Jumping in mud puddles
A bubble bath during the day
Popsicles on the porch
A trip to the local library
I may not be hitting post as frequently, but I am writing more than I ever have. The truth is, for the last three years I have been working on a personal project.
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What I’m finding about motherhood in this season is that it is a delicate balancing act of loving my boys well and pursuing my calling.
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Sometimes discouragement lingers heavily on a regular Tuesday morning.
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I’ve been in a hurry my entire life, it seems. My mom jokes that I’ve been running as long as I could walk.
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Homeschooling was not the path we always planned to take for our kids. I remember having conversations with Matt early on in our marriage.
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“Write what is true” I exhale at the keyboard waiting for divine inspiration to strike. But the truth is….I’m irritable and tired. I want to write something encouraging for moms in light of Mother’s Day that is also not completely cliche. I DON’T want to talk about politics (or hear or read about them for that matter) but if I am being honest, it’s what is plaguing me the most.
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Summers for kids are pure magic. Summers for adults trying to keep the magic alive for their kids are…less magical.
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I acknowledge that your yes to their life very likely opened up a world of “no’s” in your own life.
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I am she. And here’s how I know. I find this particular season of motherhood both incredibly fulfilling and inexplicably draining. I am guilt-ridden over
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I want to build a world for my kids that is far less scary than the version the news likes to tell us.
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I bet if I asked you to close your eyes and picture the tastes and smells of your childhood, you would be able to recall in vivid detail
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By the time Cyrus was one, he had already been on three major trips, watched embers of a fire glow in the mountains and touched his chunky toes in the salty ocean.
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To my fellow stay-at-home moms and dads—we carry the badge of dark circles under our mascaraless eyes, hungry for interaction with humans who can make their own snacks and wipe their own bottoms.
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“Daddy, what are they doing?” Cyrus asked from the gray steps of my parents’ porch as protestors marched past chanting the words, “I can’t breathe.”
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697 days. That’s the length of time that our precious Malachi was in foster care. Forever. That’s the length of time we have to love him and know that he is ours.
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I’ve been having a lot of dreams about breathing under water. They say that this represents being overwhelmed by negative thoughts, emotions, or uncertainty
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Last week I had one of those days—the one where mid-way through you wonder where things went terribly awry and wish you could crawl back into hibernation and wake up and start again.
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These past weeks have been a culmination of magic and monotony, community and loneliness. Having a baby has forced me to slow down in a season that would otherwise be taken over by a “more” mentality.
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