Family

The Small Gate and the Big Adventure

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Motherhood has a way of reminding you that control is mostly an illusion.

This week, our three year old reminded me of that in the most heart stopping way possible.

She went on her first adventure.

Alone.

Somewhere between a normal moment and the next, she slipped out the front gate. I don’t know if it was curiosity, bravery, or simply the unstoppable spirit that lives inside every small child who believes the world is theirs to explore.

One moment she was with me.

The next moment she wasn’t.

If you’ve ever experienced that split second when your brain realizes your child is not where they should be, you know the feeling. It is cold and electric and immediate. Your mind races faster than your feet can move.

I called her name.

Nothing.

I checked the yard.

Nothing.

And then the panic started to rise.

Because motherhood is beautiful, but it is also the constant, quiet understanding that your whole heart exists outside your body, walking around in tiny shoes.

While my mind spun through every terrible possibility, that child of ours was simply… exploring.

Just a few doors down.

Thankfully, she didn’t encounter any danger. She encountered kindness.

Some wonderful neighbors saw a small curly headed adventurer wandering the neighborhood and did what good humans do. They kept her safe and made sure she wasn’t alone while I raced to find her.

By the time I got to her, she was completely calm. Probably wondering why I looked like I had just run a marathon with my heart in my throat.

To her, it had been an adventure.

To me, it had been the longest few minutes of my life.

There is a strange duality in parenting a child like mine. She is fearless. Curious. Independent in a way that both amazes me and terrifies me.

And while my instinct is to protect her from the entire world, another part of me knows that her bold spirit is exactly what will carry her through life.

Still, we will absolutely be reinforcing the gate situation.

Because motherhood is a balance between raising brave children and keeping them alive long enough to grow up.

This week reminded me of two things.

First, that it truly takes a village. I am deeply grateful for the neighbors who saw our little girl and stepped in without hesitation.

Second, that these tiny humans we raise are already becoming their own people. Adventurers. Explorers. Curious little souls who want to see what’s around the corner.

Sometimes that corner is just a few houses down.

And sometimes it gives their mom a mild heart attack.

But it ended the best way it possibly could have.

Our daughter safe in my arms.

My heart slowly returning to my chest.

And a gate that will definitely be getting a better latch.

Love y’all,

Meig

The Quiet Kind of Happiness

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There was a time when I thought happiness would look big. Big moments. Big celebrations. Big milestones that everyone could see and applaud. I thought it would feel like fireworks or confetti or some loud, unmistakable proof that life had turned out exactly right. But the older I get, the more I realize that the truest kind of happiness is usually very quiet.

Tonight it looked like this. A Friday night with nowhere we had to be. The house settling into that soft end-of-week rhythm where everyone exhales a little deeper. Toys scattered across the floor, the hum of something on the TV that no one is really paying attention to, and the kind of tired that only comes after a full week of living.

I looked over at the couch and there they were. My husband and my daughter curled up together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her little body tucked into his, his arm wrapped around her with the kind of instinct that only comes from loving someone deeply and daily.

Sixteen years with that man. Sixteen years of ordinary days that somehow built a life. And now here he is, holding the tiny human we made together, her wild curls spread out against him, both of them completely content just being close. No big moment. No milestone.

Just us.

Motherhood has changed the way I see happiness. Before her, happiness felt like something you chased. Something you planned or waited for. Something that happened later, once everything was just right. But children have a way of bringing life right into the present moment whether you’re ready for it or not.

They remind you that the best parts of life rarely announce themselves. They show up quietly. In sticky hands reaching for yours. In the sound of laughter from the other room. In the weight of a sleepy child leaning against your shoulder. In the sight of the person you’ve loved for years loving your child just as fiercely.

Happiness is hearing a small voice say, “I love you, Momma,” like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

It’s the way she wraps her arms around your neck when she’s tired, her little body melting into you for one more sleepy hug before bed. It’s laying in bed at night, staring into the next room over and watching her sleep. Listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and feeling that overwhelming mix of peace and awe that this tiny person exists, and somehow you get to be her mother.

Marriage changes too when you add a little person to it.
Not worse. Just deeper.

It becomes less about candlelit dinners and more about the way he instinctively scoops her up when she’s tired. The way he turns cartoons on so you can finish cooking dinner. The way the two of you exchange that look across the room that says we made this little life together.

The kind of love that builds slowly over years doesn’t always look glamorous. Sometimes it looks like sharing a couch. Sometimes it looks like being tired at the same time. Sometimes it looks like raising a small, curly headed whirlwind together and hoping you’re doing at least a few things right.

But tonight, looking over at them cuddled up together, I realized something.
This is the happiness people spend their whole lives searching for. Not perfection. Not some polished picture perfect version of life. Just love that feels safe. A home that feels warm. A child who feels secure enough to curl up between the two people who love her most in the world.

There will be bigger moments, I’m sure. Graduations and birthdays and all the milestones that come with watching a child grow up, but I have a feeling that years from now, when I look back on this life, it won’t be the big moments that shine the brightest.

It will be nights like this.

A Friday night. A messy living room. A little girl with wild curls. The sound of “I love you, Momma.” Sleepy hugs.
The man I’ve loved for sixteen years holding our daughter like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
And me sitting here quietly realizing that happiness was never something waiting for us somewhere down the road.
It was sitting right next to me on the couch the whole time.

Happy Friday, friends.
Meig

Who is Meighan? She’s just Momma now.

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The Lost Identity of Motherhood—and the Journey to Find Myself Again

I used to wonder what happened to moms after they had children. Where did they go? It was almost symbolic: they seemed to slowly disappear from their own photos, replaced by baby pictures, and for some reason, that used to straight piss me off. I’d find myself wondering: How could someone get so completely lost in motherhood?

Now, I get it. I really do.

There is a loss of identity when you become a mom. At least, that’s been my experience. You become consumed by things you never thought you’d care so much about—milk intake, nap timings, diaper changes, meal plans, teething remedies. The list goes on and on. And somewhere along the way, you forget yourself a bit. You forget how to talk about anything other than the endless cycle of mothering. The things that used to bring you joy—your hobbies, your passions, your interests—fall to the wayside. Slowly, your world becomes smaller, and your conversation more limited. Let’s be honest, it can get a little… dull.

But then, you find other moms. Women who, before motherhood, you might not have connected with. But now, you’re all in the same boat—rattling around in this lost property box together. And in some way, it’s comforting. You’re not alone in this strange, beautiful chaos.

I know deep down that I’ve gone AWOL since becoming a mom. I’ve almost forgotten that there’s a world out there, separate from motherhood, that I can still be a part of.

So, I’m slowly reclaiming my “me-ness” again. It’s a work in progress, but it’s happening. And when I do, I notice something beautiful: Ady enjoys it more, too. It feels more authentic. Now, instead of just playing “Ms. Moni” on repeat, we have little dance parties to the music I love. I’ve even started taking the time to look half-human again in the mornings—putting my old face back on. These small changes, as trivial as they may seem, are helping me reconnect with myself, and I’m pretty sure they’re good for all of us.

Motherhood is a balancing act. You’re helping this tiny human develop their identity, but it’s just as important not to forget your own. It’s okay to be both: a mom and a person, with interests, dreams, and a self that existed long before motherhood.

And every little step I take to reclaim that feels like a victory. Here’s to becoming Meighan again, instead of just Momma.

The duck that’ll never die…

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The Story of Quacky: A Christmas Duck Full of Memories

Let me tell you a story about a duck. Not just any duck—this is a special duck. A duck that has been part of our family since 1994. It’s a plush, quacking Christmas duck by House of Lloyd. But, trust me, it’s not the brand or the fact that it’s 29 years old that makes it special. Let me tell you what makes it really special.

This duck, affectionately named Quacky (he’s Daffy Duck’s cousin in my childlike imagination), has been a Christmas tradition for me and many of my cousins since it was first purchased by my Grandmom all those years ago. Every Christmas, Grandmom’s house would transform into a holiday wonderland—bright lights, twinkling garland, the delicious smell of treats, and of course, Quacky sitting on the couch, waiting for us to make him sing Christmas carols.

Even as an adult, I’d visit Grandmom’s during the holidays, and there he’d be, sitting on the couch just as he had been for years. I’d laugh, give him a hug, and make him quack the silliest Christmas songs. No matter how old I got, Quacky was always there to remind me of the magic of Christmas.

But here’s the twist. You see, this isn’t just a stuffed duck. It’s a treasure trove of memories. It’s joy. It’s love. It’s a piece of Christmas that connects me to the past, and more than that, to my Grandmom, who I knew would smile every time she saw us play with Quacky.

About five years ago, Grandmom asked if I wanted to take Quacky home to keep for Christmas. Without hesitation, I said, “Yes!” A stuffed animal? Yes, I know. It’s silly, but Quacky was full of so much joy, and it felt like a piece of my Grandmom I could hold onto.

Flash forward to this year—the first Christmas without Grandmom. I couldn’t wait to share Quacky with my daughter. She’s obsessed with ducks—she quacks all the time, and I knew she’d love Quacky just as much as I did. It was going to be magical.

But then, something unexpected happened. This year, when we put the batteries in Quacky—after nearly three decades of holiday quacking—the duck went silent.

Nothing. No Christmas carols. Just silence.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t know how important Quacky is, but for me, it felt like a small piece of the world had gone quiet. This was the first Christmas I was spending without my Grandmom, and it felt like Quacky had given his last quack with her.

I tried to find another one. I found one on eBay, but the price was steep, and I couldn’t guarantee it would even work. And as much as I thought about buying another one, I realized that the true value of Quacky isn’t in the sound he makes. It’s in the memories he holds.

After tears, heartbreak, and a few moments of questioning whether I should “retire” Quacky for good, I made a decision. We’re keeping him. Even though he no longer quacks, Quacky is still full of memories. He’s still special, and I’m going to share him with my daughter. She won’t know the joy of hearing his carols, but we can still make him quack. We can be the voice of Quacky, just like my Grandmom did for me.

In a way, this silent duck is a reminder that love and memories don’t have to sound a certain way to be felt. Even when someone is no longer here with us, we can keep their voice alive by telling stories, laughing, and remembering the special moments we shared.

Quacky may be silent, but his spirit is alive. And so is my Grandmom’s. I’ll tell my daughter about her. I’ll keep the memories of her alive. And every Christmas, Quacky will be there, in our home, a symbol of the love, joy, and tradition that still lives on.

To say I’ve cried over a stuffed duck might sound silly to some, but if you truly understand the meaning of what this little duck represents, then you know why I’ve shed those tears. It’s not just a duck—it’s everything it carries: the laughter, the love, the memories of a woman who shaped so much of my childhood and my life.

So, here’s to Quacky, the duck that will never die. He’s more than just a plush toy; he’s a living memory. And I hope, when you look up at the stars this holiday season, you’ll think of my Grandmom. Tell her we miss her and that we’re okay. Even Quacky is okay.

And as you’re going about your holiday season, don’t forget to reach out to your loved ones. If someone is no longer with you this year, honor their memory. Speak their name out loud. Keep their love alive, because they would want you to.

Happy Holidays to all of you. 🦆❤️