Selling on Craig’s List with a Toddler

I am too trusting. It’s one of the first things I hate and simultaneously love about myself. My trusting nature means I’ll make friends with anyone, and I’ll give anyone the benefit of the doubt. My trusting nature means I assume everyone treats me how I treat them. It also means that I get hurt quite frequently. I take the good with the bad.

Today, I am struggling, because yesterday, that turned on its’ head. Like I often do, I decided, yesterday, to sell my new Apple Watch on Craig’s List. The reasons why aren’t important, but what is important is to know this is something I do pretty consistently. From keyboards ($50!) to cars ($4000!), I’ve had a good experience, and haven’t had any issues. I suppose all good things must come to an end.

I didn’t get many bites when I first posted it which is expected. I had priced higher, and would drop the price throughout the weekend. About 2:30p, I did get a text asking if it was still available.

“Yes,” I responded. “Where are you?”

“Troutdale,” my Craig’s List buddy responded. “Are you ok to meet around Gateway? It’s about halfway.”

That should’ve been my first sign. Gateway isn’t a bad part of town, but it’s certainly not the place where I should be selling high-priced electronics. The second came not long after when I noticed his green texts, indicating his Android device.

“I’m buying it for my girlfriend … she’s an Apple fan.”

“You ok to meet in the parking lot at the Fred Meyer?”

“Yep. Parking lot is fine. I don’t like walking around with all that cash.”

I bundled my almost two-year-old into the car, and met my husband at a grocery store for him to do the transaction. I ignored the slight twinge of anxiety at the back of my brain.

Should I ask for his name? I wonder what his name is.

Should you really bring your son to something like this? I’ve done it before, so it shouldn’t matter. Jake’s there. We’re in a crowded parking lot. It’s fine.

Interesting that after all this selling, this is the first time I’ve met someone halfway as opposed to having them come to me.

After a few minutes, Mr. Craig’s List pulled up. He was looking around the parking lot quite a bit. Something I attributed to him looking for me. He got out of the car, and I saw his girlfriend in the front seat. I waved, as she very pointedly turned away from me, not showing her face.

He counted out the bills to my husband, they exchanged the goods, and within seconds, he and Mrs. Craig’s List were peeling out of the parking lot. Jake handed me the money, and I instantly recognized the stacks of bills as counterfeit. I burst into tears.

To be honest, the mom guilt is what got me. Jake is … aloof at times, and while I was certainly frustrated, I wasn’t at him. I was actually glad it was Jake who exchanged, because I would’ve likely noticed and I’m not sure what would’ve happened if Mr. Craig’s List had been called on it (although I’ve played the potential scenarios in my head).

And it’s those scenarios that had me in tears on and off all yesterday afternoon. Those scenarios that had me moving like a robot last night, stiffly and with my guard up. And it’s those scenarios that kept me from sleeping last night.

Endangering myself by trusting that someone is going to do the right one thing is one thing. But my son was in the backseat, mere feet away from this man who, at a minimum, is ok committing a felony in broad daylight. What would have happened if Jake had called him on the bills? Would Thomas have seen his dada get hit? Stabbed? Worse? Would anything have happened to Thomas and I in the car?

And that’s what I can’t let go of right now. Jake is encouraging me to get a new Apple Watch (the one I sold had cellular; I don’t need cellular). But I can’t. My selfishness and my “keeping up with the Joneses” put my son in danger. My sister has repeatedly told me I was probably safer than I thought. But what if I wasn’t? And what if that stupidity cost me what I hold most dear: my family?

With all of the increased anxiety and depression postpartum, I haven’t ever really worried about the controllable. Instead, I worry about earthquakes liquefying the ground underneath his daycare. I worry about him being scared because someone comes into his school and shoots. I worry about a car plowing through his class as they all hold hands and walk along the sidewalk. (Welcome to my brain and why I am so thankful for Zoloft!)

Until yesterday, me putting him in danger like that wasn’t on my radar. Sleepless nights and the black thoughts that come there, sure. But out in the public? Where everyone can see me and I’m out in the daylight and out of my head and the support is there? I never imagined.

This one will take me a while to process. I am thankful we are all ok. But it’s going to be a hard one.

So … what did I learn from this experience that might help you? What did I learn that even I, a “savvy” Craig’s List-er didn’t think of?

  1. Meet in public. Obviously. But meet inside a store or at a police station, not with the getaway vehicle right there.
  2. Get the name of the person you are meeting. And, if you are in that parking lot, the make and model of the vehicle, along with the plate.
  3. Most importantly, if something doesn’t feel right, trust it. Both Jake and I, after the incident, have talked about how we felt off from the beginning. We should’ve trusted our guts and walked.

What situations have you inadvertently put your child in that you realize, after the fact, was a huge mistake? How did you work through the guilt associated?

Advocacy, Parenting

LEGO DUPLO: Teaching My Child About Reality

The quaint downtown toy store has always held wonders for me. Remnants of my childhood, books you don’t see anywhere else, arts and crafts of varying complexities. It was my dreamland as a little kid, and still strikes the imagination even at 35.

Today, my birthday, I walked in with my son and my husband. The first thing I saw was the wall of LEGOs. I perused the latest and wandered up and down the wall, but only one struck my eye: the LEGO DUPLO My First Construction Site. My child, like most almost-two-year-olds, is OBSESSED with diggers and dump trucks. I am obsessed with LEGOs and creating things. It seemed like the perfect way to spend the evening of my birthday.

After dinner, we cracked open the box, and pulled out all the pieces. Thomas handed me orange squares and gray orange shovels, and we both clicked them together into place.

We finished the dump truck first, and then the digger. My last step? To place the two people inside their vehicles. I grabbed the first and settled him into place. Grabbing the second, I stopped short.

Another man. I put the set down and walked away, frustrated.

I logged onto Amazon and found the set. It’s Amazon’s Choice, it turns out, and “includes 2 construction worker lego DUPLO figures with safety helmets.” Go back one version, though, and see the thing I did … essentially the same set, but this time it “includes 2 workmen LEGO® DUPLO® figures.” Everything else remains unchanged as far as I can tell.

Other sets show the same thing. The LEGO DUPLO Town Police Patrol is an “inspiring toddler toy features a buildable police van with a detachable lock-up with opening door.” Inspiring, sure, but for whom?

The LEGO DUPLO Farm Adventures has a male farmer with two small children observing him as he works. Don’t tell my sister — she’s a farmer too.

The LEGO DUPLO Town Airport has a male truck driver and a male pilot. We see some representation, thank goodness, in the black female passenger. But I would LOVE to see her flying that plane.

LEGO has done better … I guess. The LEGO DUPLO Push Train has a male train engineer, but a female truck driver hauling the harvest. There’s another version of the plane set where I THINK one of the people it comes with is a woman who is a pilot potentially (I am nervous that she may be a flight attendant).

“Can you take away the people from him?” I asked.

“Ok … why?” my husband replied.

“I don’t care if he plays with the truck and digger. But I do care that it isn’t proper representation.”

“Maybe this could be your thing,” he replied, innocently, obliviously.

“What does THAT mean?” I snapped back.

“I mean … you could write them?”

And herein lies the problem. There are too many fights. And it isn’t that I’m not willing to fight them, it’s that I’m wishing they didn’t have to be FOUGHT.

I don’t want to explain to my white, straight, male husband why it would be nice if someone else fought for me. For us. For those who are less represented. And I don’t want to explain to him, either, that our white, male son is seeing himself everywhere, but not his uncle Korey or his aunt Rashidah or even the female farmer he knows, his aunt Becca. Selfishly, but worst for me, my son rarely sees me.

Once I settle into my anger, however, I can see that it’s also a welcome reminder to check my white privilege and recognize I need to introduce more diversity into my child’s toys. We’ve already started to diversify our book collection, which has been, unfortunately, more difficult than expected. And now we’ll work to diversify our toys as well.

Other figurines will go the way of the DUPLO “workers” currently residing in the recycling bin unless they are more representative of this country or, better yet, this world. According to the World Population Review, that means, by 2020, the United States will be comprised of 49.53% men and 50.47% women (this, of course, completely ignoring non-binary folks). And, according to a 2015 report by the Pew Research Center, as of 2015, we need to represent 62% White, 12% Black, 18% Hispanic, and 6% Asian (again, ignoring those who don’t fit into clean, perfect buckets).

I can’t, and won’t, put it all on LEGO to fix this problem. I also need to take action. My wallet and my awareness can send a strong signal. Talking about it out loud sends an even stronger one.

Frustration breeds action, and I have my plan. What’s yours?

Family, Health, Parenting

Shopping Lessons


One of our favorite things to do is to go to the store. It can be a Target, a Home Depot, the gas station … whatever. Thomas LOVES to meander through the aisles, looking at and touching each and every thing. And I LOVE to watch him take it all in. It occurs to me often that this is potentially literally his first time seeing a certain type of bottle or a box of popsicles, and watching him make discoveries is one of my favorite things of being a parent.

On Saturday, we were enjoying a few minutes at the grocery store while Jake picked up groceries. We were walking through the clothing section, when some gray t-shirts caught my eye. I kept half an eye on Thomas as he knelt next to a shelf and perused, and I tried to assess what size I was in Freddie’s latest v-neck fashion.

An employee, maybe in his early 20s, came rushing down the aisle with a cart full of broken-down cardboard boxes. Thomas, of course, took this moment to stand up and start running towards me. “WAIT!” I yelled, and the cart driver came to a screeching halt.

I grabbed Thomas’s arm and pulled him closer to me, while the employee rolled his eyes. I felt my defensiveness rise.

“I was watching him,” I said.

“Right,” he replied, as he took off again down the aisle.

I felt my face immediately flush and my anxiety heighten, and looked around my immediate area. No one was there to see me being a bad parent. No one noticed my paying more attention to a t-shirt than my flesh and blood. After a few minutes, my heartbeat slowed and my breathing returned to normal.

My anxiety has encouraged me to mentally return to this situation multiple times, to replay, to reassess, to reanalyze. Is he still annoyed? Did he go back and complain to his friends about the woman who couldn’t keep her kid under control? The mom who thought shopping was more important than her toddler?

The answer? Likely a “no.” He probably, like a lot of people, completely forgot about the situation about 30 seconds after he walked away (or maybe not … if you’re reading this, Freddie’s employee, I’m sorry!!).

I remember, many years prior to being a parent, reading a Facebook post where someone was highlighting how whenever she’s at the park with her child, she’s surrounded by moms on their phones. While I don’t agree with completely blowing Thomas off for Instagram (although it has happened), I do wonder, when did society decide that a mom can’t take a breath even for a minute? When did our culture decide to promote perfection? I remember playing at the park while my mom read a book or, god forbid, closed her eyes for a second, and I turned out ok. Who decides what is (or isn’t) frivolous and unforgivable when it comes to taking your eyes off your kid?

I know I am just one of many voices starting to rise, but we need to be easier on ourselves. Could something have happened? Could Thomas have been crushed by a cart in front of hundreds of Oregonians, this 22-year-old kid’s life ruined forever? Yes. But more than likely, it would have been more like the situation we found ourselves in a few weeks ago.

Thomas kept walking up to the Macy’s store and slapping the window, as toddlers are prone to doing. I kept asking him to stop, walking him through the consequences and how someone might not see him and squish him with the door.

I walked away, anticipating Thomas was continuing his trek right behind me. About three steps later I turned around and saw him back at the door, slapping away, right as a woman opened it into his face.

They both yelled in surprise. She apologized profusely (as did I), and then she laughed. Thomas was fine and, as she put it, “he probably won’t do that again!” And she’s probably right.

What oversight “errors” have you made that turned out to be a good lesson?

BT4, Family

Go go go

There are a lot of times we just don’t like each other. Quiet glares in the hallway. Downcast eyes. Yelling. Like any relationship, we have the highs and the lows. We have the moments where we want to quit and the moments where it all makes sense.

I’m reminded of why I’m thankful for him tonight. It’s 9:40p, and instead of watching a movie or sleeping, he’s curled up around an iron, a laptop case, and Cricut vinyl, trying to find the perfect temperature to make this whole thing “go” and help fill a merchandise store with goodies so we can get the show on the road.

In the words of Thomas, “go go go!”

Jake Practicing HTV

Family, Travel, Work

Highs and Lows

I could wait to get back from San Francisco. It’d been a long three days, and as the plane touched down in Portland, I started tapping my feet and upping the antsy-ness. At three days and two nights, it wasn’t the longest I’ve been away from Thomas, but it was close.

I jumped off the plane and bolted through the airport, swerving around meandering passengers. I love the new arrival area at PDX … you walk through glass doors into a bright, wide-open space filled with expectant parents, grandparents, friends and, if you’re lucky, your kiddo.

He didn’t see me at first. He was sipping on a pouch, and walking around the Starbucks tables. As he made a right turn, we locked eyes, and he went into what can best be described as a 20-month-old panic. “ALL DONE ALL DONE!” he yelled, trying to stuff the cap back on the pouch. “MAMA!”

I dropped my suitcase and walked quickly to him (running in airports always feels dangerous to me). Mere seconds later I had the sweetest reward for a week of hard work … a sweaty hug, a little drool, and a sticky hand patting my back as he said, “mama, mama, hug?” I was home, and literally nothing could be better.

Nothing, that is, until you fast forward 90 minutes. Everyone is hungry. Everyone is tired. And maybe, just maybe, we’ve spent a few too many hours at Joann’s buying stuff for the forthcoming merchandise in the shop. It is at these times that genius usually strikes, and tonight it did. My husband and I decided tonight was the night to take Thomas to his first round at Shari’s.

We snuggled into the booth with two menus and a kid’s drawing pack, and Thomas immediately set the coloring the paper. And then the menu. And then the table. It’s during these moments that the flashbacks occur, where you remember every time you’ve glared at another parent who should “just control their kid.” When the waitress took our drink order, I turned my head for two seconds. When I turned back, the window was colored in stripes of green.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We have stuff that will take that right off.”

But I can’t help but worry about it. This is a learning moment, and a moment to control. I turned to Thomas, and gently said, “we don’t color on windows … if you don’t color on the paper, we are done with it for tonight,” and redirected him to the paper. Task complete, until mere seconds later, he picked up the crayon again and splashed more color across the window.

I picked him up swiftly, and swung him over my lap so he’d be on the other side of me and away from the offending window. In doing so, my child, who I swear grew at least three inches in the three days I was gone, sent my water glass flying with his kick. The entire restaurant went silent, except for Thomas who was yelling, “mine!” as he thrashed in the booth. Jake said, “do you want me to handle it?” My look could’ve killed.

In that moment, I truthfully hated myself. All I had done was pine for my kid for three days, and not two hours after we saw each other, I already wanted to go back to San Francisco, my quiet hotel room, and my newspaper before bedtime. My internal monologue was ugly. “I’m a failure. I’m impatient. I’m failing him. He’s a kid and I can’t keep my cool to make this a learning lesson. I’ve embarrassed everyone.” And so on and so forth.

It was MILES from what I expected my evening to be. Landing in Portland, I fantasized about this evening being full of sweet moments. I pictured us happily “frowing rocks,” hanging with the dog, and snuggling up to “be book.” That fantasy, however, was not to be.

My hormones, my anxiety, my depression, they all spin stories for me about what should and shouldn’t be for myself, for my life, for my family. I constantly have to recenter and remind myself that one transgression doesn’t set a whole day’s (or even a whole hour’s) path, and yes, we can bounce back. It feels impossible and scary in that moment to forgive myself, but taking a deep breath is often enough to help at least get me started.

That’s what I did tonight. I told Jake I needed a second to settle. I hugged my child. Within seconds, he was happily eating croutons and talking in garbled sentences. We ate dinner, watched our neighbor leaf blow his yard, read a few books, chased the dog … it was a good night after all.


Strike of the Marine Layer

When my new boss asked me to come to San Francisco for training the day after Labor Day, I only batted half an eyelash.

Sure, my in-laws are in town. Sure, it’ll be insane because of day after Labor Day travel. But, with an 11am start, I could prioritize seeing my child, catch the 8:45a to San Francisco, and arrive by the skin of my teeth for my literal first day on the job. You know, assuming all the stars aligned.

My panic started on Labor Day itself. Pain in my stomach, random tears, hyperventilating panic. My carefully planned departure meant I could wake up, get ready, breastfeed, and spend some time with Thomas before disappearing from his immediate view for 72 hours. The Jess who made that plan, who was going to be an in-control mom and employee, had booked the flight without hesitation. The Jess of September 3, 2018, however, couldn’t breathe.

I assessed options, but none were logical. To buy an earlier flight outright was in the hundreds of dollars. To move to the earlier flight, I had to get on a waiting list from which I might get moved to the standby list. Knowing I was painted into a corner, I took a deep breath, and kept the original flight.

That night brought more anxiety of its own. In-laws, packing, teething. All of these completely manageable (and some even embraced!) on their own. But together, they made for a perfect storm.

Thomas, feeling the anxiety (potentially) or the teeth (more likely), amped up the clinginess. Mistakenly, I let him fall asleep in my arms. For the next two hours, anytime he was put down, he screamed. Many tears were had by both him and I before he finally fell asleep after 10p. I had a cider and a noble Coors Light to calm my panic.

Thankfully, we did all sleep. I got Thomas up, fed him, and left for the airport with a chorus of, “I duv do too.” In the car, however, I received the first of many alerts … flying to SFO in the summer brings the marine layer which, unfortunately, brought a substantial delay to my flight.

I didn’t just feel the panic of being late for my first day as a new employee. Nor of going to a new job after a disastrous end (and some actual PTSD) from my last. I also felt the guilt of what I have come to recognize in myself and my mom friends as, “the working mom syndrome.”

The guilt of prioritizing my bond with my child over a place of business. Fear over how that would reflect on me, especially on my first day. If I’d just taken the earlier flight, I would have rolled into San Francisco early (because of COURSE the 6:30a was on time!). Instead, I made a “selfish” decision to prioritize seeing my child, getting some sleep, and not pumping. And, for that, I paid the price in extra franticness and guilt.

Instead of being safely on the ground, on time, in San Francisco, I sat in the Portland airport trying to clear my mind. I quickly pumped in the bathroom because, with the delay, I now would feel even more uncomfortable making the ask to pump over lunch.

I stepped into the elite line to board over glares from the “general boarding” passengers. Yes, fellow traveler, I am utilizing my (hard-earned from so many miles away from my little guy) gold status to jump ahead. But I need you to understand … I can’t check my bag and I needed to pump. Can’t you see I am one breath away from completely crumbling?

What is the lesson in all of this? I am ultimately not sure. Either way, it feels like a lose-lose.

I can take the earlier flight, be on time (maybe?), but miss the curve of his cheeks, the way his in-person duck-like laugh is so much more satisfying than anything else, and one hundred more hugs. I can take the later flight and “know” that my employers are passing judgment for first day lateness, which is so tightly coupled with my identity of mother and woman and employee, and threatens my very core.

Even 36 hours later, I’m still trying to settle the internal struggle. The only real conclusion I’ve come to is that this, like everything else, will take deep breaths, many moments of practice, and some trust that some in the world are more understanding than credit is given.

Yesterday, I landed in San Francisco under a blue sky. My Lyft arrived at the terminal in literally one minute. Traffic to the downtown office was clear. And, upon arrival, I found out that the kick-off had been delayed until 1p. I had that moment to breathe, and, it turns out, no reason to worry.

Advocacy, Breastfeeding, Pumping

Working with Northwest Mothers Milk Bank

Thomas’ birth, like many, was anything but ordinary. He came quietly into the world, gray and barely moving. My midwife, Lydia, shoved the scissors into Jake’s hands as the blue lights went off in our room, and he cut the umbilical cord as the pulled Thomas out of Lydia’s hands.

We were lucky. Thomas was a meconium birth and, the longer we know him, the more we realize that assessing first and reacting second is a cherished part of his personality. In the moment, though, I have never known such fear.

After 10 minutes, and stabilization of my son, the hospital took him to the NICU. Jake followed Thomas down as I stayed behind, paralyzed from epidural and from fear.

An hour or so later, a doctor called me from the NICU asking me if I wanted my son to have donor milk. I didn’t know how to respond. Everything I’d read talked about skin to skin and breastfeeding, and the first experience I had looked forward to with my child out of uterine was now no longer a possibility.

I asked the doctor what she suggested, since I was still being stitched up (what a birth it was!) and wouldn’t likely get to see him for a few hours still. She reinforced the good work of the milk bank, and reinforced that giving my son donor milk was both healthy and safe, and would keep him on the path to good health. I said yes, and the first food he had was a gift from someone else.

I can’t say that I was thrilled in the moment (in fact, I was completely confused, numb, you name it). But once I saw him with my own eyes and realized he was in one piece, I started to ask questions. The NICU nurses told me about Northwest Mothers Milk Bank (NWMMB), and I filed it in the back of my mind for the future.

Fast forward three months, and I am back at work, and pumping more than I will ever need. I knew this was a possibility based on my oversupply throughout much of the fourth trimester, but I didn’t realize how much milk I would have! I had several other friends give birth around the same time as me, and they weren’t as lucky with supply. I decided then to call NWMMB and undergo the screening needed to donate my breastmilk for babies like my own. The donations I was making to both NWMMB and my friends who needed it helped me through the angst and annoyance of pumping. Almost 1.5 years later, I still make enough milk that I donate 200-300 oz a month to NWMMB.

There are milk banks across the United States. If you’ve donated, please share your experience below. If you’d like to learn more, send me a note or contact your local milk bank.


Working Mom Speech

My former company designated a weekly winner of a cup. It is passed from employee to employee, usually with a speech to explain the addition of a trinket to the cup AND to recognize the incoming winner.

This was my speech (and added trinket) from March 2nd, 2018.

Marlene Sanders was the first woman to report from Vietnam during the war. She also had a son. When asked for advice, on how to manage it all from a younger journalist, she said this.

“Never apologize for working. You love what you do, and loving what you do is a great gift to your child.”

Even though I am lucky enough to have my child through some extraordinary scientific means, I still wasn’t sure motherhood was for me. And honestly, my professional life and how he would affect it scared me the most. I pride myself on helping. The business. People who don’t have as loud of a voice. Connecting dots. How much of where I found value would I be compromising because of this little human who I didn’t even know yet?

These considerations contributed to significant postpartum anxiety and depression. In fact, this time exactly a year ago, I had three weeks left in maternity leave, and the thought of that was causing near daily panic attacks.

With a good doctor, some better medicine, and lots of talking, I got through those first several months. And, after a few more, I was finally able to internalize the advice given by Sanders. I am here today because I wanted my child to see a good example of taking care of yourself, both in and outside of the workplace.

So this is what I am adding to the cup. The working mom. As a reminder to myself and all the other PARENTS here that we are not defined by being a parent, but in reality, it is one of the many pieces that makes us up and makes us better people. AND as a reminder that while we have come so far, we still have a long way to go in terms of women‘s rights when it comes to caring for herself and her child postpartum.

In that vein, I want to give the cup to someone who, I feel, holds dear to all the values we focus on here. While I have seen him embrace all of them on a near daily basis in my short tenure, there is one that, given the story I have just told, sticks in my mind above all. This story, I believe, demonstrates his incredible empathy.

We were in San Diego, after a long day on-site with a customer. As most of you know I do, I was pumping to feed my kiddo throughout the day. I started the day pumping in a bathroom at the Westin. My lunch break had me pumping in a car. And finally, as usually happens, I ran into a few troubles at with TSA because of the liquids I had with me.

It took almost 30 minutes, but I finally got it all sorted out with the TSA agent about the laws with regards to transporting breastmilk.

This coworker stood there with me even though I let him know it was going to take a long time (which it did), asking questions, and seeking understanding. He didn’t shy away because it’s breastmilk. He didn’t turn his head. He was empathetic. And human. And a little angry on behalf of not just me, but of all the moms who have to deal with a lack of education, enablement, and resources. And for that, and for the steadfastness and all the other values he embraces, I pass the cup to him.

Screen Shot 2018-09-05 at 10.41.49 PM


Returning to the Road

In the winter of 2011, I was going through a difficult time in my life. That year, I decided to treat myself and travel from DC, where I’d recently moved, to Oregon, for Christmas.

I was lucky enough to go to graduate school in Oregon, and it had always felt like home more than any other place I’d lived. December of 2011 was no different, and when the plane landed, I was reminded of why I was drawn to the state. Temperate climate (much better than back in DC, where the temperatures were frigid!), un-ending greenery, the ever-present misty rain, and the smell of pine drew me in, and helped begin my healing process. Running the trails near my best friend’s house helped to rebuild my confidence in myself, while introducing me to my favorite running weather of all time: 55F and misty.

It was fitting, then, that after a months-long break during my pregnancy, I returned to the road today for a mile-long run. It’s a day I’ve literally dreamed about; thankfully my active pregnancy mind allowed me to experience athleticism in my sleep! That being said, I wasn’t sure how it would go, as I am, somewhat, pushing the limits of my body. At five weeks, five days postpartum, my OB would probably prefer I wait a little bit longer to “push myself,” as she stated. But when I woke up, today felt right, and I decide to see how it would feel to hit the pavement.

Without even needing to share, the dog knew today was the day. There was an energy about her as soon as I woke up. And when I pulled out my running shoes for the first time since last year? I thought her chocolate lab head would explode. I decided to “run lucky,” and pulled on my favorite outfit to accompany me. Leaving Thomas in the capable hands of our doula, Kiwi and I hit the road.

It wasn’t my fastest run certainly, but wow. It reminded me of the runs I did in December of 2011. The temperature was perfect, hovering in the mid 50s, and a light misty rain accompanied us for our mile. The dog spared me any bathroom stops, and I got to enjoy almost 12 minutes of bliss. This time, the perfect run accompanied a different kind of healing.

The birth of Thomas forty days ago was the best day of my life. I welcomed into the world a beautiful son, whom I hope to raise to understand passion, curiosity, and self-worth. Part of raising a child in this way requires setting a good example, and today I am proud of the memory I made which I hope to someday share with him.

(Cross-posted from Stetsonday.)