A product of the suburban echelon that is Virginia Beach, I’m a NJ/NY transplant immersed with the mundane. Day to day, I erratically attempt to balance a career, marriage, happy hour diaper changes and Oscar-worthy guilt trips from my mom while staying afloat in time for my shows.

As a magazine editor, (think: a lot less Carrie Bradshaw and a lot more Ugly Betty) I spend my days doing un-glamorous things and my nights wiping drool, bonding over baseball, cutting coupons and plotting out my 5-year plan on cocktail napkins. Though I’m un-girly enough to obsess over the Mets lineup, I’m girly enough to dream about shoes and covet overpriced lipgloss.  When I’m not busy perusing Target endcaps, I can be found wagging my finger at husband and baby chanting, “because of you, I will never own nice things.”

My wingman, who happens to be one of my oldest friends, has known me since the eighth grade. He’s the pragmatic one; me, not so much. I convinced him into marrying me almost 5 years ago. We live in a shoebox, aptly, in a mile square city, right outside of NYC, 350 miles away from our hometown. He often comes home humming from his big box office job, sometimes with boxes of products in hand.

This is our story: the proverbial new chapter of two friends who got married and are trying to live happily ever after, while making up the rules as we go along.

Babyrific— (adj.) a great feeling or intense phase relating to, or surrounding a blessing or a bother, specifically in the form of a baby.


email me jenrabbert@gmail.com

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with any of these products or companies. The views expressed in this blog are strictly personal. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.