It's Not Okay.

It's #notokay.

It's #notokay.

In ninth grade, a male friend of mine tackled me on a bed during a party and "pretended" to hump me. I laughed it off because I was embarrassed.

While interning with the Minnesota Twins, a pitcher from another team held two fingers to his mouth, wagging his tongue between them while two teammates spewed disgusting language at me in Spanish. I understood every word. At the time, I was escorting two 6-year-old children to the field. No bigs! 

In college, a "friend" of mine figured out where I was going every weekend night, then creepily followed me home every evening. Once I got home, he'd call me four or five times throughout the night. It happened for a full semester, even after I asked him to stop.

When I was 23, a very large man approached me at a bar two blocks from my house. He asked if he could buy me a drink. I said I no thank you. He wouldn't stop talking to me, bragging about his job and his Escalade. Eventually, I said I needed to leave. He offered to give me a ride home. I said no. He then got angry, and started shouting at me. A bouncer walked me home. 

During the first Obama term, my friend was under consideration for a job at the White House. The FBI ran an extensive background check, which included interviewing me, her college roommate. After an hour-long meeting with a giant man from the FBI, he said some 'flattering' things to me and that he "really hoped we could go out sometime." He'd already told me he was married. He knew my name, where I lived and worked, what I drove, and probably my social security number. I laughed uncomfortably.

A few years ago, I was working, alone, in my office. It was 4 in the afternoon and an acquaintance came in and sat down. He asked how things were going-- about work, my life, my boyfriend (now husband). He then told me he and his wife hadn't been intimate in a while and wondered if he should "look elsewhere for sex," and winked. Again, I laughed uncomfortably. 

And here's the worst of the lot:

On the night of family birthday party, I went to bed early. I awoke to a 33-year-old man standing over my bed, drunk, looking at me. I immediately got up, and left my room. I wasn't sure what to do. I was 16. 

I didn't want to "ruin" the party going on in our basement. So instead of telling my dad or one of my many uncles in our basement (which I should have done), I politely sat at the top of our stairs for twenty minutes, chatting with this creep who'd walked into a teenager's room, uninvited.

He told me that if I'd come visit him in Minneapolis, he'd buy me and my friends alcohol. He also complimented me on how good my friends and I looked in our swimsuits the last time we'd hosted him at our cabin.

Eventually, he went to the bathroom. I grabbed a blanket and pillow, and slept behind my dad's desk in his office. 

Two years later, that same guy was serving an eight-year prison sentence for raping his 12-year-old niece. 

* * *

I don't have one female friend who doesn't have a story like this. 

Most have many. Personally, I've lost count. I'm fortunate that nothing turned physical. Many of my female friends have not been so lucky.

These guys are everywhere. They're in our neighborhoods, at out place of work, in our homes. You might think "locker room" chat is harmless. It's just guys being guys, right? But for some men, it's not just chat. Want proof? Ask the woman you care about most. She'll have a story like this and it will break your heart.

Women already do a lot to protect themselves.

We don't walk alone after dark (which in Minnesota is over 12 hours of the day in winter). We think twice about footwear before going out-- could I run away in these? We walk to our car with 911 already dialed into our phones, just in case. 

As women, we learn to laugh off sexual harassment. We're scared of what might happen if we don't. We also learn early on that saying something usually results in a big, fat wad of nothing.

Oh, he's harmless!
He's just joking. Where's your sense of humor?
You're overreacting.
I'll talk to him later. 
[never talks to him later].

Men, it's your turn. 

If you overhear your buddy objectifying women, don't be his Billy Bush. Call him out. Laughing it off or ignoring it says this behavior is okay.   

Tell your daughters, sisters, wives, female friends and coworkers that they need to speak up. When they do, take them seriously. Do something, even if it makes you uncomfortable.  

Teach your sons about consent. That women don't owe them anything, ever, no matter what. 

As I write this, I'm sitting next to my perfect 13-week-old daughter, knowing it's just a matter of time before she has stories like this of her own. It's inevitable, unless we all collectively decide it's not okay. 

Because it's not okay. 

How to Make Winter More Tolerable: A Kickstarter Story

Namakan Fur is on at!

Namakan Fur is on at!

In  years ago, I started a company with two friends.

People say that's not always a smart thing to do. But we threw caution to the wind and did it. And after one million hours of planning, our Namakan Fur Kickstarter campaign is finally live!

Launching a Kickstarter is nerve-racking. 

After literal years of talking, then writing a business plan, prototyping, followed by a terrible case of analysis-paralysis, we're making our idea public. And there's all sorts of stress that goes with that. 

What if it flops?

What if no one "gets" our product?

What if it's too stressful on our friendship?

What if we succeed??? Must we all quit our jobs? How do you run a company?!

How do I do anything with a baby?

I'm sure I'm not the only one who struggles with "what if we succeed"? In fact, I think that plays a big role in why people don't follow through with their own brilliant business ideas. Because what if it fails... but what if it succeeds? Luckily, I'm working with two super-smart people. Between the three of us, we'll figure it out.

We've gotten this far already.

Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

GIF-tastic! | Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

GIF-tastic! | Namakan Fur's Original Faux Fur Ruff

And now we need your help. 

The first 48 hours of any Kickstarter campaign are crucial. The more backers that donate (in ANY amount) within the first two days, the more Kickstarter is more likely to promote Namakan. Even if you only have $5 to spare, every little bit counts!
As a bonus for our early bird supporters: we’re offering our ruffs at a discount for the first 48 hours. Weeeeee!

Namakan Fur's Rosie Ruff

Namakan Fur's Rosie Ruff

Looks good on this vest, right?

Looks good on this vest, right?

It wouldn't be a Kickstarter without a cool GIF! | Namakan Fur's Rosie Ruff

It wouldn't be a Kickstarter without a cool GIF! | Namakan Fur's Rosie Ruff

We’d love to have your help spreading the word.

Via Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Myspace, email or word mouth-- we appreciate it all. Can’t think of anything to say? No prob! Copy, paste and post what we've written below.
With the right gear, there’s no such thing as too cold. Namakan Fur created the first-ever faux fur ruff that attaches to any hood with magnets—which will keep you both warm and stylish! Support their Kickstarter campaign here: #welovewinter
With the right gear, there’s no such thing as too cold. Support @NamakanFur on @Kickstarter. #welovewinter
Feel free to use any of the images we've posted on our social feeds, or have included in this post to promote our campaign. People are much more likely to click on something with an image. It’s just science!
You can track our progress by following us on Facebook and Instagram.

Thanks for your help! I'll just be over here for the next 29 days, sweating profusely and trying to quell my anxiety with a glass of wine or two. Who am I kidding... I can't even drink half a glass of wine right now without the room spinning. So I'll quell my anxiety with a half glass of wine.

At least I have awesome friends sharing the anxiety with me. 

* * *

All the Reasons I've Cried Since Having a Baby

Having a baby can be incredibly emotional-- even at the strangest times. Here's a few reasons I've been moved to tears since July 14, 2016. 

Having a baby can be incredibly emotional-- even at the strangest times. Here's a few reasons I've been moved to tears since July 14, 2016. 

Arlene Helen Katt was born on July 14, 2016. One of the biggest things I remember a nurse telling me in the hospital was that I would be very swollen for the weeks after birth. She assured me my body would rid itself of the extra fluid by way of sweat, pee and maybe a few tears. 

A few tears?!

I've never been much of a crier, but after this baby... wow. Commercials, opening credits to movies, just looking at my baby can be enough to start the waterworks. It's a classic case of the baby blues. I started writing down all the reasons I've cried in the past six weeks. Some understandable, others downright ridiculous.

Without further ado, here's all the reasons I've cried since having a baby.


* * * 

Because my husband cried and exclaimed, "She's so cute!" the moment he saw her.

Because my mother-in-law cried when we Skyped with her from the hospital.

Because I had an excruciating headache for six days post-birth and "just want to enjoy my baby!"

Because the nurse I had for the last two nights at the hospital sucked.

Because one of the other nurses I had was so encouraging and helpful.

Because when our friends and family held her, I was so proud. 

Because I heard the new Wilco song. I don't even know what it's about! I just watched the video and started crying again! It's just too much. 

Because I watched Adventures in Babysitting and the opening credits killed me. 

Because, many times, I've though that I love our baby "too much."

Because when I watch my husband hold our baby, it melts my heart.

Because I watched this McDonald's commercial:

Because a home care nurse in her 50s came to our house and said that she feels bad for all of us new moms because we're unnecessarily bombarded with information and high expectations. I agreed.

Because of the Olympics.

Because of the news. Pretty much all of it aside from the weather. Why is the news so sad?

Because of this episode of the Longest Shortest Time podcast

Because one day, our little girl will leave us and go to college.

Because I'm tired.

Because sometimes when I feed our baby, I am sure her mouth is full of razorblades.

Because I haven't left the house all day.

Because I haven't taken a shower since Monday and it's Wednesday night.

Because the receptionist at our pediatrician's office wasn't helpful. 

Because I want to give the baby a bottle and the lactation consultant told us not to.

Because I gave the baby a bottle even though the lactation consultant told us not to.

Because sometimes I have to use a nipple shield to breastfeed my baby, even though experts say you shouldn't.

Because I was so relieved when a bunch of other moms-- people I know who I think are great moms-- said they, too, used a nipple shield. Some of them for many months! 

PS This is a nipple shield.

Because the baby wasn't gaining weight fast enough.

Because I had to take the baby to Children's Hospital (she's fine), saw a bunch of sick kids and thought about how fortunate we are to have a healthy baby.

Because, as a joke, I said I was going to make a  baby picture slideshow set to Amy Grant's "Baby, Baby." And then I listened to that song because I thought it'd be funny, but then I just cried.

Because a friend told me how her teenage daughter was being a brat, and then I thought of how my daughter will sometimes hate my guts. 

Because I watched someone's wedding video. I don't even know them. 

Because sometimes my dog seems so, so, sooo sad. 

Because sometimes my dog seems to love the baby. 

Because my friend told me she was pregnant. 

Because I was so scared that I wasn't going to be a good mom, or like being a mom, and I actually love it. 

Because everyone said it's different with your own kids and they were right. 

Because I wrote this blog post. 

Because I read this blog post to my husband and he cried, too. 

* * *

Please feel free to share the craziest reason you've cried (baby related or not) in the comments. 

I should also note here that there is a big difference between the baby blues and postpartum depression. If you think you may have the latter, there is so much help available. Please talk to someone asap. Read this now.


How to Trim a Baby's Nails

A new parent's biggest nightmare: trimming a baby's nails.

A new parent's biggest nightmare: trimming a baby's nails.

With a new baby, everything is scary. 

Driving. Leaving the house. Folding laundry six feet away from your sleeping baby who is totally breathing. She is breathing, right? I'm just going to go check really quick. But I'm pretty certain there's one task that strikes fear in the hearts of all new parents: clipping your newborn's fingernails.

We welcomed baby Arlene Helen Katt on July 14. She's 7lbs 9 oz of adorableness... with one exception.

She was born wielding 10 tiny weapons.

Like all babies, her itty bitty fingernails are paper thin, and yet so sharp you'll need to be peeled off the ceiling after one minor poke-- usually on your naked boob as you're trying to figure out breastfeeding and already sobbing in pain. I thought about cutting them a lot, but using clippers seems too risky. So I Google "trim baby nails" and learned that you can file a baby's nails, or even bite them with your teeth. I tried both, and neither really worked.  

However, once the baby horribly scratches her face, you realize you're the parent and keeping the kid safe is your job. 

Time to trim the nails or call CPS on yourself. 

About a week after her birth, I finally mustered the guts to trim baby Arlene's nails. We ended up really liking curved cuticle scissors (these ones are perfect). They're easier to control, and control is key when you're trying to not physically and emotionally scar your child for life. We later discovered it was easier for the person who was holding the baby to trim her nails.  

Here's what happened when I attempted to trim our baby's talons. I didn't even cry! And bonus points to me for posting a video of myself 11 days after having a c-section, swollen as can be and barely able to move. Oh, the things we do for kids!

Doing most things with a baby scares the crap out of me, but that's been the driving force behind Hey Eleanor all along. If you have a suggestion of a scary task to tackle with a baby, share it in the comments. Flying cross-country, leaving her overnight with a babysitter... I am alllll ears. 

On a somewhat related note, remember press-on nails?

* * *


How You Give Birth Really Doesn't Matter

Do you think this monkey talked about how she gave birth? Probably.

Do you think this monkey talked about how she gave birth? Probably.

Tomorrow, I become a mom.

A lot of people say I became a mom when I became pregnant. But aside from the fact that I haven't eaten raw fish in nine months and said no to Dolly Parton AND Metallica concerts (both coming within weeks of this baby's arrival), I haven't felt like a parent.

Parents, especially to little kids, don't get go to the gym when they want. They can't just wing their day, maybe working for a few hours in the morning, then meeting a friend for lunch. They don't go on spur of the moment dates with their significant others. They don't get to sleep in until 9am. I've enjoyed all these things and more for the last 34 years.

Tomorrow afternoon, everything changes.

Our baby is breech (head up, butt down, legs constantly kicking my left side). She's not budging, so she's coming out in the operating room.

When I've told people about this upcoming, very medicated birth, I've had a lot of people ask,

"Are you disappointed?"

I'm not.

I kinda feel relieved. There are no guarantees in childbirth, but with a scheduled c-section, at least the element of surprise is mostly ruled out. I have a date and time, a good idea of what to expect and what recovery should look like. Does it feel like cheating? A little bit, but it feels a lot better than having a breech birth the old fashioned way, which often left baby and/or mom dead. So yay for modern medicine! 

That said, I've been mindful of sharing my c-section news. 

Once you're pregnant (heck, even way before depending on who you hang out with), you'll quickly learn there's a lot of conversation about birthing. Are you having the baby at home, at a birthing center or in a hospital? Drugs or no drugs? Doula or no doula? Midwife or doctor? Water birth or scheduled c-section? And let's be honest: no matter what your personal answer is to any of these questions, you'll feel judged.

Birth is regarded as grand finale. 9.5 months of training, culminating in human physiology's greatest marathon. Moms write elaborate plans explaining exactly how the race will go, how much or little intervention they'd like, and how they want to cross that finish line, down to the music they want playing over the loud speakers. 

That's fine, but why do we spend so much time talking about this stuff? 

I'm pretty sure birth is the easy part.

No matter how you do it, you most likely will be surrounded by people who deliver babies every day. They know exactly what to do, exactly how to fix problems, exactly what to anticipate next. There are only a few major interstates barreling toward Destination Birth. But once you hit parenthood, it's alllll spaghetti junction.  

I've had so many new parents say to me that they were so caught up in the birth stuff that they barely even thought about breastfeeding, or sleep schedules, let alone being a parent for the next 5, 10, 30, 50 years. It reminds me a lot of people who get so entangled in wedding planning that it's not until the vows have been said that they realize, oh shit, I'm married to that guy! Sure, planning a wedding is fun and all, but it's just one day in what's supposed to be a lifetime. 

Having kids is the same, only there are no backsies.

So I say have your baby in a warm bath in your living room. Or on a cold, sterile table in a hospital on the day of your choice. Or at a birthing center while huffing laughing gas with your entire family looking on. Or in a hospital bed, completely numb from the waist down. Or in a galvanized tub in the woods with nothing but the stars as your midwife and the moon as your doula. Do it whatever way you want.

Because guess what?

It's not about the birth, it's about the baby. Who turns into a toddler, who then becomes a kid, who morphs into a teenager, who later becomes a 20-something and then 30-something and maybe a parent themselves, and then one day picks out your nursing home. 

Yeah, I'm scared about having a baby cut out of my body tomorrow afternoon. But that's nothing compared to the fact that tomorrow I meet the person I'll love more than anything, who'll inevitably expand and sometimes break my heart. A person my husband and I will be in charge of shaping and caring about, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

It's a huge responsibility, and while it scares the ever-loving shit out of me, I hear it's amazing. But I don't really know about that yet because today, I'm just Molly. 

Tomorrow, I'm mom.

* * * 

Like this mom crap I've been writing lately? Here's more of it-- like the 25 things that scare me about having a baby, plus 28 things that will make your pregnancy better.

Rather read non-mom crap? Here's a post about the time I went to a concert by myself

Giving birth is really just the beginning.

Giving birth is really just the beginning.

Date Whoever You Want, but Marry an Engineer.

Date whoever you want, but marry an engineer.

Date whoever you want, but marry an engineer.

I remember talking with a friend in high school about boys. Because obviously, what else do you talk about at 17? (or 27... or 37...)

We both decided it would behoove us to date a wide range of people.

Why not date a starving artist? A jock? A nerd? An older man? Some dude with an accent? I'm inherently curious by people who are different than me, and my 20s seemed like the time to date whoever the heck I wanted.

So I did.

And you know what? Dating through that lens was really hard. I spent nearly a full decade looking for people who were interesting to me, but not a good fit for me.

There was Art Guy who actually wore a pair of Levi's featuring a two-foot shlong he'd screen printed on them himself (Does it surprise you that the same guy also did this?). There was Long Distance Relationship Guy who always took my calls, but could never call me. There was PHD guy, who was a great conversationalist, but then disappeared for days on end (turns out he had a major secret drinking problem).

These relationships always made me feel unsettled, sad and crappy about myself. But I didn't know better.

I believed relationships were inherently challenging.

Most of the ones I grew up around sure seemed that way. I knew very few married couples who struck me as happy. My parents, many of their friends and family were either divorced or constantly complained about their relationships. Much of the marriage advice I absorbed was to "wait as long as you can to get married," "get a prenup" or"don't even bother." One adult person actually told me, a tweenager at the time, that they "hoped I married an asshole so we'd have lots to talk about when I got older."

Nice, right?

It took me years to realize that I was actually ashamed about wanting a healthy, happy relationship. At 27, I decided to actively seek one. I had awesome relationships with family, friends and coworkers-- why should a boyfriend be any different? So, I did something really revolutionary and actually thought about what I wanted in a partner. Then, I wrote it down. 

A few of the 30+ listed items?

  • Is kind and courteous 
  • Likes my friends and family; wants to spend time with them
  • I like their friends and family; want to spend time with them
  • Has car
  • Can fix things
  • Calls/texts me back

Some things on the list might strike you as duh, that's the bare minimum, but as someone who dated four guys in a row who didn't have cars (they claimed it was for environmental purposes or they just "liked" biking or taking the bus... but hey, can I borrow your car again, please?), getting basic was needed. 

One week after I wrote this list, I started dating Josh. 

He wasn't like the other guys. First of all, he's a super-smart engineer, and passionate about his job. He picked me up for our first date in a vehicle he owns (!). He's ambitious. Kind. Funny. Responsible. Thoughtful. Handy. And he really, really likes me. Josh hit on every single one of the points I listed, and so many more I never even knew I wanted.  

While things haven't always been easy for us (like the time he moved to Mexico for two years, nbd), we've always been able to talk openly and honestly. I've never had a romantic relationship like that. With Josh, I always feel heard and supported. He sees me for who I am, and loves me because of it (or maybe in spite of it).

I love him sosososo much. 

Today, Josh and I are celebrating our second year of marriage (and about eight years together?). Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it's not like 50 years or anything, but it's something. The biggest lesson I've learned? 

With the right person, love doesn't have to be so hard. 

Yes, hard things happen. We've had our fair share of hurdles, and I know there are biggies in our future-- stuff I can't even imagine. And next month, things are about to get a whole lot realer when we add a baby to the mix. But I feel confident knowing that I picked the right person to slog though the tough stuff with.

So for anyone out there who may be lost in the dating world: Kiss all the frogs (or DJs or guys without cars or artists with shlong jeans) you want. But marry an engineer. At least that's what worked for me. 

* * *

PS Here's the photos from our boxing gym wedding two years ago. Makes me smile.