I was helping Big Bro write a birthday card when he asked me a simple question: “Can I watch you write it?”

Right then, I realized a pretty big revelation. My son is learning to read and write, but he has very little example to follow. He’s not learning to read and type. He sees me texting and typing and doing everything digitally from asking Alexa for a grocery list to sending email, to writing posts on this blog. I do it all on my phone or tablet or through talk features. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d picked up a pen.

As a child, I watched my mom write lists and notes and checks and address letters that she sent from a real mailbox. Children learn through imitation. From the way he sweeps the floor or throws a ball or dances in the living room, my son has subconsciously absorbed my mannerisms, my demeanor, my awesome moves. And yet I’ve overlooked one of the most important building blocks for education and expression, the very thing I’ve made a living doing. 

The holiday season is hectic. Even though it happens every year, the pace and the plans and the lists all still seem to come as a surprise to me. We celebrate Halloween and I blink and I’m eating turkey and I blink again and it’s time to hang stockings, climb on a roof with a string of lights, and embark on a hefty home improvement project.

Isn’t that how you like to celebrate?

I guess I’m just a gluten for chaos, or maybe I forgot what it’s like to have a toddler, as my preschooler turns into a helpful, independent big boy.

On Black Friday I stood in Lowe’s with a 5-gallon bucket of paint and announced the disputed bedroom remodel brainstorm I had a few months ago would become a reality. Drew was less than thrilled.

Since then, we’ve been taping, tarping and painting between the hours of 8-10pm because I discovered it’s incredibly difficult and messy to sling rollers while a nearly two-year-old who has already decimated five Christmas ornaments is running around. That’s the toddler part I forgot about. 

Last night, I pulled into the last parking spot of the preschool lot, briskly walked through the gymnasium door and found my husband seated in the middle of a crowd, taking notes on a tablet during a presentation for parents of future kindergartners. A half hour late, I snuck in and sat down, glancing at the notes he’d taken for me. Teamwork makes the dream work.

I’d come straight from a work event as I often do if there’s a parent-teacher conference or after school activity. I’m thankful to work in a flexible environment with a rockstar mom boss who gets it. But even all of that doesn’t stop me from keeping score.

Mom Jess looks at her watch at the end of the day and stares down that career girl until she heads home. Mom Jess knows exactly how many weekend shoots I have lined up in the next three months. She judges me for volunteering, for overnight conferences, for nights out with the girls.

Career Jess rolls her eyes at Mom Jess when she turns down a freelance opportunity. She thinks it’s totally lame when I want to be home in time to tuck everyone in. She judges me for wearing athletic-wear without actually fitting in a workout.

They’re both exhausted.

But deep down, they know how great it is to share the same identity. It’s a balancing act, yes, and it’s a busy life. But when Mom Jess does the occasional preschool drop-off, she gets to strut in dressed like a boss without spitup on her shirt or a top knot. When Career Jess takes her kids with her on a shoot, they see how cool her job is and spend the whole night taking their own pretend pictures.

What Mom Jess and Career Jess need to remember is that they make each other better. Becoming a mom made me more responsible, patient, confident and pragmatic. Wearing a baby and a camera at the same time is not only adorable, but it’s a sight that’s perfectly normal that people need more of. Mom Jess and Career Jess need to cut each other some slack. Stop keeping score. 

You might think that’s a typo in the headline. How can a boymom like myself know much about being a mom of girls? Let’s just say it’s pretty telling that even I noticed. It all started with a doll.

We’ve got about a thousand trucks and cars in the house, so naturally, the boys were spending their entire morning arguing over who got to play with the one and only doll we own. I got online to buy another, same exact doll with a different colored shirt so we could tell them apart. I saw the selection: doll with blue shirt that we already had- $25. Doll with yellow shirt- $15. Doll with pink shirt- $59.99. That’s not an exaggeration. The exact same doll from the exact same company in the exact same shirt in pink cost more than double the other options. Wow. Either there’s a real shortage of red dye or there’s something else going on.

I’d heard of the “pink tax” when it comes to things like women’s razors or clothing and other products, but when I stopped to really look at the merchandise aimed at children it was eye-opening. Pink tricycles, helmets, cars, board games, they’re all on toy store isles we only frequent when Big Bro wants to play with the Barbie cars. The price tags on the “pink” isles are definitely different, and when a third option for a toy is available, it’s the most economical. When shopping online, it’s so easy to make a direct comparison that I’m surprised companies can still get away with charging triple for a product targeted towards a certain gender.

Most of the moms I know, myself included, try not to play into gender stereotypes when it comes to toys, clothing, activities or interests. I think that’s part of the reason grey is such a popular color for baby clothing and nurseries nowadays. But man is it hard to combat the onslaught of marketing from the rest of the world.

So, to all my girl moms out there, I have one wish for you- that your daughter’s favorite color is yellow.

When you become a parent, everyone tells you you’ll develop an unusual interest in poop, especially as a conversation topic. You’ll analyze the color, odor, and consistency of everything that comes out of your precious miracle’s rear end. What they don’t tell you is it doesn’t stop there. Poop will push its way into the center of attention in your household for years to come. Often times, the number one topic of conversation will be number two. And frankly, it stinks. Take it from me, I just finished washing poop out from between my toes.

It started with Baby Bro’s recent interest in the potty. He’s only 19 months old but when he started showing signs of potty training, I decided to get out Big Bro’s little potty to see what happened. He sat on it a couple of times and went in it once. After a few days, I asked if he wanted to go potty and he replied “yes,” but as soon as I took off his diaper I found it was already full. And as soon as I saw, he was already running down the hallway. I ran after him, but needless to say, I did not make a clean exit.

With potty-training ahead of us, I’m sure it will result in more defecation conversation dominating our household. But for now, I think I’ll keep changing diapers a little while longer.

Today Baby Bro is one and a half, and just two days ago the big boy turned 4 1/2! Now for us adults, a trip halfway around the sun is no big deal but for a preschooler and a toddler it means a lot.

It means the difference between crawling and running. The difference between pointing and grunting, and using short sentences or following a set of instructions. It’s the difference between writing his name with a fist clenched around a pencil, and playing a game of scrabble (with assistance from mom of course.) It’s the difference between cautiously entering a preschool classroom, and strolling in with confidence for the start of a second year, showing around the younger students.

In the last six months these boys have grown inches and leaps in emotional and intellectual development. In the words of the all-knowing muppets from Sesame Street, they’re growing stronger, smarter and kinder. And we couldn’t be more proud.

At 4 1/2, big bro likes pretending, playing with friends, riding his scooter, cooking, singing and dancing. He dislikes not getting his way and having to wait. (Who doesn’t?)

At 18 months, baby bro likes imitating his older brother, snuggles, stories, playing with trains, singing and dancing. He dislikes things that are too heavy to pick up, and the cover of the Ice Age dvd. (Who doesn’t?)

Just yesterday, we returned from a week-long vacation celebrating the Fourth of July holiday with family at the Outer Banks in North Carolina. One big beach house with 11 adults and 5 kids and a whole lot of sand, sun and fun! The boys had a blast playing with their cousins, (three of my nieces) spending quality time with grandparents, and discovering the beauty of the beaches I grew up going to every summer.

In discussing an upcoming trip, my four-year-old said something that made me realize the true wisdom and perspective that can be found within our conversations with children.

We were eating lunch and he asked if we were taking a plane to the beach and I said yes. His response: “Yay! I get to go to the airport and wait and watch the planes…”

He “gets to” wait. I envisioned all of my recent trips to the airport. The rolling eyes while taking items out for security, the glances at watches while sitting at the gate, the heads sloped down into mobile devices, and all of the people who just want to get where they’re going. My son looks forward to the journey.

There’s a big difference between those two phrases. “Get to” and “have to.”

I got to thinking about all of the times I’ve said I “have to” do something and what a difference it would make if I had just changed that one little word. “I get to work today.” “I get to go grocery shopping.” “I get to tend to the garden.”

The other night my son asked if he could help daddy with the dishes. He pulled up his stool and happily scrubbed and rinsed with dad, enjoying the water, the time spent together, and seeing the results of his hard work. He got to do the dishes, and he turned something my husband had to do, into something my husband “got to” do too.

If only all of us grown-ups thought of our “have-to’s” as “get-to’s.” I think we’d all be as content as a little boy waiting at the airport, eyes wide open, watching the planes.

Baby Bro is growing and developing more every day. He’s no longer a snuggly, babbling baby, but a wiggly, chatty toddler with a new favorite word: no.

Our laid-back little guy has finally found his voice, and it’s the cutest little voice anyone’s ever heard. Even when he’s saying “no” as I ask if he’s ready to take a nap, or as I tell him it’s time to go inside, I can’t help but smile.

A couple weeks ago I turned 33. It’s amazing what can change in a decade. Here’s photo evidence- me on my 23rd birthday, and me on my 33rd: