It’s 6 a.m. and I’m eating chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.

My dreams of modeling good habits for my child have already deflated and he’s a mere five months old. I don’t think I can be faulted for this; it’s a phenomenon that typically happens with new moms, and by all accounts it’s impressive that I made it this long without acknowledging that I was holding myself to pretty ridiculous standards. Even right now I’m not actively playing with him. He’s wriggling around on a blanket on the floor, occasionally looking over to flash me a toothless grin before returning to his very important task of gumming on a crinkly toy and trying to coordinate his limbs to start crawling. Thank goodness, I think. I can count this as supervised independent play.

If you had looked me in the eye four years ago and told me I was going to become a mother, I would have laughed hysterically. My biggest dream then was to just find a stable relationship with literally anyone, much less entertain the idea that I might have a kid with somebody. I had dreams of being a working writer, a working artist, a working musician. Staring at a blank page and agonizing over how to begin was a typical exercise.

I recently had to recap the last four years of my life for my therapist, who I gave up on for reasons unknown to me now in the dizzying sequence of events since. I’d met my future husband, started working as a salaried pastry chef, gotten married, quit the pastry chef job, been a barista for the fourth (or maybe fifth?) time, waited tables, got pregnant, learned to tend bar, had a baby, and picked up a baking side gig. If that entire timeline isn’t the map to a quarterlife crisis, I don’t know what is.

Interestingly enough, my artistic output has become more disciplined and, in fact, actually exists now that I’ve got a kid to schedule around. The time I have to create has become precious. If I don’t concentrate and make a real effort, I’m acutely aware of how much I haven’t done and how I won’t get that time back. Suddenly I’m baking fresh sourdough once a week, writing in a journal every day, sending cards and letters to friends and family, playing around on piano, reading books, and thinking of how to write a book of my own. At least, when I’m not toting my mama’s boy baby around.

This isn’t necessarily going to be a space with any particular theme other than, well, me. Me, my little family, the little city we live in, and the little things I make on a daily basis. It’s not a mom blog, it’s not a writers’ blog, it’s not a food blog. It’s just a little bit of everything.

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