Last week was one of my decidedly un-zen, neurotic roller coaster type of weeks. Have you ever found yourself so completely overwhelmed that someone asks you what your deal is and all you can do is stammer nonsensical half sentences at them? Yeah. That was me.

If I force myself to sit here and think about it, the truth is that all of my feelings of inadequacy were entirely self imposed. I decided early on in the week that I was behind and not accomplishing enough. I can even pinpoint the moment it started.

Last Monday morning I climbed into the car after grocery shopping and strapping the toddler into her seat and looked at the clock. I was ecstatic. It wasn’t even 11 o’clock and I had gotten the girls fed, made sure Sam was dressed and on the bus, worked out, showered, dressed myself and the babe, and done a major grocery shopping trip. I was giving myself imaginary high fives and reaching back to pat myself on the back when reality struck. I hadn’t changed the clock in my car—which meant that instead of almost 11 o’clock it was almost 12 o’clock. Womp, womp, wooooooomp.

Once upon a time there was a girl with a big, fat mouth. She liked to talk and she liked to think that people were listening. She also sort of felt it was her mission in life to make sure that people did things the right way.

This is where the trouble started for the little girl with the big, fat mouth. You see, people don’t like to be told what to do—even if deep down, you’re looking out for their best interest. When someone did something wrong, she felt it was her responsibility to make sure the person knew that what they did wasn’t right. Whether she was trying to protect that person from getting into trouble or she was trying to protect someone else from the trouble the person may have caused, she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

That’s when it started. People would get angry. They would call her bossy or they would say she was a tattletale or a goody two-shoes. The disapproval from her peers mixed together with the devastating loss of her father and created a cocktail that shut the little girl with the big, fat mouth up.

In case you can’t tell yet, the little girl was me. And while I’ve gained my big fat mouth back in some areas of life (my sister and my husband hear it the most), that “bossy” little girl that I once was has been largely stomped out.

Instead, I have a daughter (well, at least one) with a big, fat mouth. Like her mother, she has a strong idea of what is right and what is wrong and she lets people—adults and children alike—know about it.

I would like to take a second today to throw out an invitation. It’s not just any invitation, it’s an invitation to the cool kid’s table. OK, so maybe it’s not actually the cool kid’s table (do cool kids where zebra footie pajamas?). Maybe it’s the table that’s right next to the cool kid’s table. And maybe all the kids sitting there are stealing sideways glances (and sometimes just straight up gaping) at the cool kid’s table while they slowly chew their sandwiches and lick the orange Dorito dust off their fingers.

What I’m trying to say is, come on over. Sit with me. Stay awhile. Spill. your. beans.

Since it’s Valentine’s Day I decided to skip the regular Weekend Links and add my own Love Letter to this month’s series.

I’ve written about my love story ad nauseam, so I thought I’d spare you the details of retelling how we met, what we think of each other and how we manage to not kill each other. Instead, I stumbled upon my wedding vows and thought they were kind of perfect for a day like today.

I became a mother a little bit earlier than most. We were fresh out of college and I had enough of a baby face that the old Irish women in our neighborhood would routinely stop me and (rudely) ask “How old are you?!” For some reason I would humor them and tell them I was 23, which generally made them think twice since they were my age or younger when they welcomed their first bundle of joy.

But I digress.

One of the difficult things about having babies on the early side is that you feel like more of a guinea pig than the typical first-time mom. It’s normal to feel completely out of your element when you first dip your toes into the seemingly shark-infested waters of early parenthood. Everyone does. What can make it even more nerve wracking is feeling like you’re the first.

I mean, obviously, I was nowhere near the first human to ever birth another human. But when you’re the first in your group of friends and the first in your family to have a tiny human burst into your life within the last, oh, 15 years oh so, you feel like you’re navigating uncharted territory.