In Defense of the Housewives.

Listen up, people. This is IMPORTANT CONTENT.

(No, it’s not.)

For years – and at this point I really mean years – I have been delightfully indulging in The Real Housewives franchise. I started watching when RHONY (Real Housewives of New York City, as each city will henceforth be monikered in this post by its acronym) premiered in spring of 2008, my freshman year of college. At that time, the only other franchise on the air was RHOC (Orange County), which was a weird, gritty, “new-moneyed” mayhem of California blondes. It was compelling, but it lacked a little…something. Polish, maybe.

Cut to the New York girls BRINGING. IT. Bethenny, Jill, Luann, Alex McCord (I could do a whole series on Silex alone), and Ramona. The five original mob bosses of Bravo. Bethenny, of course, has gone on to be a mogul in the world of business, and the other ladies have each staked their own claim in their own corners of the universe. Later that year, the Atlanta girls arrived on the scene, and then in 2009, we were #blessed with RHONJ, where the New Jersey gals changed our lives forever simply by introducing two little words that will send chills down the spine of any true Bravo fan: Danielle Staub.

If you’re reading this piece as a complete stranger to this series, sorry for all the inside baseball talk. But thirteen loyal years of fandom for these franchises, their later (not lesser) descendants (Potomac, DC, Miami, Beverly Hills, Salt Lake City, and, God bless, Dallas), and the “short-but-canceled” (Miami and DC) means I had to pay some detailed homage right up front.

Haters will say that the whole Housewives universe is the brainchild of evil, brilliant Andy Cohen, who sicked these mostly-over-40 women on America at a historically vulnerable and unpleasant time and got us all hooked on people who just scream at each other. And in every joke, there’s some truth: they are all older, they’re prone to hollering at each other, and it is full of drama.

Luann DeLesseps falls into a bush in Mexico.

But it’s not cooked.

And herein lies the major difference between the Housewives and every other reality show: there’s no bottom line. This isn’t a show about winning a cooking competition, surviving in a house full of enemies to get prize money, or being the last woman standing to win the heart of some bumbling ding dong. No, this is simply lives being lived while cameras are up. In fact, I’d argue the decline of some of the franchises has been the awareness of the cameras, and that the best seasons of any franchise are the result of lack of self-consciousness. When the cast members start producing their own seasons, a la Lisa Vanderpump or Lisa Rinna, it can sometimes go great - but other times, you spend a whole season swirling around the drama of who gave a dog away and to whom (yes, really) while flying to international destinations with a glam squad in tow. When Erika Jayne does it? Great. When every housewife is suddenly glammed to the max in every scene? No thank you. Give me no makeup Scary Island or give me death.

Shereé Whitfield delivers one of the most iconic lines in Housewives history.

I have grown to love these women so much that I can actually (and sometimes prefer to) fall asleep with Housewives on. As Casey Wilson recently wrote, “their screams are like waves crashing against the shore.” So well said.

Why is it comforting? Because these women have become my friends. Their lives have played out in front of me; their stories have scored and punctuated the high and low tides of my own life. I can remember where I was sitting, 5 days post-partum with Mac at Christmastime, when I got the news that Luann had been arrested and assaulted a cop. I was feeding Rosie a bottle while I read up on whether or not Erika Girardi’s husband swindled widows out of millions. I stood in my college apartment with my two best girlfriends watching Kelly Bensimon completely melt down on Scary Island. Danielle Staub debuted “Real Close,” a duet with lesbian superstar Lori Micheales, a nightmare and an ear worm that caused us all to claw out our collective ears and eyeballs, my senior year at ‘Southern (and we parodied it for months). If you’re unfamiliar, please watch this horrible clip with dancers that can only be described as Oompa Loompa’s wander, thrusting, confused, on a tiny morning show stage. (Or, if you’re feeling sultry, might I suggest this version, which features a horrified and delighted Andy Cohen saying, “Wow! Wow…Oh my God?!”?)

There are real reasons to watch, in my opinion, that transcend the comfort of our dear friends screaming at each other and drunkenly falling in the bushes. There are few shows on television that, almost exclusively, feature women over 40. In each HW city, the median age skews lots closer to 50 than it does to 30 (though there are younger cast members cropping up like Candiace Dillard, Ashley Darby, and Leah McSweeney). Getting to watch women whose primary responsibility may once have been taking care of young children and keeping a home transition into their next chapter of life is exhilarating. Maybe their chosen chapter isn’t what we’d write for ourselves, but the simple acknowledgement that women are people beyond their responsibilities in their family is revolutionary and deeply feminist.

Ramona Singer “walks” in a “fashion show.”

There’s actual, un-produced family drama (“You stole my goddamn house!”; Taylor Armstrong’s tragic storyline; Jennifer Aydin’s parental woes; watching Vicki Gunvalson discover by phone that her mother had died; Ramona Singer’s true love Mario publicly cheating and the divorce that followed; Porsha’s myriad dramas with the Hot Dog King) that keeps each woman human, because no matter how petty things get with the other cast mates, she has layers. We’ve seen our girls through prison, through spousal suicide, cheating, bankruptcy, and, most recently, swindling orphans and widows out of millions of dollars. Allegedly.

Another compelling and timely reason to watch is the diversity. With the casts of Atlanta and Potomac featuring exclusively Black women, the other mostly-if-not-completely white cities have gotten much-needed makeover. The addition of the ICONIC Eboni K. Williams on RHONY, Crystal Kung Minkoff and Garcelle Beauvais to RHOBH, and Dr. Tiffany Moon to Dallas are equal parts overdue and refreshing. Sadly, it does occasionally mean that these women of color are having to explain why “articulate” is offensive and that gagging over eating chicken feet is culturally insensitive – and while that’s a burden that should never be on BIPOC, it’s bringing a conversation into living rooms (and onto tablets, really) across America that the average viewer may not have ever actually seen play out. Watching Black women wrap their hair before bed or discuss how their passion is often mis-identified as anger because of their race? It’s a window into a world white women don’t live in. It’s certainly not The Point of the Housewives franchise to educate white women, but, much like Ramona is learning from the incredibly patient and gracious Eboni, I’d wager a lot of white America is learning a few things, too. And we’re learning it from friends, which is powerful. (We’re also seeing how ugly it can be when white women mis-handle issues of race, which I guarantee has left white viewers wondering, “Oof. Is that what I do?”)

Play the above while you read the end. Just trust. Extra points if you get the RHOBH reference.

You may scoff and consider us, the fans, to be trolling for garbage at the bottom of the Dumpster. But I ask you: is a deep, comprehensive knowledge of a subject really a bad thing? I’m lookin’ at you, sports fans who know every single member of a team there’s ever been, with the players’ stats committed to memory. Consider us sports fans if you must. We are up to date with every fight, with every nuance. We know that Melissa really hates Teresa. We watched Porsha go from “Where did the train actually run in the Underground Railroad?” to blooming into the comedy legend and activist she is today. We remember the horrendous blue background at the first Jersey reunion. We were there. We REMEMBER.

If I can make it to my 80’s with a knowledge of the cast of RHONY in the first five seasons? I’ll call it a win. If I can shout WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WITHOUT DORINDA?! to a stranger in a bar and get a goofy smile of recognition back, I’ll be happy. What I want in my life is more idiocy. More lobsters in purses. More breaking off teeth from biting the buttons of a strange man’s shirt cuff. More Donkey Booty workout tapes. Less luxury car shopping, honestly, I can do without that and murder mystery parties EVER AGAIN. But more bad products: perfume, wine, lip kits, joggers that never arrive. Give it to me. Give it ALL to me.

Ultimately, though, what glues us to our screens (and to the podcasts about these shows, the Instagram accounts, and Housewives Twitter) is that we’ve grown connected to these unhinged, larger-than-life characters we call our pals. I thought for many years I was alone on an island with my fandom, maybe alongside a few very close girlfriends, but NO – Al Gore’s Internet has proven to me the ocean that surrounds us is also made up of Housewives fans who know every reference, every deep-track quote. Bonding with HW fans across generations and geography is one of The Lord Andy Cohen’s greatest gifts to us all. We all have our favorites (Sonja, Porsha, Dorinda, Kathy Hilton, Yolanda, Phaedra, Karen Huger, Luann, Dolores). But we stand strong as a fanbase, ready to defend a viewer whose opinions we disagree with because, like the sands of time, God knows our own opinions will change on a dime.

So today I offer praises from my heart to the ears of the heavens for our decade+ relationship with our girls. Long may they live, more may they drink (except the sober ones), and louder may they yell.

I hear every shout as a triumph over the patriarchy.

Anxiety is for Babies, and Other Lies from the Devil

The first time I ever heard someone talk about being medicated for anxiety, I remember my thoughts clearly: “What a baby. They can’t cope with everyday life?? Good grief.” This sentiment was undoubtedly accompanied by an eye roll. Dripping with empathy, I know. 

The person who I’d heard talk about taking anxiety medications had what appeared to be a pretty great life. She was white, in her mid-20’s, had plenty of money, a steady job, a happy marriage, and no health concerns to speak of. What does she have to be anxious about? I wondered.

That day years ago, I found myself thinking about how mentally weak we all are; that we require medication to cope with everyday life. My peers and I had somehow steered our lives into waters so murky and bleak that we couldn’t navigate them without some help from a psychiatrist and a bottle of pills. Of course, I had sympathy for people suffering from what I considered to be “real” mental health problems, like serious depression caused by trauma, or schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder. But anxiety? That’s just a feeling. That’s not a PROBLEM. “Buck up,” was my general sentiment. 

Oh, past Mary Catherine, you incomparable dumb dumb. 

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Having recently watched The Sopranos all the way through for the first time (and oh my good God how had I not seen it before, IT’S SO BRILLIANT), I now realize that I had a very “Tony Soprano” attitude toward mental health issues. It might as well have been me sitting in Dr. Melfi’s office preaching: 

Nowadays, everybody’s gotta go to shrinks and counselors, and go on Sally Jesse Raphael and talk about their problems. What ever happened to Gary Cooper — the strong, silent type? That was a real American. 

As with dozens of other things I’ve come to firm conclusions about despite being completely uninformed, I didn’t understand anxiety until it knocked me between the eyes.

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I’m still not sure what exactly triggered my bout with anxiety in 2019. There was a concoction of events that all probably worked together, chief among them being that I was a stay-at-home parent during this time with way too much time on my hands to get lost in my own thoughts. While I was unsure of the exact cause, the symptoms were unmissable. They came out of nowhere like a Navy Seal walking silently through a building - knees slightly bent, heel, toe, heel, toe, carefully absorbing all the shock from his steps with his own knees, until WHAM. I was whacked. 

(So apparently this post is going to be full of violent and/or murder metaphors.)

For me, anxiety manifested itself as a conviction that my friends had stopped liking me as much as they used to, and that they never would again. Typing it here feels laughable and embarrassing, but that’s what was true for me for about a quarter of a year. I pored over text exchanges, reached out by phone more than usual, and dissected interactions I had with them to see if there were any signs of disruption in the relationship. When she said, “Oh, gosh,” was she being sympathetic to the story I told, or was she rolling her eyes at me? I would think after hanging up.

Jordan started a running bit by coming home and asking, “Are you having an anxious day?” And if I said yes, he would (blessedly) lighten the mood by asking, “Is it because all your friends hate you?” Something about the joke combined with how ridiculous it sounded out loud always helped my heart feel less like it was stuffed too full of chocolate pudding, hanging in my chest by a thread. But, before long, the anxiety always came back.

On “good days,” days when my anxiety was at bay, I was afraid to talk about it because I thought talking about it would invite back in. It was as though the anxiety was a predator lurking outside the house, waiting for an open window or an unlocked door. I thought that if I could make my mind a fortress, I could keep it at bay. But that, I learned, was not how anxiety worked. Instead of a predator, it was more like a mist. It got in through the vents. 

Besides Jordan, if you were to ask my friends and family whether they knew I was experiencing this, they’d say they didn’t. I am so desperately private about feelings of real vulnerability that it’s close to impossible for me to open up without feeling like I’ve failed. This will seem paradoxical to people who know me via my blog or through social media, because I’m a fairly open book on those platforms. But I’m open only about the things I can control - I know how people will perceive a certain brand of openness, so it feels safe for me. Saying something like, “I have a constant, underlying anxiety that I can’t seem to control,” feels like Michael Scott standing in the middle of the woods as Survivor Man and yelling, “I HAVE HEMORRHOIDS!” It’s humiliating, but only if other people know. 

You can imagine the never ending cycle: harboring the anxiety about people abandoning me, then having anxiety about the paralyzing certainty that if I told anyone about that anxiety, they’d think I was weak and leave me.

I pride myself on my mental and emotional fortitude. I am not a person who is scream-y about bugs or creepy crawly things. I don’t buckle at people sharing their upsetting life events. I keep my shit together in a crisis and rarely, if ever, break down, even to my very closest friends. I am relatively introspective and am constantly looking inward, getting to the root of my feelings, and entering into dialogue with myself about any given reaction. For whatever reason, I find it important to be a “good soldier.” To lose the ability to deal with my own thoughts and feelings on my own was foundation-shaking and humbling in a way that was deeply uncomfortable. 

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This is when it finally occurred to me: anxiety is not dismissable. It’s not something you can just get over by willing it away. If I was going to tackle it, I couldn’t do it by myself. 

So on a girls’ weekend, I broke down in tears and told them I was afraid they were all upset with me. Predictably, they were not. But the simple act of speaking the words, and the implicit cry for help buried in the breaths between them, unloaded something powerful. Palpable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Anxiety Monster tipping his hat to me as he stepped out of my life. For now, at least. 

What I learned from this experience was profound. Anxiety is not a symptom of being a sissy. It can take any one of us down with its wily, unexpected wallop. We are better off bearing our hearts to each other and trusting that, even if we don’t believe it in the moment, there is grace in another person’s listening ear and open arms. 

For me specifically, it taught me that I didn’t need to try to carry it all alone, or to pretend it wasn’t happening to me. I booked a few appointments with a counselor to help for as long as I need the extra brain to lean on (and am discovering that an idle mind is anxiety’s playground - stay-at-home-parenting is a tough gig to figure out). Help is a good thing. Even when I got married, I never anticipated that I would lean on my husband in the ways I have this year. And boy, I have I. Guess what? He’s still around. And so are my friends. I’m getting the idea that I didn’t trust these relationships as fully as I should’ve. Here in these moments, I am a beneficiary of the continued blessing of being proven wrong. 

Tony Soprano and I have it wrong when it comes to keeping a stiff upper lip (I suspect he, too, is an Enneagram 8). For him, it led to murdering a whole lot of people. For me, it meant pretending I didn’t need anyone at all; stuffing the vulnerability way down deep until it couldn’t see the light of day. 

Wouldn’t you know it? There in the dark, stumbling around, I ran smack into the people who love me most. They offered me a hand, and together we walked back toward the sunshine. 

La Vie en Rosie

One year with our sweet girl, as of this coming Monday. Cannot BELIEVE. How is that possibly true?!

In honor of our impending celebration, I bring you 15 things I’ve learned this year as a mom. Some are about parenting Rosie, some are about sibling dynamics, but all of them are lessons learned between 4/19/20-4/19/21.

1. Babies are different. Watching the difference between Mac as a baby (cautious, focused, not cuddly, steady, achieving) versus Rosie as a baby (wild as hell, no regard for her own safety, happiest baby in the world, a snuggle bug, does things in her own time) is just the tip of the iceberg, I know.

2. And their personalities seem cooked in. I’ve realized this year that parenting is like how Michelangelo described sculpting. He said it was “releasing the hidden figure from the stone in which it slumbered,” AKA, working to uncover something that is already there and has always been there. In some ways as parents, we have a lot of influence (encouraging kindness, nice manners, what we expose our kids to and when, etc.), but those core traits? Boy, they are baked in from the START. We’re just “releasing the hidden figure.”

3. Mac is the sweetest big brother. I knew that his heart was very tender and loving, but seeing him in action as a big brother has been nothing short of cry-your-eyes-out precious. He introduces her to everyone we encounter and makes it his mission to keep her safe. The best example of this is that Rosie loves to stand up and shake this particular side table we have so that the lamp sitting on it starts to rock back and forth. Mac has recently started going to the opposite side of the table and holding it in place so the lamp doesn’t rock, allowing Rosie to experiment, but finding a way he can help protect her in the process. I mean, come on. (A caveat here that he also pushes her down for no reason - he’s a sweet boy, but he’s still a 3-year-old).

4. Dads and daughters. I hate to be gender-specific because that’s not really The Thing right now, but there is a very special connection between parents and children who identify as opposite genders. Rosie has loved Jordan in such a special way since the day she was born and he sang her Jimmy Buffet songs. Her first real word was “Dada,” (RUDE) and she lights up like a Christmas tree when she sees him.

5. Nothing reminds you you’re a feminist like having a daughter. I was before, but I am newly inspired to hustle in my own life and work because of Rosie. Yes, I want Mac to see his mom succeed, but I want to be an actual blueprint for Rosie to follow whatever dream she wants. Our house has filled up with books like ABC What Can She Be? and Rosie Revere, Engineer! Obviously Mac is reading these, too, but we are all about some girl power in this house.

6. Having two children adds weight to your social responsibility. I have never been more committed to equity and justice than I am as the mother of two small children. I see it as my highest calling to raise these babies to be radically kind, loving, and to subvert any agenda that would oppress or discriminate against groups of people in this country. I try to limit the amount of “self-help parenting” stuff I listen to (mostly because I think there are a lot of knuckleheads out there who’ll say whatever they’re paid to say, but also because too much information is almost the same as no information - you can’t retain it), but I’ve recently found a great podcast I trust called Raising Good Humans. This episode about raising anti-racist kids really spoke to me (it features anti-racist educators Tiffany Jewell and Britt Hawthorne) and I left it feeling empowered and excited about my takeaways.

7. Speaking of education…one of the things on my mind lately is making sure that our children receive a high-quality education, but also (and maybe more importantly) an education that exposes them to people who look and live differently than they do. I grew up in a very racially diverse public school system in Decatur, Alabama, and I can’t say enough about the positive impact it had on me. Asheville can be very white, and I don’t want my children surrounded by only white people. I’m learning and working through the best ways to make sure I haven’t surrounded them with only white folks. It would be an easy thing to let happen by accident where we live.

8. Food is a journey. Mac and Rosie both eat like ice road truckers at the end of a shift. I have never seen babies who eat two fried eggs, a banana, and a tub of baby food for breakfast each day. It seems…impossible? And yet, it’s not. Right as Rosie has started her “any and everything” eating, Mac has transitioned to being a little more selective. I refuse to be a short-order cook, but sometimes that means we default to a “bath time Larabar” (shamefully a real thing) because we’re still feeling hungry after dinner. Things are a mess. Food is hard. We’re doing our best over here. Rosie is eating absolutely everything she can find. Including non-food items. Like chalk. Is chalk toxic? I honestly don’t know.

9. Children, um…repeat the things you say. The number of times Mac has said, “Damn!” is…well, a lot. It’s a whole lot. At first I tried to ignore it so he wouldn’t realize it was a Thing and then do it more…that failed. Now he says it regularly (and by the way he’s using it exactly right, which makes it that much worse/that much funnier. “Mom can I play with dinosaurs in Rosie’s room?” “Not right now, buddy, let’s let her have some quiet time.” “DAMN!”) and I’m gonna have to figure out what to do with him. Probably should start by not saying, “Damn,” huh?

10. Redheads are a special breed. Y’all…it is HYSTERICAL to me that I ended up with a red-headed daughter. About once a week, Jord and I look at each other and just say, “Can you believe this?” So many people have shared stories about their babies who had red hair to start and ultimately grew out of it. She certainly might! But y’all, her eyebrows and eyelashes are red. That’s gotta mean something. Truly wild and so fun. Her energy and her spicy little personality have been present from before she was born - she was very opinionated and gave me an extremely uncomfortable pregnancy (I dislodged a rib with Rosie, had bronchitis, terrible migraines, and a lot of less-savory symptoms I’ll keep to myself), which was a precursor for her very stubborn, wild, and joyful presence in the world.

11. Second children are nearly invincible. Sure, she cries when she gets pushed down or hurts herself, but because they’re born into chaos, second children are borderline mythical in their ability to manage nonsense. I remember once, when Rosie was about 6 months old - we were at my parents’ house, and somebody pulled up in their car which caused both dogs to bark in this REALLY loud, startling way - Mac screamed as loud as he could, it was a mess. My dad said that through it all, Rosie sat completely unbothered on the floor. Didn’t even blink an eye, he said, when the madness ensued. And this is evidence that…

12. Birth order politics are absolutely a Thing. First children are fussed over, catered to, spoiled with attention and peacefulness. Second and later? Whatever. They’re rippin’ cigs by the time they’re 6 months old. This is why younger children are so much more well-adjusted than their older siblings. (As an oldest child, married to an oldest child, who’s also the daughter of two oldest children, I consider myself an authority on this matter.) We’re not freaking out over every cry or potential hazard, which makes them calmer. They’re born into loudness, which makes them better able to cope with life. Our focus is already split when they arrive, meaning they’re carrying the burden of performing or garnering approval. Rosie’s job is just to continue l-i-v-i-n, McConaughey style.

13. Rosie is a master flirt. Mac didn’t really care about other people when he was less than one. He was sweet and interested, I guess, but Rosie? WOWZA. My little homie has her game on lock. She is replete with head-tilts, huuuuuge smiles, coquettish waves…I have seen grown men who do construction for a living fall prey to her tiny power. It’s amazing, and we have to stan a queen.

14. Everything happens in its own time. With Mac, I was so hyper-focused on milestones. I didn’t mean to be, but it happens naturally when you have one child and he or she is the center of your world. Was he crawling on time? Walking? Talking? How was his growth charting? What percentile was he in? With Rosie, I have relished every month and not given one single damn about any of that stuff. I’ve appreciated her baby-hood intensely. I’m so sorry to see it go, but I know I didn’t rush it or wish it away, and that’s a good feeling. We really soaked it up.

15. She is one of a kind. This little red-headed wonder is a smiley, snuggly, easygoing, but also completely diabolical child. We joke that she’s lived many lifetimes before she came to be with us because her gaze is so intense and her manner is just…old. Wise. Shrewd. She knows what’s up. It really is like she’s been here before. When she was born, my very first thought upon seeing her was how bright and clear her eyes were, wide open - I thought to myself, “She’s really in there.” Where I felt like Mac and I got to know each other slowly in those first few days, Rosie busted into this world up with personality all the way to the ends of her hair. She is completely full of life and bursting with individuality. I cherish the chance I’ve gotten to watch someone like her, so different from my equally wonderful first child, navigate the world and learn the ropes. Or maybe teach the ropes, honestly - it feels like I’m the one who’s going to be doing the learning in this relationship.

Happy first birthday to my angel Rosie, named for her stubborn spitfire great-great-grandmother and her kind, hilarious, artistic uncle - embodying all of those qualities and then adding an ocean of her own. She is the cherry on top of our sundae, spicy and sweet, born at the heigh of a global pandemic, and a genuine thrill ride. I’m on the edge of my seat to see what happens next.

15 Things About Breastfeeding, Round 2

Well, here we are again.

About a month ago, I hung up the pump for the second time. Well, actually, I put it in my basement with a triumphant freakin’ YAWP.

This round with this baby was so different and better in a million ways than my experience with Mac, which was really fraught and emotional. But it was still HARD. WORK. I truly labored over which photo to choose to accompany this piece: me pumping in the bathroom floor lot at a hair salon? Me pumping in the car at the drive-thru? Me pumping in the kitchen making biscuits? Me with mastitis in bed? Me with a slice of raw potato pressed to my boob? (Read on for more about that.)

Whether you’ve never breastfed, don’t plan to, don’t want to, or…are a man, I guess…here are 15 things no one told me about breastfeeding. It might get graphic. But I mean, it’s human anatomy, people!

(Actually, especially if you’re a man - someone you know will be doing this at some point, so read on in order to appreciate the lactating people in your life.)

A note as always that this is pertinent to my own experience and that every single person’s is different!

1. Breastfeeding hurts at first. Like a BITCH. I mean, really, it’s bad. My OB once likened it to putting your feet back into the shoes that gave you blisters, and we all know that feeling. A night of dancing at a wedding reception and you kick off the painful shoes…only to have to put them back on to walk to the car. MISERY. For the first week or so with Mac, I remember having to count to ten out loud after he’d latch so that I could have an end point in mind for the waves of pain. Bonus points for the first few days: breastfeeding tells your body that your baby has been born, which sends signals to your uterus to start shrinking back to a normal size. So for the first little while, every time you breastfeed, you’re also going to have contractions. It would be amazing if it wasn’t so awful.

2. It takes a lot of time. At the beginning when you’re still getting the hang of it, it takes about 45 minutes a feeding. And newborns eat every three hours (at least), so they basically eat, play for a little while, and go back to sleep. New moms have around 40 minutes at a time, if they’re lucky, to breathe and reboot. And that whole “sleep when the baby sleeps” thing? Yeah - the only time to get ANYTHING done (shower, clean your pumping parts, watch a TV show, find time to make you feel human again) is done in that 40-ish. minute window for days and weeks on end. To keep my supply really “fluffy” with Rosie, I pumped 9x a day for the first four months, and 8x a day for months 4-7. My pump recently calculated the total amount of time I spent pumping with Rosie, and the answer was 670 hours. I know, that sounds made up. That’s the equivalent 24-hours-a-day for the entire month of February.

3. There are a million ways to do it. Some women choose to exclusively breastfeed (EBF), some women breastfeed and pump, some women exclusively pump (that was me with Rosie!), some breastfeed and supplement their supply with formula and a bottle, and everything in between. Rosie had a really shallow latch in the hospital, which tore my boobs to shreds and made me start pumping to give my body a break. That led to my decision to exclusively pump with her. Since her latch was so shallow, I had to syringe feed her for the first couple of weeks. With Mac, I EBF’d for the first few months, had a supply drop, and had to start supplementing with formula. I remember feeling like such a failure, which was devastating emotionally on the heels of my hormones also being whackadoo. But this time was so, so much better. Prioritizing my mental health made all the difference.

4. Breastfeeding acts as its own birth control. Another incredible thing about the female body, in addition to the “shrinking your uterus” fun fact, is that BFing acts as its own birth control - or can, I should say. If you’re breastfeeding often enough, your body stops ovulating. It’s basically a biological insurance policy, where your boobs tell your uterus, “NO VACANCY, we’ve already got as much as we can handle, thanks!” The human - scratch that - female body is a wonder.

5. Your supply can dip and resurge. As I said up there, breastfeeding is a supply and demand business. But sometimes, there are other factors at play. It’s really easy to forget to eat when you’re a new mom, and a lack of calories (and especially a lack of water) can cause your supply to really take a hit. Dropping a feeding can also cause a dwindling breastmilk supply, whereas adding a feeding can boost it. It’s a very plastic enterprise and can take a little brain power to get just right. I was shocked to learn some of the remedies besides calorie/water intake: dark beer, lactation tea (a real thing), and herbal supplements like Goat’s Rue (again, a real thing) among others. It’s a wild world.

6. Lactation consultants are there to help, but it’s your show. Did you know there are people whose job it is to talk about breastfeeding? There are! I’ll be honest and say I’ve had varied experiences with lactation consultants. In the hospital with Rosie, my greatest fear was that my breastfeeding experience was going to be emotional and awful all over again, and when the lactation consultant left our room, I broke down sobbing to Jordan. She had given me some tough love when all I needed in the world was kindness and softness. Ultimately I had to lean on my own instincts to make a decision that worked for ME (exclusively pumping), rather than going with her advice (to take a break , but then get back on the BFing horse). I’ve also had great experiences with LC’s who were wonderful, like the one who works for our pediatrician, who helped me several times as I problem-solved! But when I was in my most vulnerable places, having different people give me different advice was the definition of hell

7. Leaking is a real thing. Some of what’s in movies is a load of bullsh (for example, did you know that <10% of women actually have their water break before they go into labor? It almost never happens as the kickoff - but I had no idea because all movies depict that a dramatic water break episode in a grocery store is the jump ball!), but this one? This is real. Your body operates on supply and demand - the more you feed, the more milk you make. And as it’s regulating its supply, your boobs are just going nuts. Hot showers are one of the things that can trigger a “let down” (the term for your milk dropping from the mammary glands to the milk ducts), and if there’s no baby on the other end, you just…stand there, naked, staring in horror at the reflection of someone who used to be you as she pours breastmilk onto the floor. Just as a hypothetical.

8. It can be the sweetest and most relaxing part of your day. Even though I fed Rosie using a bottle instead of a boob, I treasure the time I spend rocking her in her quiet nursery, watching her slowly fall asleep, and listening to her sweet little eating sounds. Newborns make this adorable little squeaky, grateful grunting when they eat that really sounds like a piglet. Rocking a full, milk-drunk baby, and knowing you’re providing everything they need right from your own body? It is a heavenly, sacred experience and is truly the best part of each day for me. I know it will only last so long, and I’m so grateful.

9. It can also be incredibly stressful. I’ve already referenced this, but I had a rough go of it with Mac. I had no idea my supply had dropped until I went to his four month check-up and our pediatrician told me his weight (formerly monstrous and climbing) had plateaued. I was devastated and felt like I’d failed at my ONE job. We went to lunch after and I’ll never forget sitting at Moe’s BBQ literally crying into my fried catfish platter across from a table full of truckers.

   For a lot of moms, learning /deciding whether to breastfeed can also be an unbelievably emotional time. Your body is CHOCK FULL of hormones, you’re sleep deprived, your life and your body have just been rendered unrecognizable, and you are learning this new skill along with your baby. It can feel like you are trapped, that life will never get better, and that you are alone in making these pivotal decisions. In this case, breastfeeding might actually take a toll on a new mother’s mental health to the point that it doesn’t make sense to continue. And you know what? MORE POWER TO YOU, girl. You do you. You can’t pour from an empty cup. Jordan was formula-fed right from the beginning and don’t tell him, but he’s really smart and it all worked out great.

10. Sleep training and breastfeeding sometimes don’t go together. I am a huge believer in sleep training and have sleep trained both kids in their first months of life. HOWEVER. When I started following the Moms On Call protocol with Mac, I had no idea that when I dropped a feeding (in order to let him sleep through it and learn self-soothing), my body would interpret that as weaning the baby. Nowhere in my carefully curated research and reading had I encountered anything about what sleep training can do to your breastmilk supply unless you continue to pump the feeding you’re “dropping” with your baby. Word to the wise: watch your bod and make sure you’re still producing what you think you are.

11. Clogged ducts. AKA, the damn devil. I got so many clogged ducts this round (what happens when a milk duct doesn’t fully empty and kind of blocks itself off). They cause redness, swelling, and like a palpable bump on the surface of your boob. Left too long, they can develop into mastitis (more below), but treated early, they’re no big deal! The trick is actually TREATING them. I can’t even count the number of times I stood in the shower tying to massage out a clogged duct - and they can happen as a result of something as small as wearing a bra that’s too tight. I am grateful never to have had the experience of expressing the “clog” because honestly, it grosses me out a LOT - but I got a tonnn of clogged ducts this round because pumping causes them to happen more frequently. The most insane remedy I heard (that actually worked) was putting a slice of potato on the skin to draw out the infection. I don’t know what kind of insane witchcraft that is, but I’m into it. I’m not gonna Google it, I don’t want to know why it works. I actually had a bowl of pre-sliced potato in the fridge at all times just in case. Anyway, massaging out clogs is really painful but necessary.

12. Mastitis, y’all. WOOO, boy. The one and only COVID scare I had in 2020 was in the summer, when I was standing in my den talking to my parents (who were the only other part of our quarantine bubble). Suddenly, I felt a wave of chills. I went to the back to sit on my bed and within minutes felt like I’d been hit by a truck. It came on faster than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I thought, “I don’t know how this has happened, but I must have Covid.” Turned out, I had mastitis - a condition that happens when a milk duct is left clogged, causing the tissue to get inflamed and sometimes infected. It comes at you like a bat out of hell and can vary from treatable with antibiotics (which is what I did) to so bad that the infection actually comes through the top of your breast, which happened to a buddy of mine. The best way to cure it? Feeding through it. Yep. I know.

13. It’s logistically a challenge when you already have a child. For obvious reasons. No explanation needed.

14. But the magic of electric pumps that charge and then are portable SAVED MY BACON. I was tethered to a wall with a pump that only worked plugged in with Mac, and it was like a little slice of hell. With Rosie, I bought a pump that charges and then is mobile. I know some friends who got the kind of pumps you place directly into your bra and that’s a whole new level of freedom! Thank God for technology helping moms be able to freely move about and chase the toddler who’s just taken off his clothes and exited the house. Thank you, Spectra C!

15. Despite all the hardships, it was worth it (for me!). Motherhood has taught me so very many lessons about myself, and chief among them is that I can do hard things. So much harder than I thought. Which means I’m tougher than I thought I was. And I’m betting if you’re a mom reading this, you’ve had this very same revelation. Breastfeeding two babies was a huge challenge in lots of ways, but it made me feel so proud of myself for sticking with it. The second part of this one is that it’s given me oceans of empathy for mothers of all stripes and how they choose to feed their babies. I think there’s a lot of mom judgment bouncing around the internet and it breaks my heart - most of us are just doing the very best we can. So if you’re reading this and in the midst of your own breastfeeding journey, whether easy or a challenge, I’m here for you, sis. You’re awesome. And if breastfeeding wasn’t for you? Good work knowing yourself, mama. And way to put your mental health first. You’re killing it!

The truth is, women all over the world are doing this as we speak. It is tough. It is time-consuming. It’s a major sacrifice because your boobs will absolutely never be the same (sorry, but they won’t). And yet, somehow, these tiny squishy humans we continue to produce trick some of us into doing it all over again.

Hope this has been somewhat educational for all 2 of the straight men out there reading this. Have a beautiful weekend, y’all - it’s supposed to be gorgeous!

15 Criminally Underrated Romantic Comedies

Greetings!

I recently started running again on a treadmill in my basement after the longest stretch of physical inactivity since I was in utero. While lost in girl pop heaven in my AirPods, I started randomly making lists of things (like this!) and decided to pull them over to the blog once in a while. If nothing else, I’m really hoping this will serve as a list for you when you’re like, “What should I watch??” Feast your eyeballs!

The rules to make this list were simple:

1. The movie could not be considered a classic film/too popular. I checked with my mom and resident romantic comedy expert Wes George, one of my best friends and also a straight man who loves a chick flick.

2. The movie had to be good enough to re-watch. Wonderful, funny, uplifting re-watchables. All of these movies are ones I’ve seen more than once at a bare minimum, most of them I’ve watched at least 4 times. (…how have I gotten anything done in my life?)

Let’s hit it!

Serendipity. This movie is just SO, so, so good. I love everything about it. I am an enormous John Cusack fan, so there’s that to start - his hair, his height, his everything is my dream. It popularized the cult-restaurant following for the world’s longest line and largest cup of hot chocolate. Kate Beckinsale is who every girl wants to be. The twinkly guitar-laden score, the premise of soulmates, the ridiculous caricature that is John Corbett playing his…whatever instrument that is…the JEREMY PIVEN OF IT ALL. I mean, the scene where Jeremy Piven’s character reads John Cusack’s character his eulogy?! PLEASE. Whatever happened to Jeremy Piven? Molly Shannon owning the New Age shop and being ridiculously charming and goofy per usual. Eugene Levy! The MOMENT WHEN JOHN CUSACK GETS THE BOOK FROM NATASHA (AKA his fiancé Halley who will always be Natasha from SATC). It’s so beautiful. This is my #1 sleeper rom com. Why is this movie not on everybody’s list of top films? It’s brilliant, it’s the best, the end.

About Time. Oh my good God. This movie. All I can say is do not watch it with anyone who you don’t want to ugly cry in front of. This is a “once every three years or so” movie for me. I can’t watch it more often than that or I’ll end up in a padded room. Being a parent only makes it more intense. It is a beautiful, time-travel-y love story between Domhnall Gleeson and Rachel McAdams, set in England, where Domhnall discovers he (along with his father, Bill Nighy) has the ability to time travel. He can go back and experience things, drop in (as himself) at any point. He can change history, but only in little increments - big ones get him into trouble. My only tiny critique of this movie is that Rachel McAdams’ dialogue was clearly written for an English person and hearing an American use very British phrases is kind of weird tonally, but otherwise this movie is deeply brilliant and will honestly change your life, if you’re paying enough attention. I think about it at least every week. It’s so beautiful.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs. A 90’s delight. Uma Thurman, Janine Garofalo, and an adorable British guy that we never saw again (I mean he acted for decades after this but not in movies I watched). The concept: Smart, kind of dumpy Janine is a radio show host. She lives next door to model Uma Thurman. One day, a caller to the radio show (hot British guy) who wants to come by and thank Janine for her good advice sees Uma sitting in her chair pretending to host the show, mistakes them for each other, and hilarity ensues. Basically, it’s a movie about whether looks are everything. It’s a weird little gem. You’ll love it.

Keeping the Faith. A cult classic and maybe the most formative movie of my adolescence. I have probably seen it 50 times times. I had two best guy friends in middle school and we each took a “role” from the cast, which is Jenna Elfman, Ben Stiller, and Ed Norton (who also directed this movie!). Its premise is almost hilariously “joke-y:” a priest and a rabbi fall in love with the same woman - and they all were childhood friends. I know. You’re waiting for the punchline. It’s so precious. Somehow it successfully deals with spirituality and how it intersects with romance, and contains some of the building blocks I’ve built my own love life around (“You cannot make a real commitment unless you accept that it’s a choice that you keep making again and again and again.”) So fun, barrels of laughs, Jenna Elfman has amazing legs, and it has a loaded cast of delightful people including Anne Bancroft who is brilliant. And the woman from House…Dr. Cuddy? I’m not looking up if I’m spelling that right. But she is hysterical in this movie.

The Preacher’s Wife. It will never stop surprising me how few people I know who’ve seen this movie. THIS MOVIE IS INCREDIBLE. There is nobody - and I literally mean nobody - more talented or more beautiful than Whitney Houston at this point in her life. She is the GOAT, original #1, unbeatable, unstoppable, sparkling magic potion, balm for a weary world period the end. I love her. And then we have Denzel. DENZELLLLLLLL in this movie. I literally dare you not to fall in love with him. Premise: Denzel’s character is an angel, sent from heaven to help a struggling preacher with his church and his marriage. This movie features delights including but not limited to: Chrismastime; Whitney in a beautiful black velvet dress; adorable little kid singing; the beauty that is Black Church; Whitney singing live; Penny Marshall as director. If you’ve never seen this movie, I almost want you to watch it over anything else on this list. A classic. Hi did I mention Whitney Houston in the 90’s is the star? K.

Definitely, Maybe. Arguably the most mainstream of this list. I love this movie for the Bill Clinton of it all. And for the women. Isla Fisher, Rachel Weisz, Elizabeth Banks, and Abigail Breslin. If I’m being totally honest, Ryan Reynolds’ whole schtick drives me a little bit nuts. But in this movie, the women balance it out and really make it work. It’s a plot with some problems, but it’s a comforting, happy re-watch (which is really what constitutes a good romantic comedy). The plot: a little girl wants to know the story of how her parents met on the heels of their divorce. Her dad tells her three stories of past girlfriends (realizing this plot is like, really inappropriate?) to let her decide which one is her mom. Okay get rid of the weirdness of that part and just focus on the actual love stories, the most important one being between a dad and his daughter.

Letters to Juliet. As far as quality is concerned, this movie is probably the worst on this list. It’s not good. There, I said it. It’s not! HOWEVER. The concept is cute and frothy and it’s just a fun lil’ romp of a movie. And sometimes we need that, you know?? Amanda Seyfried is a fact-checker (I think?) at a big-city paper and goes on a trip with her chef fiancé to Verona (setting of Romeo and Juliet), where she stumbles upon a coven of women who call themselves the Secretaries of Juliet, returning the love letters of forlorn or heartbroken women. When she finds an older letter, she responds to it, and it sends her on a journey, along with the letter’s author (Claire) and her grandson, to reunite with Claire’s old flame. Beautiful setting and inter-generational friendships.

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before 1, 2, &3. It’s a testament to these films that they’re almost the only ones to make the list made after 2015. This series of films, created by and streaming on Netflix, are sugary-sweet, but won’t leave you feeling sick to your stomach. Lara Jean Covey, played amazingly by the BRILLIANT Lana Condor who should be starring in everything, writes love letters to her five biggest crushes and tucks them away, never to be mailed. But when they inexplicably get sent to each guy, she has to weather the fallout. Obviously the other star of this movie is the ridiculously hot Noah Centineo who you will dream about later. There are no movies like this being made right now. No hard edges, incredibly heart-felt, truly pure, and can be watched with your parents. Inspiring. Great. The best. Also fantastic art direction, they really create a world so beautifully you’ll feel like you’re in it.

Crazy Stupid Love. This is a movie that got a lot of attention when it came out, but fails to rank in most people’s list of greatest rom coms. WHY, I ask you?? Steve Carell! Emma Stone! Julianne Moore! RYAN GOSLING. Three love stories told across three generations. And a love story between Steve Carell and Ryan Gosling’s characters that’s one for the books. Tell me you don’t die laughing on the shopping trip, or that your mouth doesn’t fill with drool when Ryan Gosling takes his shirt off in that one scene, and I will call you a liar, my friend. This movie is really funny and really sweet and deserves more praise than it gets. I’m not gonna tell you the plot because it’ll kind of spoil things.

Shall We Dance. I feel strongly about this weird, weird movie. So, okay: the premise is that Richard Gere, slogging his life away in boredom (despite being married to consummate hottie Susan Sarandon) stumbles upon a…dance studio. OKAY JUST HANG IN THERE WITH ME. He wanders in and meets J Lo, a ballroom dance instructor with a sad story who teaches him how to live all over again. Stanley Tucci is in it and he wears a really bad wig. The nanny from The Parent Trap is in it, who actually also wears a hairpiece. It’s strangely moving and great. It’s corny, it’s awkward, it’s trying too hard, and it’s kind of perfect. There’s dancing. You will love it.

Return to Me. Be. Still. My. Heart. (If you’ve seen this movie, that’s a little joke for ya!) Okay - so again, this premise sounds cheesy and dumb, but I swear on Meg Ryan that it’s not. David Duchovny (heart eyes) plays a man in love with his beautiful wife, a brilliant zoologist named Elizabeth. She dies tragically in a car accident in the first 20 minutes of the movie. Meanwhile, Minnie Driver (of Good Will Hunting fame) lies in a hospital dying of a heart condition for which she needs an emergency transplant. Her grandfather, who raised her, along with the incomparable Bonnie Hunt (who wrote and directed this beautiful movie!) wait by her bedside. And…you guessed it. Dead wife Elizabeth’s heart saves her life. The story goes on to feature a mourning David Duchovny who eventually falls in love (unknowingly) with Minnie Driver. It is the most wholesome, precious, wonderful movie full of family dynamics and the grandfather’s pack of friends (they run an Irish/Italian fusion restaurant and bar called O’Reilly’s, comedy gold). Again, a guaranteed feel-good. Promise.

High Fidelity. I’m hitting you with two Cusacks because we all deserve more John Cusack. This movie is adapted from one of my favorite all-time books of the same name and features Rob, a record store owner, who takes the movie to walk you through is “Top Five All Time Most Memorable Breakups.” (There was a Hulu show starring Zoë Kravitz that premiered last year which was great and tragically canceled - check it out!) He goes back to confront each woman. It’s creative, so effortlessly cool, Jack Black and Steve Zahn and Lisa Bonet and Catherine Zeta-Jones are all in it. It’s a movie that will leave you feeling both good and maybe a little more intellectual for having watched. Absolutely qualifies as the only intellectually stimulating movie on this list. Well, that’s not true - About Time is really good. But this one is more like, “Oh hey look at me judging you about your musical preferences in an obscure coffee shop ripping a cig,” vibes. Like - if enjoyed 10 Things I Hate About You? You will love this movie.

Brown Sugar. This movie hits REAL different when you re-watch it as a married adult woman (like I did last week) where Taye Diggs’ character is just openly having an emotional affair with Sanaa Lathan’s character and like, is cheating, right? Right. So when his wife is at dinner with that other guy, I was low key like…DID he deserve it?? Anyway, that’s for you to decide. This movie is straight up REPLETE with cheating but honestly you’re rooting so hard for Taye and Sanaa that you can’t help but love it. It’s got a killer soundtrack and features Mos Def as arguably the most adorable part of the movie, with Queen Latifah serving everything the the Queen always serves. Honestly, as a white middle school girl who loved folk music, it’s where I first connected with hip hop, which led me to a moment in high school where I was playing the song “Brown Sugar” by D’Angelo in my car with my VERY WHITE BOYFRIEND who said, “I don’t like this type of music.” And then we broke up. Check, please! You’ll really enjoy this.

Morning Glory. Oh my goodness, if this isn’t a feel-good movie, I don’t know what is. Rachel McAdams can basically do no wrong for me, and this movie is no exception. She plays an adorable and driven morning news show producer who gets a big break when a failing morning show hires her to save it. The anchors are Harrison Ford (SWOON) and Diane Keaton. We also get a special appearance by Patrick Wilson, one of my Top 5 Celebrity Crushes, who is pitch-perfect. Rachel McAdams’ story is at the center of it all, with the love story being between her and Harrison Ford (not sexual love, just love love) more than anything else. It’s so wonderful. Please watch it. There are flouncy skirts and great blazers galore.

Honorable mention:

The Wedding Date. This movie is so bad that I couldn’t allow it in the top 15. It almost did, supported solely on the fact that Dermont Mulroney is so, so, SO SO hot. But I cannot allow it to move forward.

Julie and Julia. So, so, so so good. So re-watchable. But I think it also counts as too mainstream. I mean, honestly, I could do without 100% of the Amy Adams storyline and just focus son the Meryl storyline, but it’s still a really fun movie.

Okay y’all - that’ll do. Hope you enjoyed this evidence that I spend so, so much time in front of the TV!