Skylar Berget

Wife. Mom. Teacher.

The Year That Broke Me Open

by Skylar on category

2025 was the year that changed everything.

I lost my dad. Losing him to suicide left a silence so loud it echoes through my everyday life. Demons don’t knock; they live in plain sight. They sit quietly in memories, in what-ifs, in the empty space across the room, while the kids open Christmas presents. The world doesn’t stop for someone who is hurting. I’ve laughed less. I feel more. I keep moving, not because I am okay, but because he would want me to.

And yet, in the middle of the darkest year of my life, light arrived.

I welcomed a baby boy, Tein Scott.

Holding him for the first time rewrote something inside me. His breath reminded me to breathe. His tiny heartbeat reminded me why I have to keep going. There’s a deep ache knowing my dad never got to meet him, never got to hold him, but there’s also a promise in my son that love doesn’t end; it continues.

Through it all, I didn’t walk alone.

Grief has a way of shrinking the world until only what truly matters remains. In that small, sacred space, a tight circle of loved ones becomes everything. In the midst of loss, their love grew clearer, uncomplicated, and steady.

My husband is my anchor, sturdy and unwavering in his vow to be our family’s protector and safe place. He carried more than his share. He woke me from nightmares, held me through quiet breakdowns, and gently pulled me back to the present when my mind tried to disappear into the pain. When I couldn’t see a way forward, he became it. His love wasn’t loud or showy; it was patient and relentless.

My brother is the one person who understands my pain in a way no one else ever will because we lost the same father. When the world feels impossible to explain, he just knows. He’s always a phone call away, no matter the hour, no matter how heavy the moment. We don’t always have the right words, but we don’t need them. We’re loving each other the only way we know how in this disaster: by showing up, by listening, by surviving together. In a year defined by heartbreak, he has reminded me that I’m not carrying this alone.

My mom’s love after the loss of our dad has become something deeper, heavier. Though my mom and dad were divorced, they loved us first and always. Now that love lives on through her in a new way. She carries the weight of being the only parent left, holding space for her children’s grief while managing her own. She doesn’t get the luxury of falling apart for long. Her love is proof that even after unimaginable loss, a mother’s heart expands to hold everyone else first.

The steady presence of coworkers, friends, and family became more important than I ever expected. They didn’t need to have the right words. Their consistency was the comfort. In a season when the world felt unrecognizable, their care became a lifeline, proof that support doesn’t always arrive loudly.

2025 broke my heart and rebuilt it at the same time.
Strength doesn’t always look loud. Surviving is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.

I’m still breathing, and that’s worth more than gold.

Can People Change?

by Skylar on category

Can people change?

I would have said no. You are who you are, and eventually, with time, you’ll fall back into old patterns, mindset, and habits. I lived blissfully naive for the first thirty years of my life. I didn’t think people could change because I had never experienced anything so significant that it altered the lens through which I view life.

Becoming a Mom humbled me, but giving birth to my Son and grieving the death of my Dad in the same calendar year rewrote my inner blueprint. For months, I lived in the midst of the connection to life and mortality. Every cell in my body was working overtime to create life, but my brain sat on a merry-go-round, processing death. The combination made me hyper-aware of both the fragility and the miracle of life. The way I saw myself, others, and The World changed. Motherhood expands your heart in ways you never thought possible; it rearranges your priorities, deepens your empathy, and teaches you both the strength to persevere and the surrender that comes with it. In contrast, grief carves out a hollow space that reshapes your understanding of love and time. Together, these experiences transformed my foundation—they stripped away what was superficial and rebuilt me with a new sense of purpose and vulnerability. I’ve changed into someone different over the last year: softer and firmer all at once, guided by love and loss in equal measure.

I was and still am grieving and surviving at the same time, and some days neither is easy. I see people differently now. I see the parent walking into the store with heavy eyes and the toddler with uncombed hair. I no longer judge them. I notice the individual standing in line in front of me with unfocused eyes, their mind submerged in a memory. I have immense empathy. The scope of my vision has widened. I notice the heartbreak and despair of those around me. I can feel it, and now I see it without critique, understanding that the parent or individual might be only surviving the day.

I’m living in two timelines: the life I have, and the one I lost. I have a beautiful life, with so much to be grateful for. We wake up in the morning in a warm house with food to eat. We go to bed at night with every bed full after saying a prayer. I know I am blessed, but I selfishly grieve the loss of a future I had always expected. Papa won’t be there this winter when Marlow learns to ski. Tears slip down my face every time I drive on Hwy 83 as I pass Seeley Lake, knowing there will be no more summer vacations that feel whole. There will always be one beating heart missing.

My inner circle changed. Friends came to stay, and others slowly disappeared. In the silence of life changes, people drift away – not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know how to reach you where you’re at. Even if you wanted to, you don’t have the capacity to throw the drifters a rope to reel them back in.

To every friend that’s become distant over the last year, I’m sorry if my brokenness ever made me a bad friend to you. I know there are days I disappear without a word. I’m sorry if my silence ever made you question if you really matter to me. It isn’t because I don’t care. It’s not because you aren’t important. The truth is that sometimes my mind becomes a war zone I can’t escape. I fight battles I don’t know how to explain some days, and in those moments, even the people I love the most feel a million miles away. Still, the ones who stand beside me mean more than I’ve ever expressed. In my silence, I carry gratitude, grateful that you’re here when I’m not easy to love. My inner circle shrank, but I love them harder than I ever have before. I will never again wait for a funeral to say what matters. My people will hear it and feel it with each conversation.

It’s okay to embrace the change that comes when life shifts so profoundly. In the past six months, I welcomed a new soul into the world and said goodbye to the one who helped shape mine. These moments, though opposite in nature, rewrote who I am at my core. Birth fills you with new love and responsibility, while loss opens a space of reflection and tenderness. Together, they remind you that life is meant to evolve, and that you are meant to grow as well. It’s okay to let go of who you were in the past and honor the person you’re becoming, whether you’re broken, whole, or somewhere in between. Change, after all, is not just something to survive; it’s something to live entirely within, allowing both love and loss into your heart.

Breaking the Silence: Talking Honestly About Suicide

by Skylar on category

My Dad died by suicide.

I am not writing this post to ask for your attention or sympathy. Instead, I hope it brings insight and understanding.

(This Post isn’t written elegantly, pretty, or well thought out. It is a jumble of introspection. September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, and the action of suicide in my life has changed the blueprint of who I am.)

Death by suicide is the unthinkable and the unfathomable. It doesn’t get talked bout post-death. How many obituaries have you read where you know or assume it’s death by suicide, but it’s not mentioned? I wrote my Dad’s obituary, and I left it out. There is nothing inside of me that is ashamed of my Dad; however, people want to shove suicide into the dark corners. It’s stigmatized. Suicide makes everyone feel uncomfortable. I’ve noticed that people react differently in the wake of death. Death by accident or disease brings immense empathy. We show up and ask what we can do to help. We are more willing to lean in and talk about departed loved ones. When it’s suicide, it’s like the collective oxygen gets sucked out of the room. People don’t know what to say. They don’t know how to act.

How do you feel when a loved one dies by suicide?

There is no easy grieving, and the loss of a loved one will change you. Your world splits into the ‘before’ and ‘after’. It has been described by counselors worldwide as ‘complicated grieving’ when you grieve a suicide. Guilt, regret, and anger are significant parts of the process and appear more frequently than other emotions. My Dad knew I loved being his daughter. Being his little girl is one of my most cherished titles I carry, but I have guilt that I didn’t hold on to our last hug a little longer. I regret not telling him how much he is loved and how much we need him here on Earth when I started noticing the signs of hopelessness. I am angry he didn’t choose to fight or get help. I am angry he left five grandkids to grow up only knowing his memory instead of making memories. When someone you love dies by suicide, their song abruptly stops in the middle of the melody, and you never get to hear the ending.

Suicide survivors get caught up in the moment and the cause. I have to remind myself to separate how my Dad died from my Dad. My Dad happened to die this way, but that doesn’t have any effect on my Dad as a person.

How do you talk to a suicide survivor?

Those who have lost a loved one by suicide are suicide survivors.

First of all, don’t feel bad for them. They are not victims. Simply show up; don’t shy away. People often stay away after death, and they use the excuse that they don’t know what to say. It’s okay to say you don’t know what to say.  

Grief so often feels like carrying a story no one wants to hear. People worry that mentioning their name will upset you or make it worse. But it isn’t silence that protects us, it’s the remembering that heals us. When someone finds out my Dad died, almost without fail, the next question is: “How did he die?” As if the details of someone’s death could possibly explain the fullness of their life. When someone dies, the world has a way of reducing them to a single fact: gone. People fixate on the ending, as if knowing how it happened will help them understand who they were. Sometimes the most powerful question isn’t how it ended, but how it unfolded. Because the people we lose don’t live on in the details of their death. They live on in stories. In memory. In us.

My Hope…

Again, I do not write this post for sympathy or attention. I contemplated for days whether to publicly post this Blog, especially considering the stigma of suicide and the complexities of my Dad’s death.

Nonetheless, I have a hope. I hope you pick up the phone, text those who are close to you, and simply check in to see how they are doing, and then ask how they are really doing. Life is hard. People struggle. Sometimes it’s easy to spot, but sometimes you will never even know. So do me a favor, grab your phone. Make a call. Send a text. You may be glad that you did. You will never regret saying, “I Love You.”  

Marry Someone You Can Suffer With

by Skylar on category

When we talk about marriage, we use phrases like “happily ever after,” but life isn’t always happy. There are plenty of times in a relationship marked with sunshine and clear waters, but the truth is that no one leaves this Earth without having to cross turbulent seas.

Sometimes, two people who are truly meant for each other will face the most brutal battles. Not because they are wrong for each other. But because the world will test everything real. Love like that doesn’t come easy. Love is built through both joy and pain. Distance. Misunderstandings. Growth. But if they can hold on through the chaos and choose each other over and over again, they’ll find something most people only dream of. A love that didn’t just survive the storm, but it is unbreakable because of it.

Sometimes you hear love stories about how a partner saved them from a dark place or showed up in their life at precisely the right time. That isn’t Kody and my story. Kody and I found each other when we were both happy and whole, living our lives in a way that we were perfectly content to live independently for the foreseeable future. We met, enjoyed each other’s company, and couldn’t deny that we shared core values. We both decided that choosing each other was worth a shot, so we moved to a town with no family ties and took a gamble on each other. Our love has never been the ‘electric chemistry – set my soul ablaze’ type of love. It’s been a love that has grown through friendship, laughter, faith, hardships, illness, and teamwork.

Deciding to start a family was the best decision we ever made, but no one warned us about the toll it takes on your marriage. We were prepared for postpartum, daycare bills, and diaper changes, but not a complete overhaul of our marriage. During the first weeks after we brought Marlow home, I fell so deeply in love with the version of Kody as a Father. It was wonderful, and still is. Nothing makes me smile like watching Kody tickle Marlow on the floor as she repeats ‘again, again, again’ through giggles. As the nights turned sleepless and the days continued, I came to understand how marriages can erode quietly and gradually after the baby arrives. Our love never faded, but it became easier to snap at one another, while the other partner is too fatigued to speak back, so they shut down. The house seemed loud, but the marriage was quiet. Identifies shifted; I felt invisible, and Kody felt replaced. Emotions drifted apart as conversations were reduced to schedules and checklists. There became no time for spontaneous weekend trips, movie nights, or relaxation. We went from partners to co-parents, trying not to drown. Fortunately, we realized this period of our marriage and love together was a more challenging transition than we anticipated, and no matter what, we weren’t going to walk away. This wasn’t my perception; this was our vow to each other. We reminded each other that we are a team, repeatedly. The discussions would happen during late-night “we’re doing okay” pep talks while folding laundry. We began to accept that one partner might contribute 97% of the effort, while the other puts in 3% at the end of the workday, even though we were both tired, tapped out, and running on fumes. We choose to give each other grace, but most importantly, we choose each other.

Going from two to a family of three was a challenging transition, but it was a transition we both agreed to. We both had a significant stake in the scenario. We were raising our newborn into a toddler. As you learn and grow, so does your child, and your marriage evolves or erodes. For us, it becomes easier, and we have found a way to evolve. However, death, losing a parent, that isn’t something you plan for. You don’t get to choose when you bury your Father. Kody and I have both now buried our Dads. It’s a type of suffering you feel independently, but unfortunately, the suffering seeps out of you like sweat and affects those closest to you.

There is no elegant way to put on paper how Kody has suffered the loss of my Dad this last spring. Kody personally lost a friend, a father-in-law, and the Papa of his children. It has resurfaced emotions and grief of losing his own Dad unexpectedly six years ago. I could tell Kody took my Dad’s death hard for multiple reasons, but he rarely showed it because I was the one struggling with the loss at such a deep level. He showed it through the steady presence of never ignoring my needs or emotions. The quiet comments, “It hurts me to see you hurt,” and “I wish so much I could take this pain away.” Kody showed up in all the ways he knew how: spending long weekends at home with Marlow while I made solo trips back to Central Montana, spending three weekends straight in the woodshop perfecting my Dad’s urn, and offering a steady hand across the covers when I’d jolt awake, soaked in sweat from nightmares. Kody has walked this journey with me. He has held me when I was drowning and built a boat to get me to shore.

Love is easy when it’s good. When you’re sitting on a rooftop bar or binge-watching Harry Potter and drinking Butter Beers in the Fall on a Saturday evening – anyone can fall in love through that. Everyone looks good in the honeymoon phase. Anyone can laugh with you on a vacation, while eating overpriced sushi, and make appealing posts on Instagram. That’s not the test. The test is, who are they when tragedy actually shows up? When the unexpected happens. When the paycheck doesn’t stretch. When one of you gets sick and the illness doesn’t go away. When you bury a parent and the grief hits so hard, you don’t know what to do. When you’re staring at the mortgage and wondering whose car you’ll sell first, that’s when forever actually happens. Who’s standing with you when you’re in the ER at three in the morning? Who’s steady when your world isn’t? Who looks at you in your worst moment? The broken, exhausted, ugly cry version of you, and still chooses you. The one who makes the bad things bearable, not the one who makes the good things better. You’d better pick someone you can sit in the fire with because life guarantees suffering.

My point is this: find someone who loves you so completely, who you love equally as much, so that when bad times come, you can hold each other together when it feels as if everything else is falling apart.

The Summer Sorrow Came Home

by Skylar on category

You think there is always a tomorrow. We don’t get to choose the storm or when it will hit. None of us asks for it, either—loss, change, heartbreak. The moments that split your life into “before” and “after.”

I knew if I could hold it together for thirty days, until the last day of school, I would get the entire Summer to get my shit together. I wouldn’t have to hide behind the forced smiles and “I’m fine” lies. I would be able to take off the mask I wore for the last month of school, so my students, co-workers, and the world wouldn’t have to see how heavy I felt, because they don’t want to know, and because I didn’t want to talk about it. I genuinely thought I would take a month to go through the process of grieving the loss of my Dad, recharge, and enjoy some vacation time with family. I’m not naive, I knew I would always miss my Dad, but there are stages of grief. That’s a known fact. I would follow the steps, and I should get “over it” after a certain amount of time. Life broke me, but I had a plan to put everything back together.

Wrong.

I took off the mask, my strength and stability shattered along with it. My energy plummeted. The simple act of walking up the stairs felt like climbing a mountain. Sleep came with waking up drenched in sweat from nightmares. Intrusive thoughts bombarded my brain, suffocating me until nausea and trembling took hold of my nervous system. During the afternoons when I couldn’t fathom leaving the house, I would cuddle Marlow into my lap, put on a movie, hide my face, and let the tears fall silently. Physically, I was existing, but behind my eyes, I spent the days trying to piece together events and understand suicide, like suicide can be understood. The few times I went out in public, it was easy to perform because everything seemed to be functioning on the outside. “You’re doing so well,” so many would say, but it is impossible to see a broken heart, the constant lump in your throat, or the knots in your stomach.

Missing someone after they are gone is the simple part. The hard part is everything else. The loss of every version of your life where they were supposed to be. The milestones I assumed we’d share, and the ordinary moments that felt guaranteed, like my Dad meeting his new grandbaby in September. I never considered that my Dad wouldn’t meet this baby when I sent him a picture of Marlow in a Big Sis t-shirt back in April. Grief doesn’t just take your present. It steals your future, too. It rewrites your story without permission, ripping entire chapters from the book you drafted.

By mid-July, I had the realization that I wasn’t going to get my life together in the way I thought. My soul had been damaged, and even if I took the time to heal, there will always be a scar. I started to accept that I will never be the same, and maybe that’s a good thing.

(This should be a paragraph about how I’ve changed, how I view life differently now. But I can’t write about that, at least not right now, because I can’t put those changes and thoughts into words yet. It’s too new.)

What I do know is that I took my pre-grief life for granted. I took for granted the way the overall spectrum of my life wasn’t tainted by grief. The way I could experience a joyful moment without pain coexisting in my heart. I took for granted my regulated nervous system and mind that didn’t race constantly. I took for granted my sharp memory and the way I could focus on tasks for hours on end without it feeling like a million tabs are open in my head. I took for granted not feeling in survival mode. I took for granted not having intrusive thoughts. I took for granted that only bad things happened to other people, and I held a naive belief that my world would always remain intact. I don’t wish to go backwards because I believe life happens for us, not to us. Mostly, I trust that I will be a better person, wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend because of my Dad’s story.

I am still learning, and I have a long road ahead of me. Grief isn’t a set of steps to be completed so that you can move on; it’s also not meant to be confined. So, I will let the tears fall when they come. I will let laughter rise when memories bring warmth. I will let sorrow and joy coexist, because they are not opposites. They are just love in different forms. Grief doesn’t just break you. It rebuilds you into someone forever changed.

Lessons Learned From Grief

by Skylar on category

In many ways, it feels like yesterday when my legs gave way, and I collapsed to the cold, hard ground when I heard the news that he was gone. Gone. How is that even possible? We are all going to the same place. My dad just beat me there.

Over the years, I have written about my journey: challenges, phases, motherhood, partnership, relationships, and teaching. Loss is now a part of my story. The reason it’s so important to touch on this topic is because grief, at some point or another, greets all of us. Each of us, on this beautiful adventure we call life, encounters loss and pain. Grief is like a fingerprint – unique to each of us. There is no right way or wrong way to grieve, but there are lessons one will learn in the process.

I’ve learned that..

Grief is a dimension I’d never known about, and sometimes, I wouldn’t mind not knowing about it. Grief arrives when you lose someone you weren’t ready to lose. You don’t have to experience grief with a loss; however, you can only avoid it by avoiding love. Love and grief are intertwined. The depth in which you grieve is directly related to the magnitude of your love for the person you lost. Grief is lonely. It doesn’t end. It’s something someone gets through; we become bigger, and we learn to include it inside ourselves, to hold it, to expand around it, rather than getting through it, and that takes time.

I’ve learned that..

Pain and loss are not unique; people around us are hurting. You don’t have to look far to see heartbreak and loss written across someone’s face. The days after my dad died, I went to school because it turns out that when someone dies, life still goes on. Moments felt suffocating. The lights were blinding, and the noise unbearable. I felt exposed – like everyone saw that my dad was dead and that my entire world had just shattered. I had a humbling realization. How many times in life have I stood right next to someone who is experiencing tremendous pain? What has their day been like? Did they get fired? Are they fighting with a spouse? Facing divorce? Losing a friend? Grieving a loved one? I have learned not to be so quick to judge when others seem less than pleasant. And when a dear friend loses a spouse, or a parent, or a baby, or a friend, I know that the pain doesn’t fade. It remains. After a loss, it’s not what people say that you will remember; it’s how they showed up. I was asked, ‘What do you need?’ repeatedly in the first weeks. I didn’t know what I needed. I was barely getting through the day. I didn’t have a list of my needs. I didn’t think my dad was going to die. Now, I know that individuals experiencing abrupt change need compassion. That compassion creates a more acceptable environment for all of us to grieve as we were designed to.  

I’ve learned that…  

Grief can bring out the best and worst in a person. Part of me died in the same moments my dad’s heart stopped beating, but another part of me was born. I’ve gained a sensitivity that can zoom into someone and say, ‘I see you. I see your pain.’ I notice absence. I notice presence. I notice joy. I notice pain. I notice calm. I notice anxiety. I’ve learned that discussing complex topics is a courageous act. No one is asking for a silver lining, but everyone has the choice to show up and be a good person. I hope experiencing grief, this part of my story, will bring out the best in me. While the loss of my dad has broken the vision I once had for my children regarding fostering a relationship with their Papa, it has not broken my ability to grow and become a better version of myself.

I have learned…

Life isn’t always beautiful, but life goes on. I have come to realize that none of us has as much time as we think we do. I don’t just feel frugality, but I also feel a sense of preciousness. I want to treasure life and savor every moment of it. I no longer wish to take it for granted. I won’t waste my breaths and walk like a ghost through it. I will value life, appreciate it, hold on to it, and fight for it.

Julian Barnes, an author, wrote about love and loss in the book Levels of Life. There is a description of how emerging from the madness and loneliness of grief can be similar to a train bursting out of a tunnel into the sunlight after having been in darkness. However, you also come out of the tunnel, just as a seagull comes out of an oil slick, tarred, and feathered for life.

I miss you

by Skylar on category

I need more time but time can’t be borrowed.

On May 1, one of my worst fears came true. It felt like an icicle damn came shattering from a roof and impaled me right in the core of my heart. I punched the wall over and over and kicked the door, then I laid down and sobbed. I couldn’t move. I wanted to wake up the next morning and realize it was only a nightmare, but I never fell asleep that night. I lay there and drowned as the invisible pain held me captive. I never thought you’d leave so soon.

I miss you, Dad.

I wonder where you’re at right now; then I realize you’re all around me. I can feel your presence in each sense. In the silence, I can hear you. I hear your quiet wisdom reassuring me. I still smell the ripped black Carhartt crewneck you wore the last time you hugged me. I never thought I’d miss the smell of dust, sweat, and cow shit, but I’d give anything for your warm body to wrap around me one last time. I feel your touch through Marlow Girl. The number of times you told me that the best feeling in the world is when a little one wraps both arms around your neck and hugs you. I squeeze the breath out of Marlow and hold on extra long when she does this now because I sense you through my daughter. In the night sky, I can see you. Memories start seeping out of a hidden drawer I didn’t even know existed. Your smile is my favorite memory. Even though I can’t be near you, I still feel you holding on. Even though you left, it doesn’t feel like you’re gone.

I never thought you’d disappear. I was wrong. I promise, Dad, to make you proud even if you can’t be here with me. Since you left us, I’ve been back home twice to see Miles. The silence of the drive was almost unbearable, but the hug I was met with was worth every mile. You constantly told me, “He’s your only sibling, so you better love him.” I promise never to part ways with Miles again without hugging him and telling him I love him. I will call him and check up on him. We will continue camping every summer and snow skiing every winter. I promise my kids will see their Papa through the man you raised in your Son.
I promise to dabble in photography and video making. I’d been running ideas by you for the last couple of months about how to start a little side hustle during the summers. I had so many ideas, but you kept coming back to videography. You sent me three TikTok videos and countless texts about it. You told me I have absolutely nothing to lose. I promise you, I’ll give it a try, Dad.
I promise to slow down. You have called Marlow Girl a Nervous Nelly since the day she was born. All you wanted was for her to sit on your lap and cuddle, but you accepted that she’s our little-spirited mover. In the rare instances when she crawls on my lap to snuggle, I won’t move. I’ll hold her tight and think of you and how you used to cherish every moment she sat unmoving in your arms.

Returning to Kalispell after my last trip home and driving back into ‘normal’ life felt anything but. It almost feels wrong that everything is exactly the same, yet something is now hugely different. Sometimes, being back in normalcy makes it feel like you’re not really gone—as if I’ll get a call from you any minute. The call never comes.
I question God sometimes, and I still do some nights when I’m trying to make it make sense, staring up at the ceiling and having conversations. I know you crossed a bridge that I can’t follow. The love that you left is all that I get. I miss you more than life.

Mind Your Own Motherhood

by Skylar on category

“We listen and do not judge. We keep an open mind and speak kind words.”

I repeat that statement to my students, sometimes multiple times a day. Middle schoolers can be ruthless.

So can Mommas.

It starts before you even have the baby. I heard letting your heart rate get above 140 while pregnant can be harmful to the baby. Why are you still strength training? You shouldn’t lift more than 20 lbs. Are you having a natural birth or going for an epidural? Don’t get induced. Inductions force your body to labor before it’s ready. Then the baby is born. Are you going to breastfeed? Breast is best! You’re putting your baby in daycare? Oh … the germs! Did you give your infant all their shots at once? Spacing them out is the best route. Co-sleeping? That is so very dangerous. Cry-it-out method? You’re creating attachment issues.

I have a 21-month-old feral spitfire occupying my household, so math tells me I’ve been exposed to the Momma Judgment comments for 30ish months. I’ve concluded that the judgment isn’t going to stop. Instead of daycare, it will be the age at which we allow Marlow to have a phone. What kind of car will she drive, or will we make her get a summer job, and what clothes will we allow her to wear to church?

I told myself that I wouldn’t open up my heart and offer my personal opinions if I put my thoughts to paper and published this writing to the public. Still, here I am, about to get honest without knowing who I may offend.

Fitness During and After Pregnancy

You do not need to comment about whether it’s in the Mom’s or baby’s best interest if the Momma-to-be is training during her pregnancy. I can guarantee you that Momma is ONLY thinking about the health of that growing bean instead of her uterus. I am 100% sure she has discussed her training routine with her OB. That Momma knows her body and limits better than anyone else.  

Post-Postpartum bounce back? Please, shut up! Do not comment on that Momma’s appearance two weeks or two years after giving birth. You have no idea what she may be experiencing internally, physically, or emotionally.

I experienced prolapse, pelvic floor distress, and damage to my sphincter. Telling me I look great and bounced back! Thanks, but I can’t run, jump, or lift weights. Thanks for thinking I bounced back because I no longer have the extra weight around my tummy.

Natural Birth / At Home Birth / C-Section / Induced

You can write a birthing plan. You can be as detailed as having a playlist that is played starting at the time you begin the birthing process. You can have a plan, but sometimes that plan combusts, and you have no control. You can’t control if the baby is breech. You can see if you’re a candidate to try to flip the baby to head-down, but if you don’t have enough fluid, you are getting a c-section even if your original birth plan stated vaginal delivery.  

I was told by more than one person that Marlow’s delivery was so long and difficult because I chose to get induced. I was told that my body was not ready to give birth and that I should have waited because my body would have naturally gone through the birthing process without the help of Pitocin. What I never told those individuals who had such strong opinions is that at my 40-week appointment, it was determined through the ultrasound that my placenta was deteriorating. My OB said I had 48 hours to see if contractions started naturally or I needed to get induced for the safety of the baby. I’m not sure if the general public knows, but a baby can’t survive in the uterus without the nutrients from a healthy placenta. I would have never watched Marlow grow into the spicy spirit she is today if I hadn’t forced my body into labor.

Stay-At-Home or Daycare

There are pros and cons to both. Do what is best for your family, and don’t (excuse my language) fucken judge others. It’s that simple.

I could continue my rant with breastfeeding vs formula, co-sleeping vs cry-it-out methods, and the vaccination situation, but I’ve made my point. We’ve got to start trusting Moms. Our jobs as Moms, whether we rear face until they are 12 or send them to private school, are hard enough. Can’t we build friendships and love one another because being a mom is the most complex job in the world?

I don’t care about your personal decisions [that do not affect me or my family] because I care about you as a person, Mom, and friend. Ask a pregnant Momma-to-be how they feel physically and mentally instead of judging their weight or fitness routine. Who cares how they deliver the baby? Regardless, it is personal, challenging, and will 100% be life-changing for them whether it goes as planned or not. There is no need to ask about daycare or whether they will stay home with the baby. Instead, offer support once the baby does arrive Earth-side. You don’t need to ask them if they want to try to breastfeed. Every Mom wants that, and if they choose it’s not best, it’s not working, or the baby doesn’t latch, I can guarantee that Mom feels guilty. You should listen and not judge. Have an open mind and speak kind words.

I believe motherhood should be something that unites women. I hope women cheer each other on instead of giving our un-valued opinions that bring each other down. I know we are all humans. It is impossible not to think negatively when someone is doing something you don’t believe in. However, how you handle that thought is totally something you can control.

My Daughter is a Spirited Carnivore

by Skylar on category

This past Monday, at 10:00 A.M., I finally sat down at my desk to write up my lesson plan for my formal evaluation on Thursday. My mind was clustered with quizzes I still needed to grade, the chili fixings I needed to pick up at the grocery store after school, and the sub plans I needed to make for Wednesday.

DING – notification from daycare

Marlow was involved in an incident.

Open Marlow’s daycare app. Posted 10:17 A.M. “Hey guys, Marlow has bit a second child on the arm. Marlow wanted to climb a toy, and the other child was using it. She went in for a bit. We stopped two other attempts. Will you let us know when someone is available to come grab her?”

Deep Breath. Bury my head in my hands. I have 33 minutes before students roll into class. I can get my sub plans made before then. I should text Brittany I need a sub to cover 4th period. Call Kody to see if we can split time at home with Marlow so I can return to teach 6th and 7th periods. Text Gabby to tell her I won’t make our lunch date today. Fifteen minutes later, I grab my car keys and head across town to pick up my daughter, who is identifying as a carnivore today.

Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

Marlow has been biting since before the Thanksgiving Holiday.

There was a common trend in the advice Kody and I received. 1) Bite her back, 2) Have you considered taking her to a speech therapist?

1) I did bite her back. I bit her so hard that she had my teeth marks as a bruise on her thigh for 36 hours. It didn’t fix the problem.

2) We’ve looked into speech therapy. Given Marlow’s ability to communicate her needs verbally and through signs, this doesn’t seem to be the correct route for multiple reasons. However, we have not ruled this out.

We also tried an elimination diet, timeouts, spanking, reasoning with her, more outside time, incorporating sensory activities, and chewy necklaces. We have considered OT or behavioral therapy. Kody and I are exhausted trying to solve the problem of why she bites and how to get her to stop biting. We even worked with daycare to record trends and habits. We are frustrated and embarrassed about her behavior. We love her dearly, but we are drained.

Over the last 18 months, I have had many silent bursts of humor. It is now clear to me that Marlow was handpicked for me. She has a way of exposing my flaws and turning them into life lessons, reminding me to ‘be better.’

I am so good at judging that I typically start my arrogant phrase with “I don’t live their life. I don’t walk in their shoes. I shouldn’t judge, but (insert judgemental phrase). I know passing judgment is a gross character trait, but it’s easy to blow up someone else’s troubles with a microscope, dissect their current challenges, and write a verbal essay about how they could fix their problems with my solutions.

I park my car outside Marlow’s daycare on Monday. Deep sigh. I had to turn up my lips at the lesson Marlow was teaching me. I should stop judging. Parents are doing everything in their power to help their child(ren) thrive in this world, and here I am, making petty comments about how they should be raising their child(ren) and how I would be doing it differently.

I always knew that all children are different and respond differently to their environment and redirection from adults. However, it wasn’t until Marlow’s carnivorous phase that it struck me like a lightning bolt. Clearly, biting a toddler back once they bite you typically stops the behavior. It doesn’t work for Marlow. She looks at you dead in the eyes and returns for a second bite, only harder.

What I learned this week is that life is demanding, and we can’t always control the outcomes. There are two things you can control, though. The first is how we choose to feel about the judgment of others. Most people are willing to listen and attempt to learn if I am given the chance to explain. I am so grateful for those who are eager to hear me out. I choose to be supported by these people and pull them tight into my circle. The second is empathy. You can control empathy and were born with an abundance of it. Never underestimate what other’s are going through. You may not feel or understand it, but you know they are feeling emotionally heavy, and at the very least, you can be there for them. Be a kind person.

Fatherhood Is Hard Work, And a Heart Job

by Skylar on category

There was a food truck festival in town last weekend. The honey-soaked corn dog was well worth the $9.25. As we were strolling Marlow around, trying to keep her occupied in the aroma-filled heat wave, Kody made an offhand comment about the clothing choice of a teenage girl. I laughed, “That is a very modest look compared to what most teenage girls wear nowadays.” Kody didn’t need to verbalize for me to know that he was envisioning 12 years from now when his little girl would be a teenager. (Oh … the parenting ahead of us!)

Becoming a mom was life-changing. The emotions you feel when you hold that baby in your arms for the first time are almost indescribable. It’s the purest love. We, mamas, are the lucky ones. We have nine months of bonding, whereas the Dad starts that process when the baby is born. Even then, it is an uphill battle for the first six months. If nursing, the Mom provides the food. The familiarity of your heartbeat and voice offers comfort and safety. Marlow looked for me to meet all her essential needs in the scary new world, and I loved being her everything. Still, it caused great sadness when Kody had to offer Marlow up because no matter what he did, she would sometimes not soothe with him.

Kody’s heart has always been full of love and compassion, but it grew twice as big the day he became a Father. I’ve never seen anyone so determined to create a bond with his daughter. I saw the frustration in his eyes after he’d spent an hour rocking her to calm her down, and the second I put a hand on her, she’d immediately stop fussing. He wanted so badly to be Marlow’s safe place. It would have been easy for Kody to say that Marlow would grow out of her neediness for her Mom and would grow to like her Dad. Instead, he was relentless. I would scold him at 4:00 am every morning when he snuck into her bedroom to say goodbye. I would stare at the monitor and pray she would not wake up as he smothered her with kisses. The second he walked in the door after work, his bags and nasty gym socks sat on the floor all night because he became too busy playing on the floor with that little girl. Bathtime is Kody and Marlow’s time! The speaker comes out, and they splash and scrub away the day.

Over the past year, I’ve watched Kody work every day to create a bond with our child. I often hear him say, “I’ve never loved anything like I love this Baby Bug.” He loves her, and she loves him. I know this as a fact.

Dear Husband,

We were in our mid-twenties when my heart was drawn to you. You were carefree, and your eyes were filled with light. I see you now as a man, the weight of responsibility heavy on your shoulders, eyes dimmed with exhaustion. I want to encourage you today—the work you do matters—outside our home, yes, but especially here in our home.
I love watching you play. I listen to the giggles as you hide behind the corner. Marlow’s hands and knees pound on the floor as she speeds to peak around the corner, waiting for you to fly out and tickle her. I love the way you love her. I am thankful she will have an example of a gentle, loving man.

Fatherhood is a hard job and a heart job. It requires strength, gentleness, patience, and time. Dear Husband: I love watching you be a Father.

https://youtu.be/ebB5AuY2sLY

✕