I’m so, so excited for today’s guest post. Janine Manley of Little Rabbit Wears is the first person I thought to ask when I decided to post some essays on motherhood in honor of Mother’s Day this week. Not only do I love her vintage-inspired girls shop and think she’s pretty fabulous, but I love how open and honest she is about motherhood…

I can’t say I’m one of those moms who instantly felt connected with my children in utero. While pregnant, I flopped around and ate carbs and wore my bathrobe like it was on trend. With my first born (son), I worried I wouldn’t know what to do with a little boy and that I would be left out of Daddy and boy fun. I freaked out about having to take care of a “winkie.” Or willy. Whatever. I kind of wished I was having a girl when I shopped for him at Baby Gap and looked at my friends’ Facebook photos of mommy and me tea parties and American Girl store visits.

But, when Jackson arrived on 2/3/11, it certainly didn’t matter one bit that he was a boy. He was simply the most beautiful little thing I had ever seen. I had been proud at times and I had been happy. But, never have I had a moment as sublime as the feeling of having a warm, soft baby burying his head in the crook of my neck while placing my finger in his hand to hold just like I had seen on TV—not caring that he was squishy, or wet, or that he had just come right out of my lady bits. And so began motherhood.

Did I scare you for a second there? Did you think baby number three was in utero and I was about to make a major announcement?

Sadly, Bad Dad is yet to be convinced that number three is a good idea (the girls and I, however, are sure to amp up our pleas for just one more when one of my best friends gives birth in a few weeks). In the meantime, I have Jenn Goonan from Mom Bubbly guest blogging for Mother’s Day Week and she’s talking all about the differences between baby number one and baby number three. Sounds like the absolute perfect post to tweet at my husband, no? (And in case I was not clear enough, that is, in fact, an open invitation)

Seriously though, Jenn’s post is one that will resonate with many moms of more than one kid—especially if you spent your first pregnancy surrounded by highlighters, notepads and baby product guides like I did!

I have been blessed three times with uniquely different yet equally beautiful children. It’s been ten years since I’ve been gifted my daughter Ella and let me tell you… the excitement is the same when you find out you’re pregnant for the first or last little person. However, once the adrenaline (or maybe hormones) slightly subsides, the shopping habits are quite different for each pregnancy.

As soon as I found out that we were having our first baby, I began to feverishly research every stroller, crib, bottle and pacifier known to man. Once I had finalized my top baby products picks, the anxiety and fear set in because I didn’t want to make the wrong decision. What happens if the baby rejects the anatomically correct pacifier? Would the little nugget like the cotton or chenille swaddler better? I wasted so much time worrying and doubting myself that it took six months before I made all of my baby gear choices. No doubt, I could have enjoyed the journey of pregnancy if I wasn’t so concerned if Huggies or Pampers would stop projectile poop leakage.

Like last year, I want to shine a little bit of light on all different sorts of love this February with a Love Letters miniseries. Every Friday I’m featuring posts about love from some fabulous guest bloggers—and they’re not the typical boy meets girl, cue fireworks kind of love story. These stories show that love comes in all different shapes and sizes—and all of them should be celebrated. Today’s post is from Robyna of Chasing His Sunshine and The Mummy and the Minx.

My boys are making valentines. There are red and pink confetti hearts strewn over the floor, having fallen from the kitchen table. Tiny bits of paper curled at the edges and trampled underfoot. Never to make their way to a card.

I gather a few up in my hand and for a short moment, before my boys call my attention back to them, I admire their fragile beauty. These little lost hearts remind me of the son who isn’t here. The one who will never proudly show me a card he has made. The one who will never send his own Valentine, or fall in love, or crash hard out of it. The son who died when he was just two weeks old.

Like last year, I want to shine a little bit of light on all different sorts of love this February with a Love Letters miniseries. Every Friday I’m featuring posts about love from some fabulous guest bloggers—and they’re not the typical boy meets girl, cue fireworks kind of love story. These stories show that love comes in all different shapes and sizes—and all of them should be celebrated. Today’s post is from Ferg of Hapless and Hopeless.

There comes a time when we are all left stranded alone on the intersection of love and life, and you question why the hell you put yourself through so much pain just to experience love. I’m not just talking about the love shared with a partner, but familial relationships and friendships too. Love is multifaceted and penetrates all aspects of our daily lives. As such, we all come to these crossroads at some point and have many tough decisions to make.

The bottom line is love hurts… It really sucks sometimes. Whether it’s the pain of being dumped, having to walk away from a friendship, or even the death of a loved one, you begin to tell yourself that life would be so much simpler if we didn’t love at all. And boy would you be right!

Like last year, I want to shine a little bit of light on all different sorts of love this February with a Love Letters miniseries. Every Friday I’m featuring posts about love from some fabulous guest bloggers—and they’re not the typical boy meets girl, cue fireworks kind of love story. These stories show that love comes in all different shapes and sizes—and all of them should be celebrated. Today’s post is from Katie of The Superfoodery.

Why the person you should be loving this Valentine’s Day is not who you might expect…

This Valentine’s Day marks 10 years since my first cancer diagnosis. I was mid-20s and ‘living large.’ I’d moved across country twice since finishing university. I was moving up the corporate ladder. I had a man, but no responsibilities so life was a pretty awesome party.

Then I turned 27 and my new life—the After Sick life—began.

I fell crazily ill, hospitalized in Intensive Care for weeks. Every organ was biopsied, every medical specialist had a look. Answers were not forthcoming. It was literally months later, when I was living with ambiguity, loaded to the eyeballs on steroids and 45 other daily meds, when I was given the diagnosis on Valentine’s Day. “It’s good news,” my doctor said. “It’s an answer. And we have drugs for it.”