Once upon a time, in a world that seemed to demand everything and more from a young girl with a sharp mind and a way with words, I found myself torn between two vastly different paths. On one hand, there was the clamor of expectations—a chorus of voices insisting I was destined to do something great, to change the world, to be the Cinderella story for every abused and neglected girl who looked to me as proof that fairy tales could come true, sans fairy godmother or prince. No pressure, right?
Growing up in poverty and bouncing in and out of the system, I was acutely aware of the unspoken pact I had somehow entered into: to rise above, to succeed not just for myself but for all the girls who shared my story. I wanted to crush the patriarchy, to shatter glass ceilings with a sledgehammer of wit and intellect. But here's the plot twist—I also harbored a deep, yearning desire to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, whipping up a Thanksgiving dinner surrounded by babies. Teenage me couldn't reconcile these two dreams; they seemed as compatible as oil and water, or toddlers and white couches.
When my first child was born, I made the decision to leave the workforce. Cue the internal monologue of guilt and shame, a secret garden of doubt cultivated by years of external expectations. Was this it? Was I squandering my "potential"? But amidst the diaper changes and late-night feedings, I felt an undeniable truth blooming within me: I was happy. Truly, profoundly happy. I was in my element, and dang, I was good at this mom thing.
It took time, but I eventually realized those seeds of doubt weren't mine—they were sown by others. Smashing the patriarchy wasn't about rejecting traditional roles; it was about having the freedom to choose my own path. If that path led me to a home filled with laughter, love, and the aroma of freshly baked cookies, so be it! Feminism, after all, is about choice.
But just when I thought I'd cracked the code, another challenge emerged: How could I give my all to my family without losing myself in the process? Enter Lindsey Gurk and her enlightening revelation about flamingos—a quirky tidbit that would become a metaphor for my life. Did you know that flamingo mothers lose their vibrant pink hue while raising their young? They literally give their color to their babies through the energy and nutrients they pour into them. But fear not! Once their chicks are grown, these fabulous birds regain their signature shade.
This hit me like a rogue Lego underfoot in the middle of the night. Motherhood had slowly been stealing my pink. The isolation and loneliness that often accompany new motherhood were siphoning off parts of me I hadn't even realized I was losing. I loved my children fiercely, but somewhere between the sleepless nights and the endless cycles of laundry, I felt my own color fading.
Building my village began to bring back hints of pink. Connecting with other moms, sharing stories over too-hot-to-drink coffees, and swapping tales of triumphs and tantrums helped me reclaim pieces of myself. But there was still an ache, a longing for something more—a creative and intellectual outlet that allowed me to express myself beyond the walls of my home.
As my family grew, so did my realization that I was changing the world—one kind, creative, empathetic thinker at a time. Guiding and shaping my children wasn't just fulfilling; it was multiplying my ability to effect change. Yet, the desire to do something "bigger" persisted.
That's when the idea for The Village Take was born. My best friend and I envisioned a community—a village—where parents could come together to share not just opinions on the best playgrounds or the merits of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, but also the raw, unfiltered experiences of parenthood. We wanted to create a space that was part resource, part entertainment, and part virtual hug.
We started this little experiment right before the world flipped upside down. The pandemic derailed our plans, and as life slowly returned to a new kind of normal, we both became consumed with expanding our families (so many babies!). It wasn't until last spring that we revisited the idea, dusting it off like a forgotten treasure.
And then, like a cosmic wink, Macaroni KID posted that they were looking for a publisher for the Harrisburg and West Shore area. The moment I saw it, something clicked. This was it—the missing piece of the puzzle. It was as if the universe had slid a perfectly baked pie onto my windowsill, and all I had to do was take a bite.
With Macaroni KID, I could blend all the ingredients of my passions into one delightful concoction. I could use everything I'd learned as a parent and teacher, strengthen my village, and, most importantly, help others build theirs. I could exercise that noodle of mine and play with my favorite toy: words! I could be the mom I was meant to be while empowering women to live whatever life they wanted, all while barefoot and pregnant and cooking a 22-pound Thanksgiving turkey.
Together with my dear friend Carla from Macaroni KID Hershey PA, who keeps me sane as we embrace our crazy together we're bringing even more mom-power to the mix. We're creating a space that's not just about events and happenings but about building connections, sharing laughs, and offering support. It's about embracing the chaos of parenting with a community that gets it.
This Thanksgiving, as I stand in my kitchen—with a baby in my belly, a toddler tugging at my leg, and a turkey in the oven—I realize that I've found my pink again. I'm living my dream, not the one prescribed by others, but the one that fills my heart. The one where I change the world in my own way, on my own terms.
A Heartfelt Thank You
Of course, none of this would be possible without the incredible people who have stood by me on this journey.
To my amazing husband, Jason Benion: I continue to fall more in love with you every day. You've supported me as I figure out who I am, even at 41. You deserve the most thanks and somehow end up with the least words. Your sacrifices for our family are innumerable, and your loyalty, devotion, strength, passion, and generosity shine brilliantly in our children. You are the rock that anchors our wild and wonderful ship.
To my ride-or-die, Kendra Bradford: You started the Macaroni KID journey with me, and even though you've recently taken more of a backseat role in the Mac KID department, you're still helping me in every aspect. Thank you for helping me flesh out my ideas, accompanying me on fieldwork, and letting me constantly steal your photography. You're, of course, still my passenger princess on this wild ride we call life.
To my dear friend Carla Thomas from Macaroni KID Hershey: Thank you for keeping me sane as we embrace our crazy together. You're my sounding board and commiserator in raising our neurodivergent alphabet soup kiddos. Navigating motherhood with you by my side makes the journey all the more manageable and entertaining.
And thank you to you, dear reader, and welcome to our village.
So here's to all the moms out there who've ever felt their color fading. Remember the flamingos. We might lose a bit of our pink while nurturing our little ones, but we'll get it back. And when we do, it'll be brighter than ever because it's been enriched by the love and experiences we've gathered along the way.
Welcome to our village—we're so glad you're here. Let's build something amazing together.
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Disclaimer: While the genius and humor are mostly mine, I did enlist ChatGPT for minor edits and revisions. Why? Because AI doesn’t roll its eyes at my puns, argue about Oxford commas, or leave red pen marks all over my drafts. So, if you find any unnaturally perfect phrasing or oddly placed semicolons, you know who to thank! 😉
