“Oh, what beautiful children you have! Do tell me their names.”

Go on, boys, tell the nice lady your names.

“I’m Hold On.”

“And, my name is Gimme a Second.”

Oh, these boys of mine, always joking around. This is Luca. And, this little guy here is my youngest, Leo.

* * *

Okay, okay, so this didn’t actually happen.

Yet.

But, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.

I spend more days than I should phoning it in, and putting the unimportant before my most important.

Give me just a second, while I reply to this tweet.

Hold still for a minute, honey, so I can capture this moment instead of participate in it…you know, for my blog.

I tell myself they’re still too young to know better, but that’s a lie. Just because they’re not able to articulate it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.

Somehow, though, they always seem to forgive me, but I’m trying to shape up before they get any older.

* * *

Sweet boys of mine,

I’m still learning everyday how to be your mother.

I try hard to be the best, but I still mess up more than you deserve.

I’m not perfect, and I’ll never pretend to be. But, I’ll always apologize to you when I’ve done wrong. Even tiny-sized children deserve adult-sized respect.

You’re not perfect, either, and I won’t pretend you are. In fact, I want you to know just how imperfect you are. Because, we all are, and isn’t it lovely?

I cherish that I’m getting to know you at the same time you’re getting to know yourself. And, that you’re getting to know me at the same time I’m still getting to know myself.

The complicated journey of self-discovery has just started for you. And, there’s no final destination, just little pit-stops along the way.

I wish I could tell you it’s easy, this growing up stuff, but it’s not. It’s incredibly hard. Never let anyone discount that or minimize it.

You’ll try on a million different hats until you find the one that fits, which will probably end up being the very first one you tried on.

You’ll question who you are often and, when you don’t like the answer, you’ll try to be someone different.

And, that’s okay, we all do it.

But, me? I’ll never question who you are. I’ll only love you, all of you, even the parts you hate. And, when you’re pretending to be someone different, I’ll be here to guard those parts and keep them safe. Because, trust me, one day you’ll want them back.

As your mother, I’m looking forward to so many milestones.

I can picture them now…

I’ll sit on the sidelines and cheer loudly for my baseball all-star. Or, sit in the front row, and silently pull for my ballerina.

I’ll watch in awe at how fearlessly you take on life, attacking it head-on. Or, the way you cautiously approach it, preferring to get your toes wet before diving in.

I’ll talk loud on how brilliantly academic you are, and how effortlessly you earn perfect marks in every subject. Or, the way you put in your all, and study day and night to raise that D to a C.

I’ll beam with pride at how outgoing and confident you are when you walk into a room, and how much you relish the spotlight. Or, at how incredibly shy you are, comforted most by shadows and shining your brightest when no one’s looking.

I’ll stand proudly by your side the day you find God. Or, the day you find you don’t believe in him.

I’ll leap for joy when you find your wife. Or, your husband. Or, the day you decide you don’t want either.

I’ll cry tears of happiness when you finally make me a grandmother to a bouncing baby girl. Or, stray cat. Or, a Chia Pet.

I’ll embarrass you often, bragging to everyone about my handsome, wealthy, heart surgeon of a son. Or, my broke, starving, artist of a man.  Or, my hardworking, honest custodian.

For, you see, it’s simple.

The only thing I expect of you is to choose what makes you happy, independent of what’s considered the norm or what makes others happy.

It’s not your job to live for anyone, especially not for me.

But, it is my job to live for you.

And, because I take this job very seriously, I’ll do things that you won’t understand sometimes.

Like pushing you to take chances on things that terrify you.

Or, stepping back and letting you fall.

I won’t try to fix everything for you. It’s not my place. But, I will always be close by to pick you up and dust you off.

I expect you to be kind, to defend those that are weak, and try to make the world a little better than you found it, any chance you get.

I’ll take you out of your comfort zone, and expose you to things and people that are different from you. I refuse to let you miss out on diversity and all the beauty it brings.

I’ll tell you incessantly to be grateful for all you that have, then remind you that none of it makes you better than those who have-not.

I’ll push you to be gracious and generous. And, not for praise or the expectation of something in return, only because it’s the right thing to do.

You’ll see all of this as nagging, and you’ll roll your eyes and stop your feet and slam your door in my face.

Sometimes you won’t like me, and you’ll tell me so. You may even tell me how much you hate me.

But, don’t worry, it’s a rite of passage, and I’ve already forgiven you. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me love you less.

Life is unpredictable, and ever-changing. With the good comes the bad, and with the happy, the sad. But, there’s one thing that will always remain constant.

I’ll always be here to hold your hand.

Even when you’re trying to let go.

“I’m headed to Brazil, and I’ll be gone for a week,
You’re in charge of the house now, please try not to freak.”

With tears in my eyes I cried, “We’ll miss you so much!”
But, deep down inside, I thought, “Man, this is clutch!”

I’d have the bed to myself, the remote would be mine.
And no one to judge me for drinking a bottle of wine.

Alone in the house, I could burp or pass gas,
For once, no one trying to tap that ass.

How hard could it be, this single-parenting gig?
I’d put the boys to bed early. Oh the beer that I’d swig!

The first night was great, it went according to plan,
So, I woke up thinking, “I don’t need no man!”

But, slowly the shit storm began to move in,
“You think this is easy?” it asked with a grin.

It threw things at me from every which way,
And had ripped me a new one by the end of the day.

I awoke this morning at the crack of dawn,
To find Luca holding some empty Goo Gone.

“I cleaned the house, mommy, I did all my chores,”
He proudly proclaimed, as I slid across the floor.

But, that’s not all, he also cleaned some chairs;
a couch, and the kitchen, and some of the stairs.

We’ll talk later, just get dressed for school,
But, seriously dude, that was so not cool.

He took a deep breathe and said, “But, mommy, that’s not all.
I also helped clean some paint off the wall.”

It’s been four long days that my husband’s been gone,
Suddenly selling my children doesn’t seem all that wrong.

Who knew single-parenting could be such a challenge?
I’m in shock that my mom didn’t drink beer by the gallon.

This week I’ve decided one very big thing,
That nothing could make me take off this ring.

You slept with a hooker? You lost all our money?
Divorce? Don’t be silly. We’ll work it out, honey!

I’ve taken for granted the support I have each day,
And realized a quick BJ’s a small price to pay.

Now, I’d like to take a moment, I’d like to raise my glass,
To all of you who have no help when it comes to wiping ass.

* * *

Dear husband,

You can come home now.

Seriously.

We walked into the bar and were immediately surrounded by men with guns.

Card-carrying members of the NRA, in town for its annual conference.

(Really, some had the permit hanging around their neck.)

Isn’t there a law about carrying guns into a bar?

Anyway, I’m not sure why it caught me off guard. I mean, I knew they were in town. I’d been having lots of fun at their expense in the days leading up to this.

The 2013 NRA convention is here this weekend. 75,000 expected. So, if you’re a deer, or not a white person, you may want to avoid downtown.

— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) May 3, 2013

You guys have no idea how many deer I offended.

Of course, I needed evidence of the entire cliche.

With my poor husband melting into his chair next to me, I pulled out my iPhone.

“Babe, Don’t take a picture. Please don’t take a picture. ALLISON, STOP.”

Oh, please, relax! What’s the worst that can happen? You act as if they’re drunk and packing heat. Wait….

I posted one of the pictures later and, predictably, my trusty comrades began ripping my subjects a new one.

But, later on, as I was brushing my teeth, I felt a punch in the gut.

My conscious had shown up to ruin all the fun.

I took a long look in the mirror, and saw a drunk hypocrite staring back.

Me, the ever so vocal one on my hatred of hate and judgment of judgement, had posted a picture on the internet of someone I knew nothing about, and released the hungry hounds on him.

I ran to my computer, deleted the image, and quickly replaced it with another.

(And, by quickly, I mean like 20 minutes. I was seeing double, and typing was not an easy task.)

As I was falling asleep that night, I made a promise to myself: No more calling people stupid motherfuckers.

I would kill with kindness, instead.

* * *

The following day we took the boys to ride the train.

The flawless weather had beckoned an entire city of people to come out and play, and the park was more crowded than I’d ever seen it.

The parking lot was equally insane, filled with frustrated adults running over each other to find a spot.

Finally, I saw a family leaving, so I proceeded to do that creepy 1 mph stalker-follow, quickly turning my blinker on to shot gun the soon-to-be-empty space.

Yes! Finally, I found a spot!

Only I hadn’t, because some dude kicked his car into reverse, and clicked on his own stupid blinker.

Are you kidding me? THIS IS SO MY SPOT. This guy is blatantly stealing my spot. You can’t do the reverse move, that’s cheating. Babe, this is my spot, right? I mean, if someone had to call it, they would call it for me, right?

“Yes, Allison. He’s a jerk. It’s your spot. The imaginary parking judges would definitely call it for you. But, whatever, move on.”

(My husband’s mellowness always makes me look so unstable.)

Not ready to concede, I stood my ground, my heart beating louder than my blinker.

The spot-swiper looked at me, waved his finger back and forth, and mouthed,”This is mine.”

Oh, the rage.

Tunnel vision set in and all I could hear was my damn blinker saying – Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck You.

Finally, the poor car caught in the middle of all this began backing out.

It was go time.

The swiper and I attempted to turn into the space at the same time and, had I been cool with mowing down someone’s grandma, it would have been mine for sure. Sadly, though, I lost our little round of chicken.

I lowered the window as I rolled by, and burned holes into his face with my eyes. On the tip of my tongue, “Wow, your mommy must be proud she raised such a gentlemen…ASSHOLE!” But, my kids were with me, so I sucked it up and reluctantly moved on.

Then, the universe remembered my drunken kindness vow, and decided to put me to the test.

We approached the line to wait for the next train at the exact same moment as another family.

Not just any family, of course.

SWIPER’S FAMILY.

It was obvious by his demeanor, though, that he had no idea I was the chick who’d just penciled him in on her shit-list.

I guess he must have left his balls in the car, because he smiled warmly and motioned for us to move ahead of him.

I had seconds to decide how to react, and a million scenarios flashed through my head.

Should I kick him in the knee?

Should I twist his nipple?

Give him the wettest of all willies?

The fear on my husband’s face was growing.

That’s when I smiled.

Oh, no, please! After you, sir…

* * *

Since these events, one thought has been on constant loop in my head.

Did I kill anything with kindness in either of those situations?

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of keeping it classy, no matter how difficult it is for a hothead like me. And, there are certainly situations when this approach can teach a valuable lesson.

But, where is the line?

You know, the line between being the bigger person and letting people get away with awful behavior?

My reactions to unsavory people are usually pretty passionate. But, why shouldn’t they be? Why in the world should I stifle my opinions when people are in my face shouting their own?

Because, it’s politically correct?

Because, it makes me a nice little robot-lady with impeccable manners?

I have no desire to act like lady, simply because that’s what some expect.

I have no interest in being a doormat, especially when I see other people being treated like one.

If what I say makes people cringe, then so be it. They’ve made me cringe.

The fact that I’m often a hypocrite – judging the judgers, condemning the condemners, being an asshole to the assholes – does not escape me.

Would using more kindness and less venom be a more effective approach?

Maybe. I don’t know.

I mean, sure, rising above can be a wonderful lesson for children, and great if you’re a believer in karma, but what happens next? They go on to act shitty towards someone else, because no one’s ever told them their behavior is unacceptable?

There is a time and place for kindness, and a time and place for telling it like it is.

* * *

So, ahem, in closing, I’d like to retract my retracted NRA picture.

Am I stereotyping?

Maybe.

But, if the American flag-covered gun-filled camouflage backpack fits, well….

No, not all gun owners are extremists. But, the ones who carry a gun just to prove a point scare the shit out of me.

It’s like they’re itching for a chance to use it. For protection, of course…always for protection.

These are the people I’m afraid will, eventually, become desensitized to guns.

What do I mean?

Consider what the outcome could have been in the Trayvon Martin case, had the shooter not been armed.

What would he have done?

No one can say for sure, but it’s likely he would have simply stayed in his car and called the police.

And, that young man would not be buried six feet under right now.

So, if these people…

and, these people….

Target Practice

…don’t have a problem speaking out, then why the hell should I?

Their voice is no more important than mine.

And, this country is just as much mine as it is theirs.

If they insist on caring more about politics and profits than our children being killed with guns, then hell if I’m going to kill them with kindness.

*Drops the breakfast burrito and walks away*

(Email subscribers must click through to view the embedded videos.)

A sweet friend of mine posted a link on Facebook last night.

Before I share it, I want to say that this friend is an amazing person, who does amazing things – like this.

Do we differ when it comes to our religion, or lack thereof?

Yes.

But, she’s not one of those fake people parading around as a Christian. She’s the real deal. She doesn’t judge…only loves. Anyway, I’m saying this because I want you to be respectful and loving, no matter where you stand.

* * *

The link.

* * *

This is such a sensitive subject, so I am going to do something I’m not used to doing – choose my words carefully.

I think most of you know that I’m one of those bleeding heart liberals. Some of you love me for that, others tolerate me, and a good number of people can’t stand me.

But, here and now, I am not coming from a political place. I’m coming from my mother-place.

A small excerpt from the article…

“She’s one of my best friends, and she’s an extraordinary person, full of love and compassion. She is also pro-abortion.”

Pro-abortion?

What?

I don’t know one single person that is pro-abortion. Nope, I’ve yet to meet anyone who is all, like, “Let’s go get our nails done and then swing by for an abortion. Woo-hoo! Best Friday EVER.”

Pro-choice and pro-abortion are two very different things. You know, with one of them being real, and the other being nonexistent and all.

Obviously, all abortions are beyond difficult, but since the article focuses on late-term abortions, that’s what I’ve chosen to focus on.

The data isn’t perfect, but the number of late term abortions, those performed past 24 weeks, done in the United States are estimated to be about 0.08%, or approximately 1,032 per year.^[1]

And, I can pretty much guarantee you that none of these were done hastily, or without tremendous heartache.

Some people believe that late-term abortions should be banned all together.

I am not one of those people.

And, yet, I am full of love and compassion, and not pro-abortion.

Consider this hypothetical.

Let’s say I get really drunk and end up pregnant with a third child.

Things sail along smoothly for the first few months, and it’s not until my 24 week check that I receive the unbearable news.

If you have this baby, you will die.

So, I am given a choice.

To terminate or go through with something. Something that will end with my end.

If this were my first child, I‘d like to think I’d brave enough to give up my life for him or her.

But, in this hypothetical, it’s not my first, it’s my third.

I have two little boys at home, two and five years old. I am their world, and they would be lost without me. I would lay my life down for them.

Should I really be expected to pack up my hospital bags, kiss both my boys on the head, and say goodbye.

“Mommy, won’t be coming home again. Ever.”

Some people could do this. And, that’s their choice. It’s what feels right for them, for whatever reason. Maybe they believe this is what their God has planned for them.

Again, I am not one of those people.

I could never leave my kids.

I simply would not do it.

But, I wouldn’t dare judge someone who would. I wouldn’t dare condemn them for leaving their kids motherless.

And, here I sit, still full of love and compassion; still not pro-abortion.

Imagine that.

While this situation may be hypothetical for me, it’s very real for others, and my heart breaks for them.

To be confronted with this kind of choice is enough to break anyone.

And, for them to bed judged, condemned, or shamed is, well, shameful.

*Please, please keep your comments respectful. It’s impossible to hear one another when everyone is yelling.

Yesterday was one of those days that seemed like it would never end. I had a ton of things to do and planned it all very poorly, which ended up interfering with Leo’s afternoon nap.

As in, he didn’t get one.

And, if you’ve ever gone to Target with both kids in tow, you know it can get pretty messy. Especially, if one of them is hungry or tired.

I was making my way through the store, when Leo ripped off both his shoes, throwing them down the aisle with the skill of an all-star pitcher.

As I ran to scoop them up, Luca began shouting, “MOMMY, Leo won’t stop touching my penis! Leo won’t stop touching my penis! STOP TOUCHING MY BODY, LEO. This is MY penis.”

On one hand, I was proud that he knew to say “THIS IS MY PENIS,” because of, you know, stranger danger. But, on the other hand, having him repeatedly yell penis in the middle of Target was a little startling to…everyone.

During this ordeal, Leo kept hitting the button on his new toy car, prompting the song feature.

Won’t you take me to…a funky town….over and over and over again.

Luca was angry and defiant when I told him the town was funky.

“Mommy, it’s CRAZY town, not FUNKY.”

Crazy town, indeed.

I was smack dab in the middle of that moment.

The moment when you’re sweating, and positive that all eyes are on you and your shitty parenting. It’s easy to forget that, most of the time, people are too busy stressing out about their lives to notice ours.

Just as I was about to lose my shit, an older woman approached me.

What the hell is she going to say to me? That my boys are out of control? That they’re causing a ruckus? That I suck as a mom? I know all this. Move along, lady.

Instead, she gently laid her hand on my shoulder and, with the warmest look in her eyes, said, “Honey, I just want to tell you that you’re doing a marvelous job as their mommy. You got this.”

It had to have been at least three decades since she had stood in my stressed-out shoes, but she could see in my eyes that I was in major need of some encouragement.

Those words took mere seconds out of her day, but they changed mine completely.

You know what? I do have this.

That simple shift in my attitude carried over to my boys, and left us all much more relaxed.

I laughed, thanked her, and we went our separate ways.

But, I wish I’d said more. I wish I had told her that her support, her kind eyes and warm smile, had made such a difference in my day.

In a city of six million people, the odds that I’ll see her again are tiny, so all I can do is pass it on.

Whether it be a look of solidarity, or a quick, “Oh, mama, I’ve been there. It’s so hard, sometimes. But, you’re doing awesome,” makes no difference.

Sometimes, all we need is support from our stranger-friends, from those who’ve been there, to turn our day around.

A few aisles over, Leo chunked his shoes, again, straight at another shopper.

“Uh-oh!” said the innocent victim.

This time, instead of getting all sweaty and panicky, I laughed out loud, and told him, “Being the mom of two boys isn’t easy, but it’s definitely never boring.”

Then, I walked away, the three of us singing as loud as we could.

Won’t you take me to, a CRAZY town…

Leo has love to dance from the moment we met him.

Luca, not so much, until now.

He’s finally found his rhythm, and it totally rocks.

And, they’re both mini-masters when it comes to playing the one-handed air guitar.

If you’re an email subscriber, click through to see the dance party.

It’s that time again.

Time for me to stop looking in the mirror, STFU, and listen.

I’m going to do things a bit differently this go around.

Last time, my system, of having no system, had me all over the place.

This kind of thing requires a concept that is very foreign to me – organization.

So, I’m going to make myself a fancy little spreadsheet, checking off posts as I read them.

It’s my mission to read every single word you send, even if that means my kids go without dinner sometimes.

What have you written lately?

What have you read lately?

STFU & Listen – Take Two!

Give it to me, baby.

(In the comments.)

The joys of pregnancy.

Google that.

And, get back to me when you’re done sifting through the results…in ten years.

Antepartum Depression.

Now, Google that.

And, get back to me when you’re done sifting through the results…in ten minutes.

(It has gotten much better over the past few years, more women are speaking up.)

Firstly, please don’t misinterpret my point here. This is not about bitterness towards beautiful pregnancies or birth stories. On the contrary, I’m elated for those women.

I love happy.

Thankfully, there are many women that carry around bloated bliss for nine months, and go on to push out rainbows and unicorns with their baby. And, these women deserve all the resources they can get their swollen fingers on.

But, so do we…

The ones who battle the nine-month Beast.

* * *

When I was pregnant with my first, I obviously had no idea what to expect. I only thought that I did.

Me, waddling around with a cute belly, puking sunshine and dreaming up baby names, venturing out nightly for brisk walks right up until my birth-day and…

*record scratch*

Enter reality…

I won’t even get into the physical issues of the pregnant Allison. Just think irritable uterus (can you blame it?) and bed-rest.

And, while that part sucked, it was the mental aspects that left me gutted, and clinging to my sanity.

The Beast crept in slowly.

Lurking around, poking and prodding, and quietly setting up shop. Once it was all settled in, a couple of weeks from that positive pregnancy test, it reached in and swiftly stole my mind.

Initially, I chalked the despair up to normal pregnancy blues. And, also, to the lack of wine.

I waited very impatiently for the second-trimester boost, the one everyone talks about, to kick in.

Only, it never did. Instead, the Beast grew meaner, despite the fact that I was already on an antidepressant.

But, I battled through, going on to receive the best prize possible in the end.

My Luca.

* * *

And, then she went and did it again two years later, folks.

The depression that came with my first pregnancy was bad, but it wasn’t completely debilitating or all-consuming. I managed to hang on, smiling when I was expected to smile.

All of that was just a preview.

When I became pregnant with number two, the beast wasn’t as patient this time.

It sat back, and laid in wait. Ready to pull me under again, down into the hole it spent two years digging deeper.

I shouldn’t have been so shocked. I knew there was a pretty good probability it would return.

But, I’d hidden it away somewhere, somehow, convincing myself it was nothing but a bad dream; a horror flick someone else had starred in. Not me.

* * *

I was drinking a glass of wine, when I peed on the stick again.

Pregnant.

I was elated!

I was excited!

I was super drunk.

I threw out my wine, hugged my husband, and adamantly told him that this time would be different.

Silly me thought I could out-will that Beast. I knew him and I knew what to expect. I was showing up ready for the fight.

A week later, my husband found me curled in a tight bawl on the bathroom floor, sobbing, and cursing us for letting this happen again.

The beast laughed in my face, loudly, smirking at my stupid will and positive mantras.

* * *

When I was pregnant with my first born, there was nothing worse than having to pee. Reaching down to wipe, I would hold my breath, willing the toilet paper to still be white when it came back into view. White, instead of streaked with the tell-tale blood that had showed up on it two months prior, to tell me the babies inside me were dying.

Sadly – so, so sadly - this time around I prayed for that blood-streaked toilet paper; I prayed for the tell-tale sign that sanity would soon be mine again.

Luckily – so, so luckily – my baby boy was stronger than those prayers. Not about to let the beast win, his heartbeat grew stronger each day…his body longer.

* * *

I heard the same thing at every therapy appointment.

You are not abnormal. This happens to more people than you think. People just don’t talk about it as much.

I wasn’t convinced.

How could I be?

Every search for answers, for other women like me, only made me feel like more of an anomaly.

I spent my days frantically typing in the same search terms in different orders.

Is it normal to feel so so sad you’d rather have a miscarriage?

Antepartum Depression.

Prepartum Depression.

Pregnancy Psychosis.

Sad while Pregnant.

The lack of results confirmed what I already knew at the time, “You are not a normal woman, you’re a monster, one who has no business making babies.”

As much as I’ve opened up about my war with antepartum depression, it’s impossible to convey just how deep the hole was. There simply aren’t enough words in the English language.

But, I keep trying. I keep putting it out there for those that have taken my place in the hole.

* * *

The number one search terms that bring people to my blog?

Antepartum depression.

Is antepartum depression normal?

Who gets antepartum depression?

Antepartum depression what’s wrong with me?

With, “Kirk Cameron is an asshole,” being a close second. But, since that one’s a fact, there’s really no need to address it.

I get weekly emails, sometimes daily, from readers who desperately sit where I once sat.

When that subject line pops up in my email – Antepartum Depression -  my heart drops.

These women are looking for help, from me, closing out their emails with exactly that, “Please help me.”

Who the hell am I other than a chick who’s been in the trenches? The only thing I have my doctorate in is bullshit.

But, I’ve felt their level of pain.

And, I know their brand of shame.

The shame of being able to conceive a healthy baby and hating every moment of it.

The shame that so many women would give anything to be where they are.

The shame that they are broken and crazy, and the fear that this will always be, because it’s so damn hard to see the light when you’re buried so deep.

I struggle in my replies to them.

Having written it so many times, I fear it will come off as regurgitated, or disingenuous.

There are emails I’ve let fall through the cracks, making me physically ill with disappointment.

* * *

Why write all this again?

Because, I am not ashamed.

Because, I hope someone will read it when they need it the most.

Because, I hope those women that I’ve failed will forgive me.

Because, putting it out there is the only way I know how to try and make a difference.

And, finally, because I want people to know that it gets better.

No, that it gets AMAZING!

All of it, every single second of this battle, is worth it times a million.

I could not breathe without my boys. They are the best things I’ve ever done.

So, in closing, I have just one more thing to say.

Suck on that, Beast.

This weekend, we spent a lovely morning with new friends at the Houston Zoo.

One of Luca’s favorite activities is feeding the giraffes.

And, although I’m pretty sure it’s the most expensive lettuce in the history of lettuce, if you can swing it, it’s so worth it.

He loves it almost as much as I do.

That particular morning, I snapped several pictures of Luca and his new buddy, feeding their tall friend.

Nothing super spectacular, just your everyday zoo shots.

But, later that night when I went over them, I noticed something that had previously gone overlooked.

My youngest, Leo, in the background, meeting a giraffe for the first time.

Upon even deeper inspection, though, it became more than just your generic boy-meets-giraffe snapshot.

Taking that second-look at the big picture revealed something unintended, but oh-so-wonderful.

Capturing Leo’s interaction with something new told a story, one that depicted human-nature in it’s most basic form.

His fear, hesitation, acceptance, and love unraveled before me, one by one.

And, I related to it strongly.

Because, just like Leo, we’re all scared of trying new things, or of meeting new people.

Venturing into uncharted territory can be terrifying.

And, not just for you and me. That fear, the fear of what’s different, doesn’t discriminate; it’s innate, and in all of us.

But, when we do give different a chance, the things we receive in return, the doors we open, can be amazing.

A brand new world.

New interests.

A different perspective.

New found peace.

A friend.

Freedom.

I wish the biggest of us would take our cues from the smallest of us, more often, and take chances on things even when they scare us.

Most of the time, in doing so, we’ll end up gaining something invaluable, something we didn’t even know was missing.

Because, nine times out of ten, my friends…

That big, scary giraffe, the one that seems different?

Is just like you and me.

I’ve been saying I’d like to take this writing thing to another level, for some time now.

By, “another level,” of course I mean, “mama wants to get paid more for dicking around on the internet.”

And, while the free Shamrock Shake I scored from Klout was green and refreshing, it wasn’t enough to make my husband take me as seriously as I’d like.

Can you change Leo’s diaper, babe? I’m working.

Working for more Shamrock Shakes?

Fuck off.

It’s taken me forever and a day to feel confident enough to refer to myself as an actual writer.

The next step is finding the confidence to persuade others that I’m worth hiring.

So, at the beginning of this week I decided there would be no more slacking off.

It’s time I mean business.

I made a promise to myself that I’d buckle down and work really hard.

I mean, my empire of bullshit isn’t going to build itself, right?

Sadly, though, I’m off to a pretty poor start.

I had like two hours yesterday to pound the cyber-pavement, and this is all I have to show for it.

Shamrock Shake, anyone?