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I never set out to be a Monica.
In fact, if you’d known me five years ago… before the diaper bags, the bedtime battles, and the ever-growing collection of reusable snack containers you might’ve pegged me as a total Phoebe.
Free-spirited, a little scatterbrained, always chasing the next creative whim.
But somewhere along the way maybe between organizing the craft supplies by theme and prepping the week’s snacks into tiny silicone cups – it hit me: I’ve crossed over. I’m a Monica now.
And the wildest part? I kind of love it.
Let me explain.
Before motherhood, I was more of a Phoebe.
Wild hair, mismatched socks, spontaneously booking weekend camping trips, painting by moonlight, singing made-up songs to my cat.
Chaos was my love language, and I wore it like a badge of honor.
But then I had my son, and slowly almost sneakily the transformation began.
At first, it was subtle.
I started labeling the bins in our tiny kitchen (okay, fine, I color-coded them). I created a snack drawer that would make Martha Stewart weep with joy.
I found myself saying things like “That’s not where the glue sticks go” and “We do not mix play dough colors.”
And yesterday? I vacuumed twice. In one day.
What has happened to me?
I’ve become the keeper of routines.
The planner of crafts.
The snack supervisor, mess manager, and nap-time enforcer. I’m the mom who checks the weather five times before packing the park bag and always has a spare outfit in the car “just in case.” I literally have a mini first-aid kit in my fanny pack.
Monica had a big, squishy heart under all that perfectionism.
She was the one who hosted everyone, made things cozy, and remembered your birthday and your favorite sandwich.
She cared. So much.
And that’s how I feel about motherhood.
I care so much.
Maybe too much sometimes.
But it’s coming from this place of wanting to make life feel safe and special. I want my child to have warm memories of pillow forts, bedtime rituals, cinnamon toast cut into stars, and the sound of me humming while I tidy up his latest tornado of toys.
Sure, I still crave spontaneity.
I still doodle on receipts and sing weird songs about broccoli.
My inner Phoebe is still in there, dancing barefoot in the kitchen.
But now she’s got a calendar reminder for library storytime and a backup bottle of sunscreen in her tote.
Being a Monica doesn’t mean I’ve lost my magic.
It just means I’ve found new ways to channel it – into routines, into cozy predictability, into the little rituals that make childhood feel like a soft, familiar song.
So yes, I’m a Monica now.
A slightly chaotic, sometimes frazzled, craft-supply-hoarding Monica.
And honestly? It’s kind of beautiful.
