It takes a village to raise a child.
As it turns out, it also takes a village to keep us reasonably sane, happily married, well-stocked in Zinfandel and secure in the knowledge that, while we might be in the weeds, we’re never alone.
We met. One of us was accidentally racist. One of us told stories of terrible online dates. One of us confessed to eating a chewed-up tortilla chip that fell into her bra. Basically, it was love at first sight. Those initial new-friend-heart-flutters morphed into a small but mighty trio who orchestrated play dates and potlucks and vacations. We coached each other through professional crises and sent breastfeeding advice through Facebook Messenger at 3 a.m. There were some uncomfortable sex stories that can never been unheard. On the toughest days, we reminded each other that parenthood and creativity are not mutually exclusive and that we don’t have to choose between Leaning In and acquiescing to a life of mommy blogging and yoga pants. In short, we became each others’ village.
And now we’re your village, too. Welcome home.