About

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I became a mom.

Not the picture-perfect kind with pastel nurseries and babies who napped on schedule. No, I had that baby. The one with reflux, a dairy intolerance, and a sixth sense for crying the moment I sat down to eat.

Feeding time was a battlefield—spoons flying, bibs soaked, and me questioning if mashed avocado really counted as a “meal.”

I was exhausted, Googling at 3 AM, blending homemade purées at 6, and pacing the floor with a teething baby by 9. Each feeding milestone felt more like a mountain climb. First bites turned into refusals. Finger foods became projectile missiles. And every growth spurt came with its own mysterious change in appetite.

But somewhere between the spills and the sobs, I found rhythm. I learned to read cues only I could see. I found shortcuts, hacks, and small victories—like when my baby finally ate without crying. Or when a full belly meant a full nap (for both of us).

Now, a year and a half later, I look at my not-so-little one—messy hair, yogurt smile, holding a spoon like a champ—and I feel something deep and wild: pride. Not just in them, but in me. For showing up every day, even when it was hard. For learning, adjusting, and growing right alongside my baby.

It wasn’t always pretty, but it was real. And it was ours.