I knew that at six weeks pregnant, my baby, the size of a lentil, was already forming it’s nose, mouth and ears, and that it’s heart was beating twice as fast as mine.

I knew that at six weeks old, my baby would start being awake for longer periods of time, and that it was a good time to support his sensory development with lullabies and classical music. (I chose reggae).

At six months, I knew that my baby might roll over for the first time, that I could introduce finger foods, and that it was time to start childproofing our home.

But no one told me that at six years old, my baby would be bullied in school or that his best friends would start to exclude him at recess. I never knew that a first grader could start to question his own worth, value and intelligence.

I never knew that I would love my baby so much it hurt.

When my husband and I made the decision to start a family, we envisioned rocking a tiny version of ourselves in our arms. We knew to expect sleepless nights, dirty diapers and a living room that more closely resembled Toys R Us than Pottery Barn. When I got pregnant, we started dreaming up baby names, taking pictures of my expanding midriff, and tracking which autumn vegetable our unborn baby matched in size. What To Expect When You’re Expecting was perched upon my nightstand; the bookmark one chapter ahead so I could anticipate what would happen next. I counted kicks, and wondered whether those little feet belonged to a boy or a girl.

On the day our son was born, our biggest decision was whether to name him Teddy or Gus. We felt prepared to keep our child happy, healthy and safe. “All you have to do right now is love and feed your baby,” said the nurse in the Star Wars scrubs as she escorted me toward the sliding doors. “There is nothing else he needs.”

So far, I thought as I held my swaddled newborn closely and inhaled his Johnson & Johnson-scented skin, I’ve got this motherhood thing down.

While those first weeks, months and years were far from easy, at the end of the day I could crawl into bed feeling like I was doing something right. I followed my instincts, had my moms’ group on speed dial, and Googled articles about diaper rash and potty training. We bought organic milk and didn’t give him peanut butter until his first birthday. We read him stories and sang Van Morrison songs off-key. “Tummy time” was a topic of conversation.

These days, it’s more complicated. I lie in bed questioning whether I said the right thing when my son told me that he was being teased or had to sit on the “buddy bench” because he had no one to play with. I wonder if we chose the right school; the right town, even. I agonize over why other kids find my boy an easy target. I plot an imaginary revenge that I know I can never carry out.

The parenting books never tell you that when your child hurts, you hurt. Continue reading here.

This story was originally published on Huffington Post on August 15, 2017.

Who will you be today?

I am not domestic. The only thing piled higher than the laundry is the stack of partially-flipped-through catalogs that I refuse to get rid of. Recipes that require more time than tacos or more prep than pasta are out of the question. But on Monday, I take out the recycling before it reaches the ceiling. I fold the laundry and put it away. And I empty the dishwasher in one fell swoop instead of eight interrupted stages.

I am not a perfect mom. I’m tired, and I yell sometimes. I don’t really feel like playing outside if it’s below 70 degrees, and one more round of Zingo Bingo might put me over the edge. But on Tuesday, I don’t go to work so I can spend the day with my daughter. My kids get themselves dressed without being asked. After school, they don’t fight over whether to play Legos or light sabers. I make quesadillas; they tell me about recess and who fell off the monkey bars. Before bed, they surprise us with cards that say, “I love you” in bright orange crayon.

I am not a full-time employee. I work half-time and have no idea how I ever worked more. But on Wednesday, I put on mascara and put in a solid nine-hour workday. I have back-to-back meetings and catch up on email. I write two press releases and present a marketing plan to the Board of Trustees. I munch kale salad in my cubicle, feeling productive and professional.

I am not an athlete. I never played a sport for more than a season and was never really part of a team. No one has ever used the term “coordinated” to describe me, and it wasn’t until college that I realized my body wasn’t going to tone itself. But on Thursday, I lace up my sneakers, put on my favorite Van Halen t-shirt, and go for a run. I listen to Katy Perry and Kelly Clarkson, and (despite my nine-minute mile) feel like a gazelle.

I’m not a great friend. I forget birthdays (unless I happen to catch them on Facebook). I can’t stand talking on the phone, and have a perpetual pile of books and baby items that I’ve been meaning to return for months. I owe countless dinner invitations and thank you notes. But on Friday, I head into the city with two of my best girlfriends. We go to the MoMa and have a long, leisurely brunch. We pop into more than a few boutiques and drink tequila cocktails with dinner. We talk about our kids, our husbands, our favorite books and dream vacations. We dance all night to an 80’s yacht rock band, beaming.

I am not an activist. I rarely make time to sign petitions or take a stand. But yesterday, as I marched with tens of thousands through the rainy streets of San Francisco, I overcame my fear of crowds and Boston Marathon bombers. I got off of my comfortable couch, trading reality TV for reality. I yelled and smiled and high-fived people I’d never met. I felt proud of myself, proud of my country, and — finally after months of disillusionment — proud of my fellow Americans.

I am not a writer. I’m too tired at night and too busy during the day. I haven’t written anything over four pages since my college thesis. But today, I crawl into bed with my laptop and a cup of tea. I somehow feel the need to express that, while we can’t be all things to all people at all times, we can be anything we want to be, depending on the day.

About the Author: Liza Bennigson is a mom of two and the Content Marketing Manager for the Teen Mental Health Initiative at Children’s Health Council. She enjoys running, writing, making people feel good, and spontaneous dance parties with her kids. Find her on Medium and Twitter @LizaBennigson.

Originally published at www.huffingtonpost.com on January 23, 2017.

How much of ourselves should we sacrifice for our families?

The end of my maternity leave was marked with a big red “X” on the kitchen calendar: January 12, 2011. I cried during Christmas dinner, sobbed through New Year’s Eve. The anticipation was unbearable. I had spent every minute with my baby boy for five months; how on earth would I abandon him to someone else?

But being a stay-at-home-mom was never an option. My husband and I had made the decision to raise a family in the Bay Area, which left no choice but to be a two-income household. On the day marked with the big red “X,” I returned to my job in the development office at an independent school, and never looked back.

In some ways, life was easier back then. Sure, I had frequent bouts of working mom’s guilt, and often wondered why I was paying someone else to raise my son. But then he turned two, and I was suddenly okay with trading tantrums for time at the office. I loved my job, enjoyed having a reason to brush my hair in the morning, and relished the adult interaction. I could go to the bathroom by myself and eat lunch in peace. Daycare closed at 4:30 pm sharp, and I’d be the one sprinting across campus at 4:29.

It was my favorite time of day. My son’s face would light up when he saw me, his bottom teeth jutting out like a Jack-o-Lantern’s. Three years later, my daughter would squeal as she walked like a drunken sailor toward my outstretched arms. The pang of missing the latest milestone was alleviated by the fact that I’d also escaped seven dirty diapers and two failed nap attempts.

Daycare was closed during school breaks, and I would get a glimpse of full-time motherhood. It was hard. So much harder than planning a work event or writing a grant proposal. “I’m not cut out for this,” I’d think to myself. I didn’t need to admit it, though, because school would faithfully start again the following Monday. While there were myriad times when I would have preferred playing Candy Land to planning Career Day, this working mom thing was really working for us.

Continue reading here.

Originally published at www.huffingtonpost.com on January 12, 2017.

Until we made it official, I had to keep my new love a secret.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/laid-off-from-love_us_57e31d0de4b00267764fb8ce?

It’s no surprise that “winter holidays” account for the largest U.S. spending of the year. But did you know that Mother’s Day comes in second, with families spending, on average, nearly $200 on their beloved moms?

I have two things to say on the subject: First, I’m pretty sure the handmade picture frame I get from my son every year costs nowhere close to that. Second, what if the gift that moms really want this year costs nothing at all?

I know what you’re thinking, “Oh, how sweet, they just want time with their families!” Nope, wrong again: we actually want to be alone.

Don’t get me wrong, I hope my three- and five-year-olds climb into bed with me at dawn (as long as they don’t wake me up). Later, we can cuddle and watch cartoons while I sip coffee and my husband makes pancakes. After breakfast, we’ll head off on a hike with my in-laws; the kids will hold my hands and hunt for endangered blue butterflies. Marlowe will give me the card she’s been furtively coloring and I can finally open the mystery gift that Teddy’s been working so hard on at school. (I hope it’s a picture frame).

Finally, it’s time for my husband to give me his gift. Hold the heart shaped necklace, babe — I just want time.

As a working mom, time to myself is not something I have much of. My friends who are full-time moms have even less. Any spare time I do have is plagued with guilt and to-dos. “I should pick up the kids early today.” “I have got to get that email out.” “We have no food in the house.” “I still haven’t signed Teddy up for gymnastics, RSVP’d for that party, or bought my sister a birthday present.” “That load of laundry has been in the dryer since Wednesday.” “What am I going to make for dinner tonight?” “The house looks like a bomb went off.” “Have I really not exercised at all this week?” “I wonder what’s new on Instagram?”

Granted, I am extraordinarily lucky to work part-time, from home, with flexible hours. But the repercussion is a permanently conflicted, distracted world where there is no separation between family and work and there are always 19 things I could possibly doing at one time.

My kids are to die for — healthy and beautiful and carefree and curious. But they also have no sense of personal space and kind of think the world revolves around them. Typical, I am told, though still wearing. Teddy barges in on me in the bathroom to ask me where his paper airplane is. Marlowe sits on my lap at the computer and tries to type her name on the keyboard. Teddy leaves a trail of scraps from his latest art project all over the house. Marlowe requests a snack or drink or story or band-aid seemingly every 30 seconds. They both want to show me the spider they found outside or the new trick they learned at school. (Now.)

But this Sunday, the stories and spiders will have to wait. I just want time. I want to wander the Target aisles, alone. I want to read a book in my room, savoring the quiet. I want to paint my nails and take a nap while they dry. (They will take an exceptionally long time to dry.) I want to take a shower, uninterrupted, with the shower radio on full blast. If I’m lucky, a Justin Bieber song will come on. I want to blow-dry my hair so I can’t hear the kids fighting over Beanie Boos.

By evening, I’ll be ready to read stories and come see that (dead) bug they caught in a jar. We can have a paper airplane contest and jump on the trampoline. Heck, I might even be up for a little Candy Land. I’ll be restored, refreshed and revitalized — the greatest gift of all.

So save your $200, my loves. All I want is time.

Happy Mother’s Day!

About the author: Liza Bennigson is a mom of two and a freelance writer and content marketer. She enjoys running, writing, online shopping, and dance parties with her kids.

If you’ve ever flipped through an Us Weekly and scoffed at the “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” spread, you’re not alone. Jennifer Garner pumps her own gas! Sarah Jessica Parker picks out produce! Orlando Bloom sips Starbucks!

Well it’s time to turn the tides, as I explore in my first installment of: “Us: We’re Just Like Stars!” as I examine simple, affordable, no-obligation products and services to make you feel like a celebrity. After a day at my desk and an evening of ultimatums, this #startupmom is ready for some pampering. And in this on-demand economy, it’s easier than ever to get the star treatment!

1. Instacart — Dane Cook might make his own trips to Whole Foods, but you won’t find me there. Bringing two young children to the grocery store might be considered a form of torture in some countries. In the cart, out of the cart, hanging on the cart, adding forbidden items to the cart, pushing their own cart, smashing into other peoples’ carts…all while you’re trying to remember recipes and read labels and compare prices and make sure no one ends up in the ER.

The solution? Instacart. Shop online at your convenience. Compare prices at several stores. Read nutrition facts. GET A PERSONAL SHOPPER TO GO TO THE GROCERY STORE FOR YOU AND FIND EVERYTHING AND DELIVER IT TO YOUR DOORSTEP!

I can’t even tell you how much Instacart has changed my life. Sure, some stores charge more for some items than they do in-store (but not Whole Foods or Target!) Tips are optional, but I always reward good service, and that can tack on an additional 10–20%. But that more than makes up for the cart-full of snacks I end up having to buy to keep my kids from losing it in the cereal aisle. Because I have an Express Membership to Instacart ($149/year), my delivery over $35 is FREE! I don’t think I’ve ever spent less than $35 at the grocery store. (Isn’t that how much a gallon of organic milk costs these days?) I just placed an order from Costco, and my items will be on my doorstep in as little as two hours. My personal shoppers and I text back and forth about out-of-stock items and replacements. And did I mention they deliver wine?! I’ve almost hugged the driver on more than one occasion.

Maybe SJP still wants to keep it real, but I avoid that Whole Foods parking lot like the plague.

2. Birchbox — No more staring dumbfounded down the cosmetics aisle at Walgreens, paralyzed by the sheer quantity of mascara options. Buy the wrong one, and you’re stuck with an expensive stick of black clumpy ink that make your lashes look like spider legs. Wish you could try some first? Enter Birchbox! For just $30, you, too, can get a three-month subscription, and receive a surprise box of beauty products in your mailbox every month. As someone who rarely buys new makeup, this is an indescribable luxury. When my Birchbox arrives, I immediately make plans to go out on the town. And I usually invite my friend Lindsay, so she can teach me how to apply my new lipliner. The super-cool packaging contains 6 small sample sizes of various products, each lasting several uses. If you choose to purchase any of the items full-size, you get all sorts of credit and bonus points and stuff. I’m too cheap for that. I just love trying out the various lipsticks, bronzers and face creams, and feeling like a celeb. (If only it came with a makeup artist.)

3. Stitchfix — To accessorize my new face, I definitely need some new threads. I have a wardrobe full of second-hand items that looked so hip in the dim lighting of the vintage thrift store, but at home they look ill-fitted and cheap. Rarely, if ever, have I bought something because it goes well with something else, possibly because I don’t know what goes well together. And none of it looks good with my Forever21 baubles, now tarnished and chipped. Enter Stitchfix, my personal stylist. First, you answer an online survey about your look, sizing, price point and lifestyle. Then, you can add comments about specific things you’re looking for: a new blazer or a tunic for your upcoming spring break trip to Miami. Hit “submit,” and within a week or two a box of five new duds arrives on your doorstep! They are hand-selected by a personal stylist, and even come with a style guide to help you understand how to assemble your new outfits. I’ve only received one shipment so far, but mine included a few things that I never would’ve picked out but are super cool. How do I know they’re super cool? Because my personal stylist picked them out, not me.

But what if the items don’t fit, or you already have a pair of white jean shorts, or that mauve tank top wasn’t your style after all? NO PROBLEM. Just return the unwanted items in the pre-paid return packaging. That’s right: only pay for what you keep. If you don’t want any of the items, you’ll be charged a $20 processing fee. It’s worth it just for the fashion show you get to perform in front of the mirror.

Got any “feel like a celeb” strategies? Send ’em my way and I’ll include them in a future edition of “Us: We’re Just Like Stars!” In the meantime, enjoy feeling famous — you deserve it!

About the Author: Liza Bennigson is Director of Business Development at KonnectAgain, a corporate alumni engagement platform. She is the mom of two young kids and is on an endless quest for work-life balance and frugal luxuries.

“Even going to the grocery store is fun,” I recall telling my sister when Brad and I started dating. Unhurriedly, we would wander the aisles, holding hands and deliberating the night’s menu. “What are you in the mood for, babe?” he’d ask, surreptitiously tossing my favorite snacks into our cart. Back at his apartment, no matter the hour, we’d wash, peel, slice and dice, chatting about work and roommates and music and the weekend. When dinner was ready, we’d crack open a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and curl up in front of The Sopranos.

Every night was date night.

Ten years and two kids later, dinnertime had become a nightmare. Granted, we are fortunate to have food on the table and a warm house in which to eat it. But Brad works late, and I can’t seem to fit meal preparation into a full day of work and witching hours. While I crave the American ideal of healthy, home-cooked meals, I rarely find a recipe that my three- and five-year-olds enjoy as much as we do. Not to mention the fact that my husband isn’t home in time for the elusive family dinner. Of all the articles preaching the importance of dining together, I’ve yet to learn how to pull it off while folding laundry, making lunches, searching for missing library books, emptying the dishwasher and paying almost-overdue bills.

When I attempt more intricate recipes, my kids tug at my legs, begging me to play soccer or Candy Land. They ask me to “watch this,” “fix that,” and fetch band-aids and snacks. By the time I finish cooking, they are full from Goldfish (fortunately, since the chances of them liking my concoction are slim). At the dinner table, they ask for more milk, spill it, and ask to be excused. I inquire about their day at school, but they rarely remember on the spot. The truth (who got a time-out or had an accident) comes out at bath time.

When Brad comes home from a twelve-hour workday to a kitchen that looks like a bomb exploded and a wife whose head is about to, no one’s happy. I’m fuming that I had to handle the kids’ dinner and bath and books and pjs and teeth and bed by myself…again. But what really sends me over the edge is when (unless we want to eat the kids’ homemade cauliflower au gratin that lays untouched on their plates) we still have to turn tonight’s recipe into reality. Exasperated, what takes Rachel Ray a half an hour somehow takes me an hour-and-a-half.

While a personal chef will always be out of reach, I discovered the next best thing: Munchery, a meal delivery service that brings freshly prepared, healthy dinners to my doorstep. While it’s hard to justify shelling out $20 on a weeknight, it’s not the food I pay for — it’s my marriage. I am a happier, more reasonable wife when someone occasionally brings me dinner. From choosing my meal to greeting the driver to composting the container and calling it cleanup, I love every step.

Munchery helps me keep my cool about Brad’s uncanny ability to arrive just after I’ve tucked the kids in bed. Even when he insists on going immediately down to their room, often riling them up and reversing all progress toward slumber. He’s down there for awhile; long enough for them to recount every detail of their day. I eavesdrop from upstairs — the conversation I longed for around the dinner table comes at its own time and place.

Brad emerges upstairs and we exchange an unmistakable grin — our children have finally succumbed to sleep. We sit down with our home-cooked (by someone else) meals and flip on the latest episode of Shark Tank. Someday, I hope date nights more closely resemble the carefree evenings of our 20s. But for now — children dreaming downstairs, my love by my side, and no dishes in the sink — life is good.

Who says that quality family time has to occur around the dinner table? Who says that a woman who can’t cook is any less of a mom? Who says that throwing on an episode of Berenstain Bears while the kids eat so that I can take my first shower in two days is going to land the kids in San Quentin?

Mostly me, I guess. Sure, I could blame the media for filling me with unrealistic fantasies of how things should be. But ever since I first filled my freezer with a lifetime supply of pureed sweet potatoes that my baby would never eat, I’ve been setting myself up for disappointment, constantly striving towards an ideal that is out of reach.

The next night as my kids devour chicken nuggets while I unload groceries and futilely request the day’s scoop, I look around. My kids are happy, well-adjusted, confident and self-preserving. And with Munchery, I am too.

Anticipation is often worse than reality. This was definitely true of my return back to work after maternity leave, and of (most) cross-country flights with my kids. This was not true, however, of the 30 days I went without sugar, caffeine, alcohol, gluten, soy and dairy.

Having spent several summer weekends in a row where daytime drinking and Doritos were the norm, I was actually looking forward to September 29 — the day I would give up six integral items from my daily diet. And having felt mentally and physically subpar for many years, I was excited to see if changing my eating habits could make a significant impact. After all, 90% of serotonin is produced in the gut, and 70% of the immune system is based there.

Doritos aside, I considered myself a healthy eater, and am happy with my weight. But I had recently developed eczema, and struggled for decades with IBS and anxiety. If swapping cous cous for quinoa could help then daggonit I was willing to try it.

My husband joined me on “the cleanse,” for moral support and because he always suspected his body and gluten didn’t really get along. I borrowed the Clean Eats cookbook from a friend, and purchased a NutriBullet for morning smoothies. I even bought bok choy.

The first few days were confusing. We had no idea what we could and couldn’t eat. I sought food that met our dietary restrictions but was quick to prepare after a full day’s work and full evening of coaxing my kids from school to sleep. I dreamt of pizza, and cursed bok choy.

By week two, we had discovered Thistle, a dinner delivery service that met our dietary demands. We saved money on coffee, wine, and dining out. We spent money on supplements and organic smoothie ingredients. We started to feel better.

By mid-week three, I almost threw in the towel. We attended a wine and food fundraiser and I hosted a trunk show for a friend. Holed up at home, the cleanse wasn’t so bad, but in public, it was excruciating. Waiters scoffed and friends interrogated. We agonized over invitations to social and professional events, aching to feel fun again. But instead, we felt better.

Brad’s stomach pains were gone, in abeyance with my eczema. The mental fog that had shrouded us both was lifted. We had more energy, and less stress. But damn I wanted a beer.

The final week felt endless. After all, it had been nearly a month since our last glass of wine, dinner roll or cookie. We were counting the days until October 28 when we could have one of these things — reintroducing one vice at a time in order to discern the culprit of our maladies. I picked Chardonnay.

Since the cleanse, we’ve continued to avoid caffeine and gluten, and have enjoyed everything else in moderation. We feel pretty good, though I’m still bitter about passing up my father-in-law’s famous stuffing at Thanksgiving, and am still recovering from Christmas cookie-withdrawal. Fortunately, gluten-free and decaf are easy to come by these days, if not nearly as good. The jury’s out as to whether we’ll make it through 2016 without real pizza or beer. But whatever happens, we feel so fortunate to have our health, and to be able to toast a glass of champagne to it.

About the author: Liza Bennigson is a mom of two and the Director of Business Development at KonnectAgain, an alumni engagement software startup. She enjoys running, writing and dance parties with her kids.

I’m not your typical start-up employee. I’m 37 with two young kids, and I still have an iPhone 5. My idea of a wild night is staying up till 11pm to watch The Voice.

My boss, the CEO and co-founder of our start-up, is 26. Constantly on the go, Jayne Ronayne can talk, type, text, walk and drink coffee at the same time. She is at some networking event or another most nights of the week, and wears Chuck Taylor high-tops to the office. She is, undeniably, a millennial.

It’s been said that millennials are narcissists. My first six months on the job, I was trying to keep Jayne’s pace and win the elusive “mom of the year award,” and it was taking its toll. At a particularly weak moment, I asked Jayne if I could work part-time. While I’m pretty sure she thinks “part-time” means working full-time with the kids at home, she is empathetic and flexible. That said, she expects her team to put the company’s needs at a very close second to our families’. This is less about narcissism as it is a fervent commitment to our success.

It’s been said that millennials are entitled. Jayne will contact anyone, anywhere, of any rank, and expect to get a response. But this is less out of a sense of entitlement as it is straight up tenacity. As a female founder, she knows she might have to work twice as hard to prove herself. She expects to do well in life, but only by earning it. It is this doggedness that has led her to be named one of Ireland’s Top 30 under 30 and our company to be chosen as one of the world’s top 25 startups in the Extreme Tech Challenge. Before meeting Jayne, I was content with contentedness. The millennial drive is contagious, and I’ll never again settle for mediocrity.

It’s been said that millennials are impulsive. This is a refreshing change from my previous life in academia, where a decision to change the status quo could easily take six months. Jayne moves quickly, but thoughtfully. While we try to make most decisions in front of a white board, we often resort to email or Slack or Skype. If you’re not “on call” and constantly connected, you might miss the opportunity to weigh in. We are all constantly connected, and we’re okay with that.

It’s been said that millennials are disloyal. Jayne makes decisions that are best for the company, not necessarily herself. Sometimes this means making changes, hiring or otherwise, that are hard to swallow. While I’m used to stability and predictability, Jayne is constantly evaluating whether team members and processes are the right fit at the right time and, if not, is comfortable letting go. She considers it in no one’s best interest to draw out an inevitable mismatch.

It’s been said that millennials are cheap. Sure, I was frustrated when it took me almost a year to get my own laptop and I have to pay my own health insurance, but last time I checked, a slow burn rate was a good thing. Let’s call it frugal.

Next year, more than 3.6 million baby boomers are set to retire and more than one-fourth of millennial workers will become managers. The characteristics commonly used to depict this up-and-coming generation might be less misconceptions than misinterpretations. If positioned correctly, these traits can translate into incredibly adept, impassioned and courageous leaders from whom we all––millennials or not––have a lot to learn.

About the author: Liza Bennigson is the Director of Business Development at KonnectAgain, an emerging alumni engagement software for corporations and universities. She enjoys writing, running, travel and dance parties with her kids.

Whoever advised against mixing business with pleasure must not have loved his or her job. What if your career is something that makes you happy, helps define and inspire you, and gives you purpose? What if business is pleasure?

Don’t get me wrong, there are many things outside of work that also make me who I am and give me unbridled joy. I am a loving mom of two, a devoted (if not domestic) wife, and loyal sister, daughter and friend. It is in mixing business with pleasure, though, that I find balance and feel complete. Most of the time.

Yesterday morning, I happily exchanged my mascara and MacBook for yoga pants and Elmer’s glue, to volunteer in my son’s kindergarten classroom. We made hand turkeys with construction paper feathers and googly eyes. For 45 whole minutes, my mom-guilt dissipated, and I felt fulfilled.

This morning, at the exact same time, I arrived at my startup’s co-working space in Silicon Valley, to meet with the Vice President for Personal and Career Development at Wake Forest University, Andy Chan. We spent over an hour excitedly talking about trends, innovation and technology affecting the university, alumni and recruiting markets. We brainstormed a pilot program for Wake Forest West Coast and my company, KonnectAgain. I drank too much coffee, and felt smart.

The transition from mom to startup mode isn’t always this smooth, however. There are days when a kid is sick or has no school and I have meetings or deadlines. I occasionally forget the “don’t yell, just tell” policy I established after skimming Parents Magazine at the doctor’s office. Today, I fell asleep on the train and woke up one stop too late. But I still wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Forbes’ #3 Workplace Trend for 2016 is an increased focus on workplace flexibility. In a world where wearables are the new normal and we are constantly connected, you’d better love what you do. Flexibility comes at the cost of rarely shutting off. I have to consciously ignore incoming emails and Slack messages in order to be more present at home.

But that same flexibility is the reason why I am able to find so much joy in what I do. I get to walk my kids to school every morning (as long as I send a few emails while brushing my teeth). I get to have lunch with an old colleague (if I write that proposal after the kids go to sleep). I can run to the grocery store when we run out of toilet paper, (and finish that blogpost before bed). It’s not uncommon for my husband and me to spend a romantic evening eating leftovers by the glow of our laptops. Sometimes, a glass of Chardonnay helps cure writer’s block.

I work an extra hour so I can pick the kids up early tomorrow. (Or maybe take a nap). I wouldn’t have it any other way.

About the author: Liza Bennigson is a mom of two and the Director of Business Development at KonnectAgain, an alumni engagement software startup. She enjoys running, writing and dance parties with her kids.