Our Daughter

Anniversaries make me sappy.

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Eleven years of marriage.
Sixteen years of loving him.

Sometimes I sit in the quiet of our home, usually after bedtime when the world finally slows, and I try to wrap my mind around that number. Sixteen years. A whole lifetime of memories, of growth, of becoming who we are together.

We started with so little. Just two people figuring out life side by side in our very first apartment. Back then, love looked like late night conversations, shared dreams, and the kind of laughter that only comes when everything is still new and full of possibility.

And the beach is where it all took root.

There is something about the ocean that feels like us. Wild and steady at the same time. That is where our story really began, sun on our skin, salt in the air, falling into something deeper than we even understood yet. I still remember that cruise to Honduras, Costa Maya, and Belize, the moment it all shifted for me. Somewhere between the waves and the quiet moments together, I realized I was not just in love.

I was home.

Since then, we have built a life piece by piece. Two homes after that first apartment. A new chapter here in Austin, where everything feels a little lighter and a little friendlier, like we landed exactly where we were meant to be.

But if I am honest, the most defining part of our story was not where we lived.

It was what we waited for.

Twelve long, quiet years.

Years that tested us in ways no one really sees from the outside. Years filled with hope, heartbreak, patience, and an unshakable commitment to each other. There were moments it felt impossibly heavy, but we never let go. Not of each other. Not of the life we believed we were meant to have.

And then, her.
Our daughter.

Three and a half years ago, everything changed in the most beautiful way. The silence we carried for so long was replaced with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the sweetest little voice calling us Momma and Daddy.

Watching him become a father has been my favorite chapter of ours.

The way he loves her. The way she looks at him. The patience, the playfulness, the quiet strength he brings into our family. It is everything I ever dreamed of and more. There is something so sacred about seeing the person you have loved for over a decade step into a role that feels like it was always meant for them.

We did not just build a life.
We built this life.

One filled with resilience. With deep roots. With a kind of love that has been tested and proven again and again. A love that grew up, weathered storms, waited through silence, and still chose each other every single time.

Eleven years married.
Sixteen years together.

And somehow, it still feels like we are just getting started.

I would choose him in every lifetime.
Always.

-Meig

The Weight of Enough

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There’s a quiet tug of war that lives in my chest every single day.

When I sit on the floor and play with her, really play, the kind where I let the dishes pile up and the laundry stay unfolded, I feel it creeping in. You should be cleaning. You’re falling behind.

And when I finally stand up, push through the exhaustion, and start picking up the house, there it is again. You should be with her. These moments are slipping away.

It feels like no matter where I stand, I am standing in the wrong place.

Did I make her smile enough today?
Did I give enough hugs, enough kisses?
Did she feel how deeply, wildly, endlessly loved she is?
Did I do enough?

Mom guilt does not whisper. It hums. Constant and relentless. Especially when your body already feels like it is fighting its own quiet battle every single day.

Because chronic illness does not clock out.
There is no off switch.
No pause button.

Every ounce of energy becomes a decision.

Do I spend it on the dishes or on her laughter?

Do I push through the fatigue to be present or do I rest so I can make it through bedtime?

And somehow, no matter what I choose, it feels like I am failing something.

Tonight I sat on her floor, pulling her pajamas over tired little legs, soaking in her bedtime cuddles. My body felt heavy, completely emptied of everything I had to give.

And still the thoughts came.

Why did I get so frustrated today?
Why will she not just poop in the potty already?
Why did I lose my patience over something so small?

It is in those quiet, end of the day moments that the guilt hits the hardest.

Because I want to be everything for her.
The patient mom. The fun mom. The calm mom. The always present, never tired, endlessly gentle mom.

But I am not.

I am human.
I am tired.
I am doing this while carrying more than most people can see.

And as I sat there, stuck on the floor for just a moment longer than I wanted, because getting up felt like climbing a mountain, I looked at her.

And she looked at me like I was her whole world.

Not a cleaner house.
Not a perfectly patient mom.
Not someone who got everything right.

Just me.

Her momma.

And in that moment, I was reminded of something I so easily forget.

I am not the perfect mom.
But I am her mom.

The one she runs to.
The one she laughs with.
The one she wants at the end of the day.

Even on the days I feel stretched too thin,
even on the days I lose patience,
even on the days I question everything,

I am still exactly who she needs.

And maybe, just maybe,
that is enough.

Love y’all. Go hug your babies. You’re enough. I promise.

-Meig

Three Is Magic

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No one told me three would be this beautiful.

Everyone warned me about three.

They said it with knowing looks and little half laughs.

“Oh just wait until she’s three.”
“Three is when the attitude starts.”
“Threenagers are something else.”

What nobody told me is that three is perfection.

Three is a tiny voice yelling from the other room, “I WILL DO IT MYSELF!” while struggling to pull on shoes that are definitely on the wrong feet.

Three is spinning in the living room saying, “Check out my moves, Momma!” and dancing like the whole world is watching.

Three is independence blooming right in front of my eyes. It’s tiny hands that don’t need mine quite as much anymore, but still reach for me when she’s tired.

Three is Gabby’s Dollhouse on repeat. Again. And again. And again.

Three is dance parties at 10 pm when bedtime should have happened an hour ago.
It’s music playing too loud, twirls across the living room floor, and one more song before we even think about pajamas.

Three is the moment the chaos finally slows down and she crawls into my arms for sleepy cuddles before bed. The kind where her whole little body melts into mine and I remember she’s still my baby, even while she’s becoming her own little person.

Three is hug attacks.
The kind where she runs at me full speed just to wrap her arms around my legs.

Three is messy and loud and exhausting and absolutely magical.

Everyone warned me that three would be hard.

What nobody told me is that three would also break my heart a little.

Because every “I do it myself” is a reminder that she needs me just a tiny bit less than she did yesterday.

And while I’m unbelievably proud of the strong, confident little girl she’s becoming, there’s a quiet part of me that wishes I could freeze time right here.

Right here in the middle of dance parties and hug attacks.
Right here between independence and sleepy cuddles.

Because three is everything being a girl mom was promised it would be.

And I’m trying so hard to soak up every second of it.

Because motherhood is this strange, beautiful thing where your heart grows bigger every day, even while you’re grieving the versions of your child that quietly disappear along the way.

Yesterday she was a baby.

Today she’s three.

And somehow both of those things exist in my arms at the very same time.

And tonight, when I tuck her in and she whispers “I love you, Momma,” I know someday I will look back and realize…

three was never something to survive.

Three was something to treasure.

And I’m treasuring it. Truly.

Go hug your babies and water your plants. Maybe take your vitamin too.

Meig

The Night She Slept and I Didn’t

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Last night our daughter had a sleep study.

If you’ve never experienced one, imagine a tiny hospital room that feels somewhere between a hotel and a science lab. Dim lights. Quiet monitors. A narrow bed for your child and a parent bed that promises rest but never quite delivers it.

And then imagine a three year old with more wires attached to her than seems reasonable for such a small human.

Sensors in her hair.
Little sticky patches across her chest.
Wires trailing everywhere like she’d been temporarily recruited by NASA for a very important mission.

The techs were kind and gentle, explaining everything in that calm voice people who work with children somehow master. They measured her head, parted her curls, and glued little electrodes carefully along her scalp.

My brave girl sat there taking it all in.

But the moment that melted my heart was when the tech let her decorate her lovies too. She got to put stickers and pretend wires on them so they could have a sleep study right along with her. Suddenly it wasn’t something happening to her. It was something they were all doing together.

By the end of it, her stuffed animals looked like they had their own medical charts.

And she was thrilled.

When everything was finally hooked up, she looked like the world’s cutest science experiment.

Then the lights went out.

The whole goal of a sleep study is simple. They want your child to sleep normally so they can observe what happens through the night. Breathing patterns. Brain waves. Oxygen levels. Movement.

The reason we were there in the first place is because of something we’ve been watching for a while. Mouth breathing. Restless sleep. The quiet little worries that sit in the back of a parent’s mind when you notice your child never quite seems to breathe the way you think they should.

Doctors suspect her adenoids may be part of the story.

So the machines watched.

And my girl?

She slept beautifully.

Peacefully.
Deeply.
Like the room wasn’t full of blinking lights and softly humming machines.

Meanwhile, I did what mothers do best.

I watched.

I watched the little monitors glow in the dark.
I watched the wires rise and fall with her breathing.
I listened to every sleepy whine and tiny murmur that slipped out of her dreams.

Every time she shifted, I wondered if the wires were bothering her.

Every time she sighed, I wondered if she was breathing well.

Every flash of a light made me glance up again.

Sleep studies are meant to monitor children, but somewhere around two in the morning I realized they’re a study in parenthood too.

Because parenting is a lot like that quiet room.

You sit in the dark while they sleep, listening, watching, hoping their little bodies are doing exactly what they’re meant to do.

Holding the worry so they don’t have to.

Around dawn she started to stir, curls wild, wires still gently taped in place. When they finally removed everything she looked so proud of herself, like she had just completed the most important job in the world.

And honestly, she had.

For being such an amazing patient, the tech brought her a little prize. A white owl stuffed animal and some dinosaur toys to take home.

She clutched them like treasure.

Proof of her bravery.

Proof that sometimes even the smallest people can handle big things.

She walked out of that hospital happy, chatting about her owl and dinosaurs like the whole experience had been one grand adventure.

Meanwhile, I walked out feeling like I had pulled an all night shift in the world’s quietest command center.

But if a night of watching wires and blinking lights helps us understand her sleep, helps her breathe easier, helps her rest more peacefully in the years ahead, then it was a night well spent.

Because motherhood is often exactly that.

Sometimes they sleep.

And sometimes we stay awake loving them.

Happy Monday after a time change. May your caffeine be strong and your child be happy.

Meig