I Had a Post-Baby Identity Crisis. Here's How I'm Dealing.

My girls, my world.

It sounds cliche to say that motherhood has helped me define myself. But it’s not all the beautiful parts—the unbeatable joy of that first, long-awaited encounter with your baby, the thrill of each milestone, the pure, sweet smiles your little one flashes—that have transformed me most. Those are the expected pleasures that still, somehow, exceed all expectations, but they are not the moments that have forced me to discern—to decide—who I am. It’s the tough stuff, the sacrifices, that has brought my true self bubbling to the surface, ugliness and all.

I was never one of those girls who fantasized about her future family, able to name her eventual progeny when they were only a distant hope. Having children seemed like an inevitability—a beautiful, blurry thing that would someday happen—but my most defined goals centered around my career. I spent much of my childhood cycling through professions—I created brochures for imagined businesses (a luxury pet resort was a frequent one), taught my stuffed-animal students, and designed mock magazine covers. As I entered adulthood, I never bothered to reconcile my aspirations with my certainty that I would stay home once I had children, probably partly because my mother had, but also because I couldn’t fathom any other arrangement. I knew I would want to be with my babies. I guess I figured it would just sort of work itself out. 

I remember feeling something akin to panic my first few weeks on the couch, those hazy days after giving birth to my oldest. I wasn’t depressed—I was adrift. I’d been working, near constantly, since I was 14, and suddenly I was doing what felt dangerously close to nothing: watching Parenthood, and The Bachelor, and when I was desperate, music videos (yes, they still exist). The tightness in my chest was an unpredictable companion, striking at random, probably due to some combination of hormonal chaos, uncertainty about my future, and the realization that my heart was now outside my body, in this tiny, six-pound person. 

Although my anxiety faded, my ambition did not. When my daughter was five months old, I dutifully hired a nanny, determined to make the gesture of going back to work, when in reality, I dreaded the separation. But then Asa unraveled on day one—unconsolable and unwilling to take a bottle, filled with my carefully pumped, dated, and frozen milk—and I felt myself crumbling. So I apologetically sent the nanny home and decided Asa and I would do this thing on our own. Throughout her infancy, I nursed her while I interviewed my sources, or drove around beforehand, praying she would drift off in her carseat (and stay that way once we got home). Although I wasn’t advancing in my career anymore, I was at least still in the game.

Looking back, I realize that Baby Number One is deceptively uncomplicated. Sure, there’s the learning curve of packing a diaper bag, grocery shopping with a fussy infant, or coping with the boredom of entertaining a person who can’t speak. But, for the most part, my life was a slightly amended version of my childless one—I lost the baby weight quickly (and found it surprisingly easy to be kind toward my altered body), freelance assignments still regularly appeared in my inbox, international travel was manageable, and I generally found my daughter to be a welcome buddy and thrift-store shopping companion. 

Then came baby number two.

I thought I was prepared—I knew I’d get the shakes during my C-section. I could latch a baby to my breast in the dark. I knew that, because my first child has never been much of a napper, I probably couldn’t bank on my second sleeping much during daylight hours—and that trying to wrangle a toddler and an infant would only intensify the struggle I’d felt as a working stay-at-home mom with my first: that I was never a great employee or a great mother. So I worked until my final month of pregnancy, but ultimately decided it was time to step back—to stop clinging to whatever shreds of my career remained. I was going into full-blown mommy mode.

I wish someone had told me that these first months as a mother of two would be like a second adolescence. Although the logistical transition has been relatively easy—my youngest is a good sleeper with a sweet, easygoing temperament—the emotional adjustment has been more trying. I’ve often felt insecure, desperate for friends in a place I don’t much like (I got pregnant immediately after moving to Texas), and like I’m trying to figure out who, exactly, I am, all while wishing my stomach was a little flatter, my hair something other than a disobedient mess. All the things I thought I’d moved past have resurfaced, the emotional version of adult acne. I recently unearthed some journals from my early teen years, and my entries sound remarkably similar to my recent venting sessions with my husband. My 14-year-old self wondered if anyone liked me, recorded self-conscious details—my height, my grades—and repeatedly detailed my efforts toward six-pack abs. Apparently, the intervening years did little more than bury those old teenage insecurities. 

For the first time in years, I feel vulnerable—stripped of the things that made me who I was in my mid-20s, a time when I was beginning to feel I had figured it all out. I no longer wear my success like a protective cloak. No one bothers to ask me, “What do you do?” anymore. Instead, I’m asked what my husband does. The accomplishments I was once so proud of have faded into mere backstory—details of my past, like the name of my first boyfriend or the town where I grew up—that few people care to know about. My identity has contracted to dreaded wife of/mother of status.

As hard as this has been, it’s also forced me to figure out who I really am—to evaluate what brings me joy, to refine the faults that motherhood has brought into sharp relief, to choose to love myself even when I have a hard time feeling worthy. I’ve connected with an inner world that thrives on thinking and contemplating and learning. I’ve rediscovered my love of baking. I’ve become more organized—a feat that may seem unremarkable, unless you’re one of my former colleagues who knows how messy my office often was. I’ve learned that having a couple close friends is, for me, far better than lots of occasional acquaintances. I’ve revisited long-forgotten elementary-school topics—planets, cloud formations, volcanoes—and, in the process, educated myself as much as my preschooler. I’ve realized, finally, that my faith is the most important definer of who I am. 

It’s true, my world has shrunk—I spend most of my time doing the same things, with the same people (most of whom stand about three feet tall). I recently logged the details of my day on my phone, and it went something like this: woke up, did my Bible study, fed my toddler breakfast, nursed the baby, put baby back down, crafted with my toddler, started prepping dinner, got the kids dressed, did laundry, served lunch, took toddler to dentist, nursed baby, emailed a radio station to decline an interview (I can no longer speak intelligibly about the proposed topic, romantic rejection, except to say, “Enjoy the alone time while you can”), nursed baby, made dinner, mowed the grass, bathed my children, nursed baby, and finally, watched a little Netflix. 

These days, self-care amounts to prayer and exercise, which I manage at mostly regular intervals, but things I used to love—walks in the woods, weekend trips, massages—have become Mother’s Day gifts, rather than regular parts of life. Through it all, my self-awareness has still, somehow, grown. I’ve been stripped of the things I thought mattered most, and discovered that life is so much bigger than that one measure of success, even if the only success I have some days is finishing a load of laundry. I don’t know, still, what my very distant future holds, but I can confidently say that those baby smiles and little-girl I Love You's, whispered throughout the day without prompting or expectation, are enough to make me certain it’s all been worth it. 

Why Calling My Toddler a "Daddy's Girl" Is Actually Destructive

Strangers and acquaintances, can we make a deal?

I won’t ask you to stop commenting on the socks my daughter should be wearing, the hair that shouldn’t be in her face, or the words you think she should be saying. But, please, can you stop calling her a Daddy’s Girl?

I’m not jealous, I promise. I love seeing the beautiful relationship blossoming between my husband and daughter. He makes her belly-laugh, he reads to her, he gives me breaks. It’s great—for him, for her, for me. We’re a happy family.

But, the thing is, a family includes me—and when you, someone we barely know, decides my daughter really must prefer him, since he’s holding her, or you know, being a parent, I kind of want to slap you. Is that rude of me?

“Oh, she’s with her favorite person—she really loves her daddy.”

“What a Daddy’s Girl!”

These comments may seem cute, or complimentary, but when made in the presence of me, the mother—who spends 10 hours a day changing diapers, wiping snotty noses, pleading with her toddler to, please, stop crushing crackers into the cat’s fur—well, it’s just kind of insulting. I know Daddy is more fun than me. That’s because my attention is a given and his is a gift. That’s no fault of his own—someone has to make the money. All I’m really asking for is a little credit—recognition that the novelty of Daddy doesn’t negate the hours I just spent as a one-woman entertainment committee, chef, and pit crew. 

Daddies have the privilege of being roughly 70 percent fun, 30 percent parent. That ratio would lead to total anarchy when applied to a 10-hour day together—one that includes grocery shopping, folding laundry, and preparing dinner. Reverse that ratio during my time with Asa, and it makes sense why Daddy might pull ahead, if you want to make this a contest for an 18-month-old’s affection.

And let’s be real: After a toddler with a 12-second attention span has just spent all day playing with, being corrected by, and forced into a car seat by the same person, a new face is exciting—especially when that person comes armed with candy, kisses, and lots of tickles. So, yes, my daughter is excited to see her daddy. Who would’t be? After a day alone with a human hurricane, I’m pretty pumped to see him too.

I’m not trying to undermine or explain away their love for each other. There’s a reason there are daddy/daughter dances—it’s a special relationship, and one that is entirely distinct from the mother/daughter bond. So, you're right, my daughter does love her daddy, and if he’s around, she probably wants to be in his lap. But that doesn’t make me a third wheel or a second-choice parent—it makes me a happy mommy.

4 Design Ideas for Gender-Neutral Nurseries

When I was pregnant, my due date seemed like a distant goal. But the gender reveal? That was something I could set my sights on—and so I did, religiously counting down the days until my anatomy scan. But apparently, not all parents are as gung-ho about the girl-boy question as I was: 51 percent of Americans say they think waiting until the delivery is the way to go—and shockingly, in my circle, plenty of super-patient parents are actually sticking with it: I know three pregnant ladies who aren’t finding out their little one’s gender (and one is even a first-time mom willing to wait!).  

My immediate response: If you don’t know the gender, how are you going to decorate the nursery?? (Because, clearly, deciding on a wall color is the most critical pregnancy concern.)

But the truth is, if you were to guess based on my daughter’s nursery decor, you’d probably assume I was one of the mommies who diverted her eyes during the 20-week ultrasound: Asa’s crib is yellow, her chifarobe teal, and her walls gray. As much as I love pink, I didn’t want to force my femininity on my newborn; something calming, sweet, and future-sibling-friendly seemed ideal. 

So what options are out there for the mom who can resist the 20-week gender reveal—but can’t wait to paint and pick out bedding? I put together four gender-neutral—but drastically different—potential looks for your little one’s room. 

The Look: Black & White

Black and white is known for stimulating babies’ vision. So why not deck out your nursery in the high-contrast look? Although sheepskin rugs are super-popular for kids’ rooms right now, I’ve made that mistake—and now have a dingy, matted-down rug in my daughters’ room. A zebra print cowhide rug delivers the same playful vibe, but with more durability.

The Look: Tropical Paradise

Pineapples were hot this season, cropping up on everything from pillows to dresses…to crib sheets! I love this printed sheet, because it’s cute but not kitschy, and the pair of tropical wall prints pulls together the sheets and the bright colors of the rug. 

The Look: Peaceful & Pastoral

I typically shy away from all-neutral rooms, but for a nursery, the look is more relaxing than bland. The animal accents add a whimsical touch to the otherwise understated room.

The Look: South-of-the-Border Chic

I was immediately drawn to this otomi-inspired crib quilt from Pottery Barn, which inspired me to design a chic nursery with south-of-the-border flair. The classic lines of the furniture keep the playful, bright accessories from feeling too loud. 

9 Tips for Touring Europe with a Toddler

When my husband Frank and I decided to travel to five countries—Iceland, Switzerland, Germany, Austria, and Italy—in 12 days with our 18-month-old, reactions were mixed: lots of shock, a little admiration, and plenty of doubt about our sanity. Maybe we were naive to think it could work, but since the beginning of our daughter’s life, we’ve been determined not to quit enjoying our own lives—even if we are at home by 7 p.m. most nights. 

But nearly two weeks in several foreign countries with a toddler? This made our normal level of bravery—think venturing out to Taco Tuesday with Asa in tow—look like a trip to the spa. This, we realized, could be the dividing line in our vacation history: Remember when we used to, you know, go places? Well, at least we can still go to Knoebels. (Look it up.)

I’d already flown solo with Asa twice, and most recently, as a family, we’d traveled to Disney World, with disastrous results: back-arching, wailing, and writhing at 30,000 feet. By the end of the flight, I was tempted to pass Asa off to Frank and pretend I didn't know them. It was bad.

All strapped in and ready for takeoff! 

So, with this nightmare in mind, we boarded our first flight from Washington, D.C., to Reykjavik, Iceland, one of the longest legs of our trip at just over five hours, with a healthy dose of fear. Amazingly, though, Asa was a gem—but, as we learned later that night, she was just resting up for some serious screaming. In theory, our hotel’s room-darkening shades were great, except that they left about four inches of window exposed on either side. Room-dimming would have been a more accurate way to advertise these curtains—and because Iceland only gets “dark” for three hours a night during the summer, Asa slept three hours. It was a delight, truly. 

Fortunately, this first night was the peak of our collective misery. As the days passed, we settled into our groove—even when facing a 102-degree fever in Heidelberg (hers), a 103-degree fever in Rome (mine), and an intestinal battle with cheese fondue in Switzerland (I lost). (Somehow Frank always escapes unscathed, though he frequently claims he can “feel something coming on.” Let’s call this empathy, shall we?)

So how’d we wrangle a one-and-a-half-year-old in Europe? Learn from our successes—and our mistakes—for your European adventure with a pint-sized passenger:

Mistake #1: Don’t assume “room-darkening shades” means black-out shades.

I knew Iceland would be light at night, so in my hotel search, I made sure to hunt for a room with darkening shades. But, as previously mentioned, that did absolutely nothing for us, since they failed to actually fully cover the windows. My advice? Even if you’re in a country that gets dark, but your little one requires pitch-black to sleep, do extensive research: Read reviews, call the hotel, do anything you can to ensure the room will actually be dark—unless you like strolling the sidewalks at 2 a.m.

Mistake #2: Don’t experiment with snacks.

When I was grocery shopping for the trip, I found some granola bars on clearance for $.62. I can’t resist a bargain, so I bought them—and didn’t conduct a taste-test with Asa before we left. Naturally, she refused to eat them once in Europe, leaving me to ration her favorite fruit snacks (and forcing me to share my Nutella croissants with her). So stick with the snacks you know work, and stock up.

Can you sense her misery?

Mistake #3: Don’t tote your toddler in a baby carrier.

On our first day in Rome, I made the executive decision to have Frank carry Asa in her Ergo. I’m going to add here that I was suffering from a high fever at this time, which is my excuse for not realizing that a) Her carrier was black, and it was 100 degrees outside b) She’s now an avid walker, and runner, and restraint is not welcome. What seemed a smart way to navigate the Colosseum, which I figured wouldn’t be stroller friendly (but was), was actually terrible: Not only did she overheat, but she was dying to have some freedom—for her, being restricted in a shaded stroller is much more acceptable than being confined to a carrier in blazing heat. Never again.

Mistake #4: Don’t bother with the hotel cribs.

If the hotels you’re staying at offer free cribs, go ahead, ask for one. But if you have to pay, I’d suggest skipping it, since toddlers have reached the stage where they’re aware of their surroundings—i.e. they know you’re in the bed five feet from them. From night one, Asa absolutely refused to sleep in the crib, even though, at home, we’ve never coslept.

Happily chilling in her carseat, snacking on Nutella.

Success #1: Do rent a car.

I loved, loved, loved the fact that we didn’t have to deal with airport transfers, trains, subways, or taxis, which would have been a serious hassle with a carseat and all the luggage we had (there’s no such thing as traveling light with a toddler). By renting a car, we gave ourselves more freedom, and had a safe place for Asa to nap while we drove. 

A couple warnings: 

1. Driving on European roads is challenging if you’ve never done it; since my husband lived in Europe for three years, it was an obvious choice for us. 

2. European model cars are smaller than U.S. cars. (Case in point: Our friends who paid for a two-suitcase car could only fit one of their American-size bags.) So book a larger car than you anticipate needing, although you may be surprised with an upgrade: In both Iceland and Europe, the rental companies bumped us up to a roomier ride (probably after seeing our ridiculous pile of baby equipment). 

3. Keep long rides to a minimum. In our experience, three-hour stretches are the max, when, day after day, you’re subjecting your little one to long rides. Remember, you’re taking in the scenery, but your baby is staring at the back seat. 

Success #2: Do ask the airlines if there are any empty seats for your toddler.

We were cheap and didn’t buy a seat for Asa, instead opting to pay about $150 for her to fly as a lap infant. On our first flight, the attendant gave us a lap belt for her—something U.S. airlines don’t offer—to strap her to us, thereby preventing escape. We though that was amazing—until, on the next three flights, we were given free seats for her and her carseat. How? At the gate desk, Frank just asked the clerk if there were any open seats. In all three cases, there were, and the airline kindly rearranged the flight a little to accommodate us. (FYI, even though Iceland Air is super-barebones, it is very accommodating of children. Plus, for no extra cost, you can break up your trip, stopping in Iceland, then finishing your final leg to Europe a few days later, letting you avoid super-long airtime. ) It never hurts to ask! 

Success #3: Do keep breastfeeding.

I’d initially planned to wean Asa at 12 months. When that didn’t happen, I decided to stick with it until after our big trip, since I knew the nursing would help pop her ears during take-off and landing and soothe her to sleep (2.5 hours on the first flight!). Even though nursing a 20-pounder is uncomfortable in an airplane seat, it was well worth the pain (I was crying at one point, my lap was no numb from holding her). So if you’re thinking about weaning (whether from bottles or breast), but have a vacation around the corner, hold off if you can! 

A nap at 3 p.m. in Rome? Never would have happened when Frank and I were childless. But with Asa, it was essential, even though she barely naps at home. The heat is taxing!  

Success #4: Do know your limits.

Go into your trip knowing this: With a toddler in tow, you won’t see everything. My advice: Pick one or two must-sees in each city, and consider anything else a bonus, because once you factor in long lines, nap times, snack times, meal times, and, yes, tantrums, your ambitious itinerary will become torturous. If your budget allows, take any opportunity to skip the lines, whether by buying tickets online (we did this for the Colosseum and the Vatican) or hiring a tour guide (we did this in Florence to see the statue of David). That way, you’ll use up your toddler’s patience looking at exhibits, not standing outside of museums. 

Why wait in line when you could be eating gelato?

Success #5: Do book a few American-style hotels.

By American-style hotels, I mean the Crowne Plaza. I’m all for quintessentially European hotels—if I’m on a romantic getaway. But cramming a family of three into a closet-sized hotel room? No thanks. In Germany, we stayed in a Crowne Plaza and it was divine: plush robes, roomy accommodations (i.e. space for Asa to play), air conditioning, and a pastry waiting on the dresser. Call me a typical American tourist all you want, but I’ll take a cozy robe over roughing it any day.