The water sign, Scorpio, is sentimental, change averse and despises feeling out of control.

I am a Scorpio.

To a T.

So, when the pandemic impacted our traditional Easter gathering back in March, I may have gritted my teeth, but also knew we could manage. I declared the menu would remain the same, we would just recreate it ourselves and not travel our usual two hours to visit family. We could do it. Even if it was just Parsons Party of Four.

Bring on the ham and deviled eggs.

Then weeks turned into months. Vacations and flights were canceled. Fourth of July was scaled back with no firework displays in sight. Pumpkins were purchased in grocery store parking lots instead of off the vine. Now, I was beginning to panic.

I talked myself down during Halloween, which felt the most uninterrupted. My kids still dressed up—and masked up—and participated in our neighborhood Trick-or-Treat (bring on the Reese’s). Neighbors got creative with candy distribution and helped make the holiday safe, yet memorable, which boosted my hope for the upcoming months.

In early November, COVID cases were massively spiking and the heavy holiday hitters were around the corner. When we canceled our Thanksgiving plans, I fought every Scorpio urge to dramatically fall to my knees, shaking my fist at the heavens. Blame it on my astrological sign or the fact that we don’t live near family, but I am steadfast in tradition. Packing the minivan to the brim to visit all the aunts, uncles and cousins adds complexity, but it’s always been worth it for my kids to experience the holidays the way I was able to. We would spend days bouncing from one relative’s home to another and while it was exhausting, we’d always return home smiling, new memories in tow.

I recognize we’re lucky. Our holidays have always been full of boisterous laughter.

And homemade apple pie.

And reminiscing with hometown friends.

And so many people crammed into a house someone inevitably cracks a window.

And horribly off-key sing-a-longs.

And Italian goodbyes (it’s a thing. Look it up).

And 12 combinations of family photos—Quick! Before anyone leaves! Get the girl cousins! (See above. Italian Goodbyes).

And my mother-in-law’s gingerbread.

And…

2020 wasn’t the year for any of that. So, I was determined to pivot and recreate what we could. Turns out Scorpios do have some positive traits.

Thanksgiving may not have been typical, but it did have homemade apple pie (thanks, Aunt Ida for the recipe). It did have reminiscing with hometown friends (thanks, Zoom). It also had us staying in one spot. For the first time in 15 years my husband and I spent the holiday under our own roof. It was weird, but also weirdly nice.

By December I had accepted that there wouldn’t be cookie decorating with the little cousins. Or Christmas Eve Eve (yes, that’s two eves. We do December 23^rd big) with the big cousins. Or an epic Christmas Eve charcuterie board with a signature cocktail at my in-laws’.

We’d be staying put.

Again.

And then something happened. We woke up on December 25th to snow. An actual White Christmas. With nowhere to be except with each other. We had never experienced a Christmas morning like this. Normally from the time we wake up we’re on the clock. Santa came! Open presents at one house.  Have cookies for breakfast. Open presents at another by 11 a.m. Is anyone hungry for lunch? Does a child need to nap? What time do we need to leave for dinner? When was the last time the kids had a bath?

This was a Christmas without timelines. Our girls bounded into the living room, shrieking with delight at the sight of their gifts, inspecting the chimney and discussing the logistics of Santa’s worldly travels. My husband and I sat together, observing, listening in on the sisterly chatter and smiling. Even the dog was curled up and relaxing by the tree.

As the girls’ imaginations ran wild exploring their new toys, I sat in my jammies—all day— leisurely sipping spiked eggnog. It was peaceful and truly joyful, even though it was different.

2020 taught me that new traditions can still be magical, change isn’t always bad, and we can recognize disappointment without allowing it to ruin our holidays. It also taught me that I might have an unhealthy correlation with food and celebrations, but that’s a conversation for another time…

 (Wednesdays. With my therapist).

As a working mom of two young girls—who has lived through a “stay at home order” and now a “responsible restart”—there is no escaping the reality of our new normal. COVID-19 has turned our daily routines upside down and amped up our innermost fears and anxieties. Yet in the current environment my husband and I are considered privileged. We are in high-demand industries, with the ability to technically do our jobs from home. But while the paychecks are still rolling in, so are the challenges.

Early on we decided not to over explain the situation to the curious little minds in our house. We kept answers simple. We’re staying home so we don’t get sick or get other people sick. But as time goes on, there’s no sidestepping the severity of living through a pandemic.

We’re months (years?) into this new dynamic and admittedly, I thought I’d feel more settled by now. Though not as peppered with questions from the kiddos as I’d anticipated, we’re still trying our best to keep them busy and distracted.

All while trying to work.

Working from home is one thing when the kids are at daycare and I’m sipping coffee in my home office with the dog nestled at my feet. It’s quite another in the current environment.

I feel for those who are quarantined or social distancing alone. I can’t imagine how isolating and lonely the days must be. But my challenges are different. My children are young, active (massive understatement) and in constant need of things to do. Crafts and coloring only hold their attention for so long before they’re looking to what’s next. My conference call schedule is in competition with every snack request, every “are you done working yet?” and every tattle of “she’s not sharing!”

Luckily my kids aren’t school aged yet, so I’m not also faced with the challenges of homeschooling. I can’t fathom trying to teach long division on top of our current workload. While my husband’s work has allowed him to pick up the brunt of the childcare for now, we still find ourselves in a stand off of whose-meeting-is-more-important. Who will be overseeing toddler activity of the hour while on mute and inevitably asking, “Can you repeat the question?” while the other “luxuriates” in our quiet home office?

My productivity is being stretched along with my patience. No, I’m not on the front lines of the pandemic, but I do work in healthcare, which means there’s no escape, no “this can wait ‘til tomorrow”. The situation changes by the hour and much like my children, demands my attention.

Each day has been go go go. Just survive. Just keep moving. A balancing act all while trying not to snark at the spouse. Just keep smiling, feeding, working, feeding again, bathing, reading, sweet dreaming, still smiling.

Then it stops.

My anxiety sets in at night. When the constant buzz of the day fizzles out. When I have to remember to breathe. When life finally settles and the world goes silent. I find myself in bed, eyes wide, looking at the ceiling. My heart thumping in my ears, only interrupted by the soft snoring of my dog (and my husband). I never used to find the darkness haunting. But with so many layers of fear and unknowns and trying to hold it all together…the night is where I let myself feel.

It’s where I tell the anxiety to come in and get it over with already. I make peace with its presence and I play out the what ifs, the horrible worst-case scenarios and eventually, I do remember to breathe.

Of course logic tells me there’s nothing to do but handle each day as it comes and try to regroup every night. My regrouping may look different than others’, but it’s how I’m managing. It’s my way of proving to myself that even if I don’t believe it to be true in a particular moment, I have to know we’ll make it through. As a family. As a country. As a human race.

So, for now it’s a day of chaos—and a night of anxiety—at a time.

One morning, after a rousing rendition of up-every-two-hours-with-a-teething-baby, bleary eyed yet caffeinated, I texted my best friend:

I am 100% done having children. I can’t do this anymore.

She came through with some sympathetic words, mood-lightening emojis and a gentle reminder that this is temporary. It’s the fatigue talking, she suggested.

But no. That morning sitting like a zombie in my office cube, I meant it. The night before as I rocked my youngest and stroked her wispy baby curls I knew I was done. She chewed on her fingers and looked up at me with wide eyes and a tear-stained face. We locked eyes and while I didn’t resent her in that moment (how could I?) I did feel a sense of finality with this stage of motherhood. I realized I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to watch her grow into a person and move beyond the baby years.

Eventually life moved beyond that evil emerging molar, and we settled back into our routine. I returned to a functioning member of my team at work. And at home I’d catch myself smiling, looking at my two girls as they played together with my husband. This is what our family is meant to look like. Life is loud and full and happy. I don’t need anything else.

Then one night as we were getting ready for bed, after a visit with some friends who are expecting their first baby, my husband said it.

I miss when you were pregnant.

My heart raced a little— surely he didn’t mean it. After seeing our friends he must be having a weak moment. HE had been the one adamant that two children is enough. HE had been the one to quickly shut down any “what ifs” that I’d raised. How does he say this right after I declare that we’re finished and I really, really mean it?

So, I reminded him. No, you don’t. You don’t miss my cankles and carpal tunnel syndrome. My complaining and flopping around as I’d try to get comfortable with no less than six pillows each night. My anxiety at each doctor’s appointment as I waited to hear if my blood pressure was rising again. Really, you don’t miss it.

Oh, but he did. He claimed it was the other stuff. The magic of it all. Feeling the baby move, wondering if it was a boy or a girl and what our family dynamic would be like when the baby arrived. Relax, he’d said. He was just being wistful. No more babies are in our future.

As he rolled over that night and went to sleep (easily, might I add) I lay awake reliving his words. I knew what he meant. Growing a family is a special time as a couple and it was filled with awe. After this conversation I was now 75% sure we were good with the two we have.

Life settled back in again, but this time my four-year-old threw me. She climbed up on the couch into my lap and put her arms around my neck.

“Mommy,” she sighed and paused dramatically as though a big proclamation was looming. She pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “I’d like a brother.”

I laughed her comment off and explained she had a sister, which was great. I only had a sister, Daddy only had a sister and we are all very happy. She brushed me off in a couple of minutes and ran off to play.

But then I found myself thinking. What’s one more kid really. We know what we’re doing. We’d be so much more relaxed. We already have a minivan for cryin’ out loud!

In my heart of hearts I believe we are done. I’m grateful for what I have and I love our family, but there are small moments where I catch myself wondering if a little boy would round us out. If we just waited until our youngest was a little older…

It’s little moments of second guessing, wondering and daydreaming. But it’s big moments of practicality (hello, daycare costs) and reason that reel me back in. We’re doing fine just the way we are.

So, like I said…

That’s how I know I’m 50% sure we’re done having children.

There’s no two ways about it—  I’m considered high-risk for developing breast cancer in my lifetime. In fact, based on my known risk factors and family history I have a lifetime risk of 37%. While this number may not seem high on its own, anything over 20% is considered high risk.

Fortunately or unfortunately, however you look at it, I’m very aware of breast cancer and my risks. The disease is prevalent on both sides of my family in varying forms and degrees, and the reality is I’m 33 years old and I need to start paying attention.

I’ve always believed in the importance of being proactive in my healthcare. But that doesn’t make it easy to think about “what could be.” I could choose to stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes tightly like a toddler and shake my head singing “lalala” to drown out reality. But that’s not the responsible thing to do as partner to my husband, a mother to my daughters or even to myself. Burying my head in the sand doesn’t lower my risk. So when my family doctor recommended that I see a breast specialist, I agreed.

After meeting with a genetic counselor and my breast specialist, we’ve now determined a regular cadence for my screenings. First up was a mammogram. I know this is hindsight, but I cannot stress enough that it’s really NO BIG DEAL. I’ve heard countless stories about women avoiding this test. Maybe it’s due to embarrassment, fear of pain or fear of finding something scary. Whatever the reason, and this may sound harsh, but, get over it.

I was nervous, too. For all the reasons I listed above. Maybe I lucked out because I have access to great care and a newer facility, but my experience was almost pleasant. If you’ve never had a mammogram and have any hesitations about going, here was my experience:

Even before I arrived, scheduling the appointment was a breeze. I called and was able to get in 24 hours later. Once in the facility I was welcomed, immediately brought back to registration and then taken to a waiting room with private lockers. A nurse showed me where to store my belongings, told me to undress from the waist up and gave my a robe to change into while I waited. (One note: wearing a white robe with nothing underneath in a freezing cold room may make an already self conscious woman even more so. I would have preferred a darker color or thicker fabric, but I also tried to keep in mind this wasn’t a spa visit.)

When the radiologist called me and walked me to the x-ray room, she did a great job explaining how the procedure would go and what to expect. It was a little odd to disrobe, but after giving birth to two children my modesty in hospital settings is pretty much null. 

The actual imaging was very quick. I was positioned two different ways for each breast, and only had to take one arm out of a sleeve at a time, preserving some dignity. It wasn’t the most comfortable process, physically or mentally, but it was efficient. The radiologist was friendly and apologetic as she clamped (yes, clamped) each breast onto the machine and directed me when to breathe or when to hold my breath. I was able to put my robe back on immediately after we finished.

The best part, which was unexpected as a first-timer, is the doctor read the results and talked to me while I was still there. I was under the impression that I’d be waiting 24 hours for results like many other tests, and that maybe “no news is good news.” That game is always a little anxiety inducing, so I appreciated the immediate feedback.

The doctor came in and talked me through what he saw (dense tissue, which at my age is to be expected) and what he didn’t see (anything alarming requiring further imaging). He mentioned the MRI would give a better picture, but that everything looked good.

Immediate relief.

I realized I’d been more nervous than I thought. I’d heard over and over, “getting a mammogram is no picnic,” but it really wasn’t that bad. So my breasts had the living daylights squeezed out of them for a few minutes. Ultimately the experience provided me with peace of mind and allowed me to feel more in control of my health.

My message here is twofold: One, find a healthcare provider you trust and make a prevention/screening plan together that you both are comfortable with. Two, follow through with that plan.

You owe it to your family and to yourself to be the healthiest you can. God forbid any issues arise, the earlier they are caught the better. Take the time to take care of yourself.

Dear, Husband,

Let’s not wait another three years before we go away together.

Really. No more excuses. No more guilt. I promise.

We’ve put this off for so long, for so many reasons:

We get such little free time. We should spend vacations as a family. We shouldn’t spend the money. We can’t ask anyone to watch our kids overnight. Maybe next year when the kids are older.

On the heels of our first true parental getaway I’ve realized a couple of things.

I still really like you. Sure, our relationship has evolved over the last 17 years, between jobs and marriage and kids, but I’m proud that we’re growing together. Do we have days where logistics consume us? Of course. We may have perfected the kids’ bedtime routine with minimal depth of conversation and maximum efficiency, but in order to stay a “we” we need more than that. It’s hard to break out of the everyday and push ourselves to do something for us, but it’s essential.

I’ve realized there’s no one else I’d rather eat and drink my way through a new city with. No one else I’d rather share the eye rolls with as we judge fellow travelers who go barefoot on the plane and lack personal space. No one else I’d rather take a historical walking tour in blazing 90 degree heat with. Stay my travel partner for life. Let’s continue to make each other a priority, try new things and create memories.

When it’s just us, you remind me who I am. You encourage me to say yes more. Yes to staying out later than I have in years, drinking beer and singing along to live music with fellow patrons. Yes to trying new things, to making split second decisions about what to do or where to eat and (momentarily) forgetting about life back home. You show me that spontaneity is a good thing, and push me to think bigger without being a slave to “the plans.”

It’s healthy for everyone to have a break. Before we had kids I always thought our “break” would be during the work day. Why would we more need time away? As a somewhat seasoned mom, I now understand we still need a break from relentless, hectic schedules. It isn’t just work— it’s the morning routines, the overflowing inboxes, the errands we squeeze in at the end of the day. It’s okay to recharge. Part of the reason we put off going away is because of the guilt. Our time spent as a family is already limited, how could we rationalize spending more time away? I felt like I was defending our decision before we even finalized our travel plans. But I now see that it’s good for everyone. We had time to reconnect and explore the world without the restrictions of a 5 p.m. dinner bell, strollers, nap schedules and diaper changes.

And with us out of town our children get the gift of quality time with their grandparents. We see family regularly, but living two hours away has its limitations. We tend to cram as much in on our weekend visits as possible, running from house to house, shoveling in rushed meals to make the rounds. Often on our Sunday drives back home I’ll look at you and wryly say, “Hi. How was your weekend?” because we’re so consumed by the non-stop action that we barely talk.

Trying to make the most of our time with family also gives the grandparents the short end of the stick. They only have so much time to spend with the kids and usually it isn’t one on one. I now think it’s a bit of a gift to the grandparents (though, we know they work for it!) for even a couple of days where they can enjoy our kids to themselves.

Now that we’ve done it—the first real mom and dad getaway under our belt—I promise I don’t need any more convincing. I will make you a priority. Make us a priority. Next time we leave you’ll have to race me to the car as I wave goodbye to the kids over my shoulder, barely containing my excitement.

I get it now. They’ll be fine. And you and I will be even better.

“Mommy! When did you do THAT?” my three-year-old asked me in awe after she noticed my fresh pedicure. She crouched down near the ground to get a better look, carefully analyzing the hue of pink on my toes. She approved my color choice and EVERY HOUR FOR THE REST OF THE DAY she begged me to please, please, please paint her toes. When I finally gave in she informed me that her left toes would be pink and her right toes would be purple.

Um.

I’m embarrassed to say I flinched at her suggestion. I attempted to reason with her and launched into an explanation about how it looks better when we match and use one color. But she persisted and stood firm on her request. I took a breath preparing to counter again, and then I caught myself.

I swallowed the Type A, rigid nonsense I was spewing and told her to pick whatever colors she wanted. She could barely contain herself as she sorted through my nail polish collection. I realized by reframing that moment I was doing more than just approving her nail polish color.

What I was really saying to her was:

It’s good to be creative:

At three and a half, you love color! Every day there’s a new “favorite” and why should nail polish be any different? Be proud that your fashion sense doesn’t conform. There’s so much time to worry about what people think. When you’re 13 I’m sure we’ll be having a very different conversation. So for now—do what you want and do it with pride. Your creativity is blossoming more each day and I promise to embrace it.

I value who you are:

You don’t have to be just like me and that’s okay. We can disagree and like different things. It’s empowering to make your own choices (within reason—you are still in preschool after all). As you grow and learn more about the world around you I want to show you that what you think matters.

As your mom, I will try to let go:

Up until now I have made every decision for you. I decorated your nursery. I chose your clothes. I bought your toys and books. I’ve decided what you’re eating for each meal. But now that you’re becoming a person with your own identity and opinions, I need to let you have a say. It goes against everything that is natural for me, but I will do my best to let go.

Once we settled on a couple of colors, we spent the new few minutes excitedly talking together, filing nails and then carefully painting. My daughter’s grin was wide the entire time as she beamed with pride over her choices.

The next morning when she woke up and kicked her little mismatched toes out from under the covers, I was reminded of her spirit, perseverance and individuality. With her eyes barely open and messy curls splayed over her pillow, she glanced down at her feet. Her face lit up as she remembered her toes were painted. She gave me the biggest smile and said, “Look, Mommy! Remember what we did? Left in pink and right in purple.”

Last week I was on a business trip and received a text from my husband at 6:30 a.m.

“What’s the worst thing you could wake up to, child-wise?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically.

Puke. Oh no. Puke. Someone puked.

Sure enough the baby had been hit with her first stomach bug. I was helpless, hundreds of miles away and riddled with guilt. My husband tried to assure me he was fine and all would be well, but I felt terrible. I looked down at my running shoes, fresh off an uninterrupted workout. Then glanced at my room service tray— complete with hot coffee unaided by multiple microwave warm ups. And tried to avert my eyes from the book peeking out of my bag that I’d actually been able to read on the plane.

Guilt. Guilt. More guilt. And throw in a little extra guilt just because.

Business travel is a part of being a working mom, and though I don’t always mind it, I am acutely aware of how much it impacts my family.

For my husband it’s a complete disruption of his work schedule. Daycare doesn’t open until 7, which is when he usually arrives at his school. With almost an hour drive after drop off, he has no choice but to ask colleagues to cover his classroom until he arrives. He assures me it’s not a big deal, but I know his mornings are much more hectic than he’s used to. There’s no relief at the end of the work day, because the second the last school bell rings, the chaos spills into the evening. He’s back with the kids doing pickup, dinner, bath and bed. Instead of working a 9-5 shift, he’s on the hook for 16 hours each day that I’m gone. And that’s when the kids are healthy. Throw in a puker and it’s a whole different ball game.

For my kids we’ve now entered the phase of parenting where I have to explain why I’m leaving, where I’m going and when I’ll be back. In some ways it’s harder now that my oldest daughter understands. I’m peppered with questions:

But who will take me to school?

But why do you have to leave?

But I will miss you!

I do my best to stay upbeat and set a positive example. We talk about keeping commitments and why working is important. I always say how much I’ll miss them, but try not to dwell on it.

For me I’m conflicted. I look forward to uninterrupted sleep, morning exercise and maybe reading the novel that’s had a bookmark in it for two months. But it’s certainly not a vacation. I tend to work longer hours while I’m away on travel and have to fight the urge to check in at home too often. I miss my family, but I know they will be okay without me. 

•      •      •

Later that evening I called my husband to check in. He was in surprisingly good spirits as he recounted yet another episode of projectile vomit by the baby while our three-year-old shrieked in horror. He laughed with a “what can you do” attitude then asked me how my day had been.

I had wrapped up a full day at my conference with a little sightseeing and was enjoying a top-notch Italian dinner by myself. I was sitting in an open-air restaurant on a beautiful spring day, facing the sidewalk, people watching and sipping on a glass of red wine. My meal was stellar and still hot when I finished it. No one interrupted me. Even the server seemed to sense how much I was relishing in dining alone. He didn’t come by until I was very clearly ready to be rolled out with my gluttony.

“Oh you know how these things are. Meetings…networking and such…just grabbed some dinner,” I fumbled, trying not to give away how carefree the last couple hours of my day had been.

With a knowing chuckle, he said, “I’m glad you’re having a good time. We’re fine, but miss you. We’ll Facetime later.”

He said this with such sincerity that my guilt melted away—just for a minute. I was left with gratitude for a partner who truly steps up without resentment. My husband knows I feel terrible being away, but he also know we can’t change it. So he accepts it as part of the deal and jumps in seamlessly. Even when the special hell that is Murphy’s Law rears its ugly head.

Being a working mom is hard. While traveling and being away can feel brutal at times, I also know how lucky I am. As I hung up the phone, reveling in appreciation, I remembered no one was around to tell me I couldn’t grab dessert at the bakery next door. So I stopped in and indulged for another quiet minute before heading back to my hotel for a night cap of email.