Dinosaur Mama

Dinosaur Mama

The marks etched into the desert landscape as viewed from my seat on the plane look as though a mama dinosaur had one too many sibling dino fights; stomping and dragging her foot back toward her body.

“He’s the only reptile brother you’re ever going to have.”

In the wake of her stomp and drag, the shape and roll, the imprint of the Earth forever changed. Like when I am rooting through my closet, on my knees and sweating, looking for my other gray shoe in a sea of shoes that aren’t gray, and I hear one more time…


I mistake the voice, one brother for the other. I’ve just sent the older one back to bed after he asked me eleven questions about California, airplane safety, earthquakes, tectonic plates, tsunamis, and Disneyland versus Disney World.

I am bone tired; I physically ache after three nights of insomnia brought on by who knows what. I parented alone all day as my husband sat with his grandmother at the hospital while his grandfather had yet another heart cath after what I count as his third heart attack since I joined the family. We launched big news at work that will hopefully help moms for decades to come. I smashed my iPhone to smithereens on the garage floor while running a quick errand. I made tacos for dinner—and didn’t have enough taco shells for myself. I ate a bowl of beans while the boys left half of their taco shells on their plates, slobbered on and uneaten. The dog ate half a Gymbuck I earned buying the boys overpriced Easter clothes the day before because I realized, too late, that I wouldn’t get home until the evening on the day before Easter. When I yelled at the dog, she peed on the floor.

I was tired. So I snapped.

“What? I thought I sent you to bed.” I didn’t even turn around at first.

But I immediately regretted my tone. I get stressed before I travel, but I hate taking that tone at any time for any reason with my sons. It feels gross.

I felt even worse when I turned and saw not our older son who had, yes, gone back to bed, but our younger son, clad in dark green fleece pajamas adorned with sock monkeys. His face crumpled in the way only his face crumples, in the way that breaks everything within you.

“I finished reading and I just wanted to say goodnight.”


This is a truth of my motherhood. My anxiety will creep up and up for whatever reason—work, busy life, fire life, homework, family, travel—and it spills out and over onto these ones I’ve been charged with care. I pulled him into my arms and apologized, asking if he wanted me to tuck him into bed. Again. He nodded. And sniffled.

I shuffled him down the hallway, scooched his butt into his bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin. His face remained crumpled.

“I’m. Going. To. Miss. You. So. Much. You. Never. Leave.” Sobbing. Snot. Tears. Arms around my neck. I held him close, a bit flabbergasted.

“It’s okay, Boo. Amanda will be here for one day and daddy the next two days and then a special day with Nina. We can text and FaceTime a lot.” I brushed his quickly growing hair out of his face, wiping tears that snaked down his soft cheeks.

I haven’t gone anywhere for work in over a year. I’ve been at home, firmly planted in close proximity to them at all times. I made choices that kept me in our shared space for specific reasons, just as I made choices to start a new job that will occasionally take me from my babies for specific reasons.

The boys know I “help mamas,” but they don’t quite understand what I do beyond that general description. They’ve heard me mention mental health, but they don’t get what my work does for others’ mental health. They know I’m on the computer and the phone a lot during the day and that I have more time in the evenings than I used to. They know I seem happier, less prone to bouts of anger or irritation, like the one LittleBrother just witnessed. But they don’t yet have an understanding of the endless work of those within the non-profit sector. They don’t get mental health stigma and the fight we have as a team to get people to take us, to take our suffering moms, seriously. While they know I take medication to make my brain work properly, they don’t understand that without I quite likely wouldn’t be here, with them; alive.

It’s interesting to be here in San Jose for the NTEN Non-Profit Technology Conference. Nearly two years ago I stood on the Grand Ballroom Stage at the San Jose Convention Center and read my Voices of the Year piece to a room full of BlogHer attendees. I stood on that stage and I talked about understanding suicide, about having been on that same proverbial bridge, of being so glad I was far from it. People called me brave for sharing my truth. I didn’t yet know that my mental health was crumbling around me, that within three months, I’d be in the hospital for getting too close to that bridge that really is any freaking bridge. That rock bottom was so very close. I couldn’t see it.

Jenna Hatfield, Voices of the Year 2014

And I didn’t know I’d be walking through the same convention hall, nearly two years later, learning as much as I can so I can help support moms dealing with postpartum mood and anxiety disorders in the best ways possible. I couldn’t see this was coming either. Maybe it would have made rock bottom easier. I’ll never know.

What I do know is that doing important work for moms makes the time spent away from my sons feel tolerable. Maybe instead, the big hole I saw from the sky wasn’t that of a mama dinosaur, tired and fed up with another day of parenting. Maybe the lines in the Earth symbolize the way our little dinosaurs step into our hearts, our lives, our souls and forever change who we are, how we see the world, and the ways in which we want to make it better for their generation.

Either way, I miss those little, loud-footed boys of mine right now. This is working motherhood; this is warrior motherhood.


Thank You, BlogHer

Thank You, BlogHer

In 2006, Liz linked to a post of mine about bathing suits on BlogHer. Another friend wrote about music on the site at the time. I clicked through a few pages and joined the site. I remember nearly passing out with glee when Lisa Stone, one of the co-founders, emailed me personally to ask me to join their new and growing ad network.

I made it a goal to someday work for the site. At the time, I still worked for an adoption content website as a blogger and editor, but I stayed active in the BlogHer community. I knew what I wanted.

In 2010, through a series of life changes and coincidence or happenstance or fate or friends or what have you, I achieved that goal. I spent the following five years working with other smart women. I learned not just about editing but about life and balance; about topics and subjects I wouldn’t have otherwise thought to consider or research; about the many ways to mother, to parent, to love, to nurture, to let go; about friendship and grief, love and loss, highs and lows; about achievements and set backs and all the spaces in between when talking about professional endeavors. I learned so much I couldn’t begin to define or quantify it all, but I know the things I learned helped shape how I viewed the world and the people in my life.

I also wrote. I wrote a lot. I wrote about things that piqued my interest and things that didn’t really. I wrote poorly; I wrote better. I wrote because the words of others inspired me to write. And sometimes I didn’t write because someone else already said what I needed to say, what people needed to hear. Editing and writing do that sometimes. I didn’t feel silenced by the words of others. No. I felt empowered.

Over these past five years, I found my voice. I learned how speaking my own truth helped others. When I stopped writing about adoption and shut down my adoption blog, I wasn’t sure I’d have anything worth writing, sharing, or reading. I struggled for awhile, silenced by my own fear and anxiety of not ever being “enough.” Through the daily reading and editing of others’ work at BlogHer, I found the courage to keep writing my truth. Last July, I stood on stage and shared that truth with a room full of people I knew and didn’t know.

BlogHer helped me get to that place.

And that’s why it’s so hard to say goodbye.

Last Friday, I closed my laptop and walked away from five years of hard work, growth, achievement, and everything else that comes with working for a company you love. Choosing to leave remains one of the harder decisions of my professional life. It feels both brave and scary in the same shaky breath. Setting off on a new path feels invigorating and paralyzing, but I’m taking each step a day at a time.

My reasons for leaving aren’t as important as the people I left behind in making this decision. While I’ve enjoyed my first week off, spent largely and fully with my sons and husband and associated family members, I’ve also missed the daily interaction with some of the most intelligent, loving, funny, inspiring women I’ve ever had the joy to work with, for, and beside. Our “small but mighty” team did a lot of good work, and BlogHer continues to touch a lot of lives in so many different ways. I will always be proud to say I worked for a company that empowers so many women, both financially and with words.

And now?

Now I find myself in both a time of uncertainty and discovery. I’m taking the month of June off to be with my family. Tomorrow marks one year since my Grandmother’s passing, and we’re interring her ashes along with my Papau’s ashes next Saturday on their wedding anniversary. Over the past year, though many hard life experiences, I’ve found myself wanting to draw closer to my family. And so I am.

I have a few contracts lined up for July. I am searching LinkedIn, job boards, and the world at large for my next job. But for now… for now, I am just enjoying a bit of time to breathe, to stretch, to look at who I am and who I want to become. I’m excited for this time and for whatever waits just down this path. I feel like great things are right ahead of me. I just need to remain patient and steady in the journey. I need to remain present in this time and place.

And so, thank you, BlogHer. Thank you for the five years, the time before that, and the time yet to come. I still believe in your mission, in your work, in the voices you help people find. Thank you for helping me find mine.