Come along with me.

Come along with me.

Still hoping that all of my amazing readers are making the journey with me to my new site.

Read, love, hate, comment, criticize, just do it all!

http://www.madidoesmotherhood.com

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My blog has a new home!

My blog has a new home!

http://www.madidoesmotherhood.com

I haven’t updated in a week because I was busy getting my new site up and running!! ¬†I was able to merge all of my posts from this blog onto the new site and give it a massive makeover!!

Thank you all for making this possible. ¬†I swore I wouldn’t buy the rights to my domain until I was getting the readers to make it worth it! ¬†Well here we are!

Please stop by!!! And give feedback! This is a work in progress, but this new site gives EVERYONE the ability to comment and read which expands the possibilities to outside the world of WordPress.

Much love to you all.

A letter to parents who don’t prevent abuse¬†

A letter to parents who don’t prevent abuse¬†

As some of you may or may not have heard, a two year old girl in my area was beaten by her mother’s boyfriend. She was rushed to the hospital where she was pronounced brain dead after 24 hours and multiple tests. I did not know her or her family, but we do have mutual friends. This is my letter to her mother who allegedly “permitted” the abuse. I am not here to make up rumors, this letter is based solely on what I’ve heard and read. This is a letter to all parents who allow their children to be hurt. 

Please let me also preface this by saying that this is not to parents whose children are unknowingly injured. This is for the special kind of terrible person who sees it, turns the other way for it, or worse… Encourages it.  

Dear mom/ dad,

I want to tell you two very important things. 1. I am sorry. And 2. I know that being a parent is hard.

Now let’s dive further into those points

1. I am so sorry that God gifted you with such a beautiful baby, because you did not deserve Them. I am sorry that you hold your own “happiness” and desires above the safety of your child. I am sorry that there are so many people out there dying to have children when they can’t, while people like you take the job, no the GIFT, of parenting completely for granted. 
2. Parenting is definitely hard. Making sure that they listen and learn and advance properly is hard. Making sure that they make the right decisions and become the best versions of themselves… That’s hard. What shouldn’t be hard is keeping them alive and safe from harm WITHIN THEIR OWN HOME.  What shouldn’t be hard is not allowing someone to lay their hands on your baby while you are home. It shouldn’t be hard to tell the truth on the 911 call so that maybe you can save their life. 

You had ONE JOB. You had THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB. You had the job of caring for an INNOCENT. 

Sincerely, 

I hope I speak for every mom out there who held their baby extra tight and cried at the thought of losing them. 

My boyfriend has literally never babysat his children. 

My boyfriend has literally never babysat his children. 

Seriously. Not even once. 

How terrible is that? 

A few weeks ago my friend and I were talking and she asked, “Is (mr. F) babysitting tonight?” And I kindly responded with, “yes.”  But the more I thought about it the more frustrated I become with that question, because I realized that my response was a lie.  

He’s never babysat. Not when I’m working and he has the day off, and not on the very rare occasion that I get to venture off with my friends. I never ask him to babysit and he never offers. 

You see, Mr. F doesn’t babysit because you can’t babysit your own kids. You can play with them, you can cuddle them, you can care for them, and you can even watch them, but you definitely can not babysit them. 

No one ever calls me to ask if I can hang out by saying, “Hey can you hang out or do you have to babysit the girls tonight?”  

Mr. F never asks me to babysit so he can go to work. 

Our kids are OUR responsibility, not MINE. WE made the baby, I didn’t do that all on my own, and I do not have to care for her all on my own. 

Let’s make this clear, Mr. F does not expect me to care for them on my own, but that is the implication outsiders make when they refer to him caring for his kids as “babysitting.”

I don’t get my panties bunched over simple comments very often. I don’t expect everyone to understand or respect the idea of an equal partnership. Actual, in many ways our relationship is very traditional. I take care of the majority of things around the house (although he does help a lot), and I take on most of the responsibilities of cooking and caring for the kids while he’s at work, and that is OK with me. But, please do not mistake our traditional-ish lifestyle with one in which he is somehow free of fatherly responsibility. That is the implication you make when you refer to himself caring for his own children as “babysitting.”

Zuppa for the nostalgic soul

Zuppa for the nostalgic soul

I don’t cook because I’m perfect. I am the furthest thing from it. 

I don’t cook because I feel like every woman should do all the cooking and be put together all the time. Lord knows that isn’t me. 

I don’t cook because I have so much spare time that I don’t know what to do with it. I would nap, or drink. 

I cook because there is something so therapeutic about it. It is relaxing, and I am in total control. It is so much better for me than the things I used to do to exercise total control. 

But the best part about cooking is when you get to recreate a recipe that brings back old memories. For me, making zupa Toscana brings me all the feels. Back in college two of my best friends and I would make dinner every Thursday, and often other nights, before we would go out. By cook dinner I mean that they would cook dinner while I provided moral support, helped consume the wine, and sometimes chopped vegetables on the rare occasion that they wanted to trust me with a knife. 

We would blast music and dance around with our booze. There would be laughing and singing, horrible horrible singing. 

Zupa was one of our most cooked meals. It was a take on an Italian soup served at Olive Garden. Olive Garden was also special because that was our “hangover” food. As often as we could we would roll out of bed at 1pm,  try not to look at the light, and drive to Olive Garden for unlimited soup salad and breadsticks. 

So now on cold nights like last night when I need a warm pick me up, I start chopping potatoes and kale and make some zupa, because soup and memories can always warm your body and soul.