I’d like you all to know: these boobs of mine were made for feeding babies. Turns out, it’s a talent I didn’t even know I had. Honestly, it caught me off guard.
It all started about five minutes after my first baby was born. They placed him in my arms, and as I was busy staring at his adorable, chubby face, I noticed his tiny little nostrils start to flare. Then—like a baby heat-seeking missile—he crawled his way to my now triple-sized nipple and latched on like a tiny vampire sucking the life out of it.
For the record, I wasn’t breastfed. I missed this section of Lamaze class. And yet—our little Dracula was an A+ student at 7 minutes old.
And once he started, he did not stop. My boobs became full-on dairy machinery. Honestly, back in medieval times, I would’ve made a killing as a wet nurse. I fed all four of my sons this way until they were about 4 months old.
My last son, Oscar, was on a schedule. We had a 3 a.m. nursing date—every night. I’d pick him up at his crib, grab a glass of water, head to the living room, plop down on our brown couch, and turn on the Style Network. I became fully obsessed with a show called Shabby Chic. The host, Rachel Ashwell, was basically my maternal muse. She wore all white, had white furniture. Walked barefoot on her farm while her children picked wildflowers. She had chickens. She gathered eggs. She baked bread. Every. Single. Day. Muffins. Scones. Rustic buns. And placed them on display in a glass cake stand on her kitchen island. Everything she owned was in glass containers.
And I decided right then—that is the mother I wanted to be.
I emptied the pantry like I was staging a suburban revolution. I declared, “From now on, all the Cheez-Its, Apple Jacks, and Cocoa Puffs are going in glass jars!” Because I needed one more step in my already chaotic life.
Then I turned to Don and said, “We’re painting all the walls white. We are getting white couches. White rugs!”
This is the moment where he—very reasonably—said, “No.”
So naturally, I felt that all my dreams had been shattered. “But I NEED THIS,” I explained, with postpartum-level conviction. “I want to focus on making our house Shabby Chic!”
He compromised. We got a white couch cover.
We had four boys under the age of 7. And two Labrador retrievers.
The white couch cover didn’t even last my maternity leave. Even I could see that was a terrible idea.
But the one piece of the dream I clung to was the food. The boys always came to me when they were hungry. And Shabby Chic Rachel made bread every day. Her kids probably had a sourdough starter in their lunchboxes.
The last time I made a truly perfect meal for my sons was when I nursed them and my brain wasn’t even involved.
And that, my friends, is the cruel joke the universe played on me and my boys.
Not for lack of trying. I’ve attempted muffins. So many muffins. It’s a wound, honestly. One of the things I feel most insecure about as a mom. Everyone talks about their mom’s home cooking. Even Eminem rapped about his “mom’s spaghetti” in his 1999 hit Lose Yourself.
When Don and I got married, his mom gifted me a giant binder full of all his favorite family recipes. She had good intentions. Ironically, my mom gave Don a very nice grill.
When I get down about this, my family tries to cheer me up—not by listing meals I’ve nailed, but by saying things like, “Mama, you have all our favorite meals saved in apps on your phone. You even had dinner delivered to our house when you were in France.”
Which is true. I did. And when they have company, I have their friends’ favorite orders in my phone too.
So when and if my sons get married, am I supposed to send their spouses a Google Doc with DoorDash links?
When the boys got a little older, we started renting our house out for Notre Dame home games. We deep-cleaned everything to make it look like six humans and two dogs didn’t live there. And for a finishing touch, I started leaving a fancy coffee cake on a glass cake stand with a note: “Enjoy the coffee cake!”
I may have crumbled it slightly to make it look homemade. But at no point did I ever claim I baked it.
And yet… one guest left a review online that read: “The house was beautiful, great location—but Noelle’s homemade coffee cake was worth the trip.”
Well… shit.
I wasn’t going to correct her. That would’ve been rude.
So the next time we rented it, I went to buy the same fancy expensive coffee cake. But Martin’s Super Market was out. So I drove to three different Martin’s stores to find it. Disposed of the packaging in the neighbor’s recycling bin. And you guessed it—the next guest also raved online about “Noelle’s homemade coffee cake,” and even messaged me asking for the recipe.
I said, “Thank you, that means so much! It’s my grandma’s coffee cake.”
Which is 100% true. That’s literally the name of the brand.
When I told my dad this (God rest his soul), he nearly choked from laughing so hard. Because he knew—I couldn’t bake to save my life.
Every season, when we’d list the house, my sons would ask: “Did you remember to make your coffee cake?”
They know. They’ve seen me try to bake. They tasted it. And it’s not great.
What I became obsessed with wasn’t baking. It was this idea of the perfect mom. And when I failed at even one small part of it, it felt like I was failing them entirely.
Just the other night, Oscar—who is now 15—and I were both awake at 3 a.m., unable to sleep. I got two glasses of water, walked into the living room, and we plopped down on that same brown couch. We talked about the thoughts keeping us up. And then we both decided, after saying the thoughts out loud, that they weren’t worth losing sleep over—and we should head back to bed.
As mothers—or humans—we’ll get a lot wrong. But the biggest thing I’ve learned?
The people we love don’t need perfect meals or white couches or muffins in glass jars. They just need us.
Our kids need to be seen for who they really are, not who we want them to be. To be heard and really listen to what they are saying, not what we want to hear. And when they feel that, they will grow.
Traits that all of us are born with and can master with a little practice.
And maybe, once in a while indulge in a really, really good coffee cake.
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