to stop and give myself a silent two-second pep talk. It goes a little like this:

1. Children are disgusting. If you can remember this simple fact, and if you are strong enough in mind and spirit to accept its perfect truth, you will have a significantly greater chance of maintaining your sanity. The macaroni and cheese residue on your clothes will most likely be the least disgusting thing with which you are soiled today. Changing your clothes or your children's clothes every time something gets dirty will just become one more thing that makes your life difficult, your laundry pile bigger, one more reason to have to haul an infant or a struggling toddler up and down the stairs and pin them into submission while they express their displeasure at having to remove said clothing. And I mean, my God, what if the new pair of pants you choose for them is "not good"? Leave the mess for now. The mess isn't going anywhere. And as for unloading the dishwasher, it's actually kind of nice to let something in this house remain clean for more than five minutes.

2. If the thing stressing you out is the potential judgment of others about the state of your home, the cleanliness of your children, or your own physical appearance, stop. No one cares about these things as much as you do.  If you don't have a chance to shower because you're dealing with your smaller fellow mental patients, guess what? In all likelihood, no one will notice. All the other parents at the YMCA or the grocery store or the playground (because let's admit it, where else do parents go outside of working hours?) are probably wrapped up in their own worries: Is anyone is staring at the gap in my shirt that I just now realized I misbuttoned in my rush to get out of the confines of my house? Is there any conceivable way to fix it without drawing even more attention to myself? or Oh Lord, what is that on my shoe? Is it poop? or I'll just explain to anyone who comes within twenty feet of me that we're letting her pick her clothes out herself, because that's cuter than the truth, which is that these are the only clean clothes remaining in her closet…

So, yeah, get over yourself. People are all way too self-absorbed to look that closely at you, your kids, or your kitchen floor.

3. There's no point in fighting crazy. These irrational, impulsive, hyperactive small people with whom the Big Man has entrusted you are inevitably going to make you lose your mind. Embrace and accept. Instead of yelling or weeping or whatever you are on the verge of doing, make a conscious choice to be a happy lunatic rather than a raving one. React in a way that will surprise your kids into stopping what they are doing, kind of like how you spray a misbehaving dog in the face with a spray bottle. Bust out a spontaneous dance move, make up a song, pretend you're the Wicked Witch of the West and chase them up the stairs and into their bedrooms. If you lose your cool, they win. Don't let them win.

4. You're actually doing fine. You don't let them bring baby bottles of Fanta to bed with them. You feed them vegetables at least once a day. They are relatively healthy and happy (maybe not in this moment, but since they seem to have the memory of goldfish, this should blow over pretty quickly). You are not a total failure as a mother. Good job, you!

5. Maybe you are crazy, but you sure do love these little buttheads.

Psychos.

What Freedom Means to a Mom (or Dad)

This Fourth of July weekend has been a bit incongruous for me. Amid talk of liberty, freedom, independence, and whatever other synonyms might be out there, I was at home with three small children while my husband journeyed to Chicago to see the "Treyful Dead" perform. Let me be very clear, this post is not meant to be a diatribe against my husband. I fully support his escape back to his old stomping grounds- in fact, I'm ditching him next weekend for a friend's wedding, leaving him with all three kids and no boobs for the baby. So we're even. 

Freedom also means wearing whatever you think looks good...

In the meantime, though, I didn't feel free at all. I felt tethered. I felt stuck, and I mean that in the most loving way possible. Seriously, where could I have taken three kids ages four and under on the Fourth of July and have any fun at all without someone getting lost or maimed? So we stayed home, mostly inside, and they trailed toys from room to room, followed me around asking, "Mom, what can I do?", and asked me for a snack about every fifteen minutes. I felt like a huge meanie putting them in bed before the rest of the town was even warming up for fireworks, but 36 hours into my solo weekend, mommy needed a little time to herself (well, with Baby Alex, who basically just nurses, sleeps, and gazes at me adorably). 

My husband's weekend of freedom was a bit of an eye-opener as I realized how dependent I am on him and the help he provides at home. Mark my words, we are never EVER getting a divorce (and not just because he folds laundry, changes diapers, and makes a mean shrimp and grits). It also led me to come up with my own, revised, Declaration of Independence: Parents Edition. And since I'm not sure what the rules are when it comes to plagiarizing historical documents, here's where I stole the wording from: http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/declaration_transcript.html

I hold these truths to be self-evident, that all parents are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness… so let's break those down. 

Life: Parents have the right to have a life that extends beyond their parental responsibilities. They should not lose their identity as spouse, sibling, friend, etc., just because they also happen to have children. This means that the children will occasionally be left with babysitters or shipped off to grandma and grandpa's house so that said parents can do something decidedly un-parenty like attend a Flaming Lips concert or go to a beer festival or, I don't know, watch 16 hours straight of "The Walking Dead". 

Liberty: Parents have the right to saddle the other parent with the kids for an hour or a weekend in order to experience that blessed realization that, wait! I'm not carrying my child's 20-pound car seat in the crook of my arm! I can walk faster than .05 miles per hour! I can order a coffee at Starbucks without having to explain to my child why she can't have one too! I'm free, free at last! And since we are all created equal, that means that parents should be equitable in providing this time for one another.  

The Pursuit of Happiness: Parents have the right to do the things that keep them happy and sane. It might be working out, serving on a church committee, taking a photography class, blogging. If there's something they need to do in order to feel like a person and not just a parent, they have the right to take a little guilt-free time and attention away from their children. And besides, shouldn't our children see us pursuing our interests and broadening our horizons? Isn't that the example we want to set? 

I love my kids, and I want to spend time with them, but I find that I am the best version of myself as a mom when given a little freedom. Absence does, after all, make the heart grow fonder. I should know: my oldest two are currently having a sleepover at my in-laws, and words can't even express how fond I am of them right now. 

A Memory to Hold On To

Yesterday, on Father's Day, my sister posted a picture of her and my dad circa 1992. The photo is actually of her entire softball team, but the other girls (including me, I'm pretty sure), all decked out in green shirts and boxy, unattractive hats reading "Packy's Pub," the team's local sponsor, have been cropped out. My dad is the coach. His arms are crossed and his hair, just reaching the point of more gray than black, is styled in a Mel Gibson-esque - dare I say it? - mullet. He looks tough. He looks proud. According to my sister's caption, he is "smizing," a term coined by the eloquent Tyra Banks. It's a pretty spot-on character study of my jock dad, who embraced having three daughters and supported us in all of our athletic endeavors, regardless of the fact that my sisters and I were basically useless on a softball field.

Over the last few years, on every trip home, my sisters and I have found ourselves flipping through our parents' extensive collection of photo albums, pulling prints out every so often and snapping pictures of them on our iPhones. They are mostly of us when we were kids: piled together in our flannel nightgowns in a bed with a Care Bears comforter; crouching in the sand, making our Strawberry Shortcake dolls frolic along the roots of an old beachside pine; posing with the whole family on Beth's First Communion day with a giant white teddy bear. Some are pictures of my parents or grandparents when they were younger, as teenagers or brand new parents. I like to imagine them then, before they became my mom and dad or grandma and grandpa. I like wondering what they were laughing about or how many drinks they had had. 

I'm a little obsessed with photographs and the way they can capture the essence of a person or a moment. They've also become, for me, an anchor that helps me hold on to a memory, a feeling. For example: my dad and I laying on the couch in a small cabin in the Adirondacks that we rented for a week each summer. I'm three? Four? It's clearly past my bedtime. I'm in an oversized t-shirt and I'm stretched out on top of my dad. Neither of us is smiling, which makes us look even more alike, over-tan skin, brown eyes and sullen faces. Maybe we're just tired. Maybe he's annoyed at my mom for ruining a nice father-daughter moment with the flash of a camera. Maybe he's frustrated because his youngest daughter just won't go to bed.  I know that feeling. 

I may have changed the details of the picture, I don't know. I don't have it; it's in an album on a shelf in my parents' house. It could be that I was actually asleep in the picture. In fact, the more I think about it, I'm fairly certain that I was sleeping, so there's no way that I actually remember that moment. But I feel like I remember it, even if it's a false memory. The comfort of being little and sun-soaked and resting with my big dad, the only one in my family with the same color eyes as me. 

This is why, when so many others are trusting their photographs to "the cloud," I continue to order prints of all of my pictures, hundreds at a time, with doubles or triples of my favorites. I meticulously insert them into albums, trying my hardest to keep them chronological.  My two older daughters, like their mother, already love to flip through the pages and "remember" the trip we took to visit family in Brooklyn, or the time their grandparents took them to the zoo. They're little; Ceci, at nearly two years old, won't have any real memory of the events we are currently documenting on camera. But she will have a photograph that she can carry in her car seat with her on the way to the grocery store, as she sometimes does with a picture of her cousin Howie on a playground nearly a thousand miles away. Later, I hope she'll tape them to the mirror in her bedroom or put them in her locker at school. Maybe she will take some to college with her, tack them up on a cork board or put a small album on a shelf above her desk.

My kids will be inundated with pictures on Facebook and Instagram, as well as whatever sites and apps I don't even know about and the ones that don't exist yet, but I hope pictures won't become meaningless to them. It's old-fashioned, but I want my girls to have something they can hold onto, not just something you swipe through, then it's gone. I want Maggie to think she remembers the time she took up residence in a child-sized princess chair in the middle of an aisle in Target and refused to budge, for her to laugh at how stubborn she was, even at the age of two. Remember that, mom?, she'll say. I hope she pulls that picture out to show her own kids, along with a host of other small, shiny rectangles, and they will revel in the feel of the paper in their hands, like pieces of a puzzle or a treasure map.

The Myth of "Mother Knows Best"

First, A Quiz

I don't claim to be a professional quiz-writer like the ones for YM, but indulge me for a moment. For each of the following statements, answer "Always," "Sometimes," or "Never".

• I know how to respond when my child asks a difficult question such as, "Why do all people have nipples?"
• I know when my child is actually sick and when she is just being a butt-head
• I am an effective disciplinarian
• My children listen to me
• I set a good example for my child. Like, I could say in all seriousness, "Do as I say AND as I do."
• My child is safer in my care than she would be in anyone else's
• When it comes to my children, I do what I feel is right rather than what "everyone else" is doing
• I feel confident in the choices I make about my child

Finished? If you answered "Always" to any of these statements, then I would like to know if there are any vacancies in your household, because apparently my kids would be much better off with you, Mr. or Mrs. I'm-an-Imaginary-Parent-that-Doesn't-Really-Exist. Because really- always? There's no way; I'm calling your bluff.

The Truth

Let's all say it together, this awful secret that none of us wants to admit: About half the time, we parents have absolutely no idea what we are doing. Yes, it does get somewhat better after the first child, but one thing that I have learned in the past five-ish years is that parenthood is a complicated guessing game. I can't tell you how many times my husband and I have looked at each other and asked, "What do I do?" or "Did I do the right thing there?" and the other person just shrugs and makes that face that seems to say, "You think I know?"

We make countless decisions every day. Some are small and need to be made on the spot: Do I ignore my daughter when she insists on using the word "poop" 875 times at the dinner table, or do I address it? Do I intervene in a sibling squabble or let them figure it out on their own? Other decisions seem huge and take a lot more forethought: Should my child undergo surgery in order to have tubes placed in her ears, or do we take a chance on less invasive treatments? Which pre-school should I send my child to? What do I do when I feel my child is being bullied? And these are just regular scenarios; I can't even imagine being faced with the choices the parent of a child with special needs has to make. 

I Make You Feel Like a Better Parent

The choices keep on coming, and at times it can feel overwhelming, because what if we make the wrong decision? Well, I've done it, and I can tell you what will happen. You'll feel shitty, you'll learn from it, and if you're lucky no one gets hurt or severely emotionally scarred in the process. A few cases in point:

Here's hoping I don't irreparably damage these three sweet, crazy girls...

When Maggie was about two and a half, she woke up and was acting like a total brat. She refused to eat her breakfast and then kept dissolving into a screaming puddle at every little thing. "You're hungry," I insisted. "You just need to eat and then you'll feel better." Despite her hysterical protests, I finally got her seated at the table. In my meanest, sternest voice, I commanded her to take bites of apple sauce. After about three bites she threw up all over herself and the kitchen table. Clearly not my proudest moment, but guess what? I felt shitty (I still do, but maybe writing this down for all to see will serve as my catharsis and I will finally be able to let it go), I learned from it, and I hope to God that Maggie does not remember it, because there could be some expensive therapy sessions down the road…

Here's another one. Just a few weeks ago, Maggie asked if she could go in the backyard by herself to play on the new play set. "Sure," I said, "I'll keep an eye on you from the kitchen window," and I continued with the dishes I was washing. Only minutes later, Matt glanced outside and asked, "Is Maggie okay?" The poor child had been playing in the baby swing, it had somehow tipped over, her feet were caught in the ropes, and she was now hanging upside down, unable to get out. She was scared, but fine, and of course, I felt shitty. (Actually I felt even shittier because she looked really funny and I couldn't help but laugh. To be completely honest, even now when I think of her hanging there I can't help but laugh. I don't know why it's so funny to me- maybe it's a defense mechanism to keep me from crying. Either way, crappy parent right here.)

The Moral of the Story

Obviously these are not the only times I have made the wrong call or done the wrong thing. Some of my bad decisions may not even be clear at this time, but will reveal themselves down the road when my kids are adults that still use the word "poop" 875 times at the dinner table. 

I guess I just want to debunk the whole "maternal instinct" myth, the one that makes you think that in the heat of the moment, the "right thing" will magically make itself known. When my baby is screaming and I don't know why, it's not maternal instinct that leads me to a solution, it's a lot of trial and error. The same goes for when my toddler is acting like a wild animal in the grocery store. I think sometimes people equate not knowing what to do with being a bad parent, so we're either really hard on ourselves or we over-compensate by trying to project confidence about our own parenting style and choices. I'm probably in the former group, and I look at the latter and secretly hope to find a chink in their parenting armor. 

But neither of those reactions is fair. We're all in the same boat. Or, to look at it a different way, we're all in totally different boats, with totally different passengers, so how can we possibly compare ourselves to or judge other parents? None of us is right all the time. None of us has perfect children. If you do, let's trade, and you can have a go at making mine perfect too. All we can do is support one another, offer guidance when we can, and be as forgiving of our own shortcomings as we would be of our children's. 

(Like for instance, I should not feel shitty about using the word "shitty" multiple times in this post, even though it sets a bad example and is not what I would want my children to do. But hey, they can't even read, so whatevs. I'll worry about that one later.)

In Hindsight: What I Want My Girls to Know About Friendship

This weekend, fellow graduates from Trinity College's class of 2005 will converge upon Hartford, Connecticut for our tenth college reunion. I will not be there, partly because I have an eight-week-old, but also because I have not managed to sustain most of my college friendships. I have alluded to this in previous posts and expressed my disappointment that many of my memories of those four years, which at the time were some of the best years of my life, now make me inexpressibly sad because I can't laugh about them with the other people who were there.

Make sure to be the kind of person
your friends can look up to :)

I can now take responsibility for the role I played in the erosion of these relationships, and I suppose the one silver lining is that I now truly cherish the women in my life with whom I have built strong, mutually supportive bonds. What is most important to me at this point is using what I have learned to teach my three daughters how to navigate the often terrifying territory of female friendship.

Here is what I've come up with:

Friends should lift each other up. If a friend makes you feel ugly or less, reevaluate the importance you place on her opinion. If she has hurt you, express that immediately and with a willingness to hear her side. If you fail to communicate your anger or disappointment, you have no right to hold a grudge.

If you hurt her, apologize, but most importantly, mean it. Don't get defensive. Even if you don't think you did anything wrong, validate her feelings and try to make it right. I vividly remember a fight I had with a friend in college. I had kissed a boy she liked, and we were sitting down to hash it out. "But I like him too," I argued, "Doesn't that matter?" She looked at me with disgust and said, "With you, it's always, 'I'm sorry but.'" Ten-plus years after the fact, I get it. I wish I hadn't been the kind of person who said, "I'm sorry but." I don't want you to be that kind of person either.

Pick up the phone. Texting is okay for a lot of purposes, but you should want to hear your friend's voice. You can't laugh or cry with a person over text. When you get older, you need to be able to hear her baby cooing in the background or her toddler inching toward a tantrum to really understand where she's coming from.

Look at old pictures and think,
"I love these girls even more now."

Don't you dare talk about her behind her back, because if ever there was a rule to follow, it's to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Value every friendship equally. My sisters used to tease me when I was little because they said I had first, second, and third tier friends. My mom had designated a page of our family's phone book "Jenny's Friends", and underneath that heading was a long list of names and numbers. Every time I wanted to invite a friend to come over to play, I started at the top of the list and worked my way down until I found someone who was free. I'm nicer than I was when I was a child, because I know now that nobody wants to feel like a second choice. All of your friends bring something to the table. Appreciate them all, because as an adult, I can tell you they are all awesome and irreplaceable: your mom friends, your drink-a-glass-of-wine-together friends, your childhood friends, your weekend-getaway friends, your funny friends, your same-political-opinions friends, your passionate friends, your older and wiser friends, your work friends, all of them.

Understand that friendships go through stages. This is natural and will allow you to grow as individuals. You'll drift apart and, when you realize that you miss her, you'll come back together. My friend Lindsey and I have followed this pattern time and time again since we first met at age three. We spent time with different cliques, pursued different interests, but always found our way back to each other and continue to do so because our friendship makes us better.

And if, when you reach out, your friend doesn't respond in kind? I've learned the hard way that there are some people that you will have to let go of, regardless of how painful it may be. Not every relationship will last, but they will all teach you something that will hopefully make you a better friend in the future.

When your friends feet are swollen from pregnancy,
go get a pedi with them

Friendship is not always easy but should always be worth it. If you reach adulthood and have a handful of friends that are honest with you but kind, who lift you up and keep you grounded, who challenge you, who forgive you, who share their struggles with you and genuinely want to hear about yours, well, you will be counted lucky.