Category: Our stories

I’m a crier, but at times when I should, I just can’t—and it doesn’t mean I don’t care.

I’m a crier. Everyone knows this about me.

I cry at commercials. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m excited, or mad, or sad.

But when tough stuff happens—when those really big moments happen—I don’t cry. Maybe it’s adrenaline, or just the way God made me, but . . .

I didn’t cry as the girl driving did when I had to keep someone in college awake in the backseat from an overdose on the way to the hospital.

I didn’t cry as I held my husband’s hand when my father-in-law took his last breaths.

I didn’t cry as we rushed my son to the hospital when he needed stitches from a dog bite as an infant.

It’s not that I don’t feel. It’s the opposite. It’s that I feel so deeply, and I know it’s contagious. When someone else cries, or yawns, or laughs—we want to, too.

So in situations when others are crying—in the really tough stuff—I don’t cry.

I offer a hug. I listen. I’ll share a kind word. Whatever you need, I will be there, but I probably won’t cry. At least not in the moment.

Just know, not crying in the tough stuff doesn’t mean that I don’t care. It’s in fact the opposite. I care so deeply that I want to keep it together so that we can get through this.

*via Gracefully Broken by Hannah Dearth

Tonight I plopped down on the couch next to my 11 year old just before bedtime.

And shortly after I sat down, he put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

I felt my heart skip a beat.

I mean, goodness, I’m pretty sure it was just yesterday that I was holding him in my arms to rock him at bedtime.

But tonight our roles seemed to have reversed.

This motherhood thing. Sometimes it sure wrecks me.

It is so so fun. But yet so so terrifying.

It is so rewarding. But yet so trying, so hard.

Sometimes I question myself. And God. I’m not sure I’m enough for this.

Some days I honestly feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.

How do I teach these boys to become strong in Christ, when so often I feel so weak?

How do I teach these boys with a firm hand, but yet a gentle patience?

How do I show them to love and serve others, when sometimes I struggle with doing just that?

They grow fast. And the time I have to teach them all the things is quickly fading.

But here’s what I know is true.

Alone, I’m not enough.

Alone, I will never be.

But when I turn my eyes to Him, when I put my confidence in Him, I will be enough.

He trusted me with these kids. And he trusted you with yours.

He gave us this job as a mom. He picked these kids to be ours.

With Him, we can do this.

We can plant the seeds. And let Him take care of the rest.

*via My House Full of Boys

The truth is, I’m a mother hen. I never feel better than when all my chicks are safely tucked in at night. I kiss four warm foreheads and my heart prays a prayer that doesn’t need any words because God already knows. I love watching them there in the stillness, wrapped in blankets, and breathing deep, long, peaceful breaths. Tonight they’re safe.

I know I can’t keep them here forever. I know that as each year goes by they grow and become the people they’re meant to be. I know it and it gives me so much joy to watch it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s hard.

It’s the most wonderful, hard thing I’ve ever done.

It’s hard to let them go little by little, day by day. It’s hard to let them go from my belly, then my chest, then my hand, then my table, then my house.

As each year goes by they need me a little less. They get bigger and I get smaller.

I let them go, little by little, day by day. I know it’s my job to protect them, but it’s also my job to let them fly.

So for now I will cherish these nights with all of them sleeping under my roof and all the pieces of my heart in one place. I will cherish it because I know that these days are numbered.

I’m just a mother hen, that’s the truth.

*via Wonderoak by Jess Johnston

Life is so hard when your kids are tiny. It feels like one more sleepless night ‘til you’re certifiably nutso. We had three kids in three years. So, not to brag, but I have an honorary doctorate in Nutso Studies from the University of Hard Knocks.

In those early mom-days, I remember looking around at “normal” moms, who were talking about working out or avoiding gluten or planning Pinterest parties nicer than my wedding. Meanwhile I was just trying to move the laundry to the dryer before it molded.

Years ago, I picked up a prescription at the pharmacy one day with a newborn and a 15-month-old. The pharmacist asked me to verify my newborn son’s birth date. A reasonable question . . . for a fully-functioning brain. Alas, mine was not. So I looked in her face and mustered all of my brain cells into a huddle. Those little soldiers gave it their all. But the inside of my head sounded something like this:

GUYS. What is Jack’s birthday? It was two weeks ago! Someone! Help! When are we? Thirty days has September . . . no wait, it’s February.

“February!” I victoriously exclaimed.

She stared at me blankly, waiting for more.

BRAIN! We need more. ::crickets:: HURRY I SOUND CRAZY! OK, let’s just start at the beginning, what number comes before 2?

“First!” Nailed it.

Pharmacist: “What year?”

My brain: Girl, we out. We gave you all we had. Good luck and Godspeed.

Me: “. . .I’m sorry. . .what year is this year, the current one?”

Pharmacist: “2011?” She said, slowly, possibly wondering if I was on drugs.

Me: That’s the one!

That season had me hanging by a thread. I saw my limitations like never before. I’d put in every ounce of effort I had, and I’d fall flat. The opportunities for failure and mishap abound in the daily trials of motherhood. I needed help from outside myself. For the first time in my life, my effort did not correspond to outcome. And it crushed me. But I grew so much closer to God in that season, because I had no choice.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Rest? Yes please!

So I did. I sought God every day, throughout the day, as I came to the end of myself constantly. And it changed everything. I’d always said I was a Christian, but didn’t really rely on God for daily needs, just for eternity. Apparently that kind of Christianity is not a thing. Oops.

If you’re a mama of teeny tinies, and you feel like you’re going nutso? Can I encourage you? The God of the universe wants you to ask Him for help. And He loves you so tenderly, even more perfectly than you love those tiny bundles of squishy cheeks and curls.

Also, you need to know that it gets sooooo much better. 1,000 times! Those little bobble heads that spit up and blow out diapers, painting the car seat yellow? Soon they’re going to make up hilarious jokes and comfort you when you’re sad and one day they’ll even put on their own pants. It is coming. I promise. And then, we will wish back the days of bald bobble head babies whose T-Rex arms are powerless to stop us from kissing their puffy cheeks.

Motherhood: a great enigma, an incredible gift. We wouldn’t trade it for nothin’. Even all those brain cells we’ve lost along the way.

*via @Molly DeFrank

Applicable warnings for when you come to our home:

1. I can’t guarantee you won’t step on a toy.

2. Also, can’t guarantee you won’t step on something sticky.

3. Basically, watch your step. The floor is lava. Use the pillows provided for safe transition from room to room.

4. If you’re easily offended by potty humor, don’t even bother coming.

“Hey visitor, guess what?…. FART!” (that’s your cue to laugh, the full belly kind).

5. I tried to whip up something to serve you. It didn’t work out. Compliment me on the precise way I cut my grapes in half. I care about your safety, too.

6. It might smell ‘off’ in here—it might not. Either way, I’m immune to it and have no clue. Leave the judgement at the door. Some people wear diapers here.

7. You told me not to clean up for you. I know it looks like I didn’t—but I totally did. Thank me for it.

8. Welcome to the Jungle might start playing when you walk in. I’m not sure why, it just happens.

9. We have a dog. He’s been emotionally neglected and will hump you for attention.

10. I don’t answer to the doorbell, but scream “coffee” and I’ll come running.

11. Someone won’t be wearing pants, and it’s not because I didn’t try.

12. I like visitors, especially when they ignore the chaos in our jungle and make me feel like I’m doing an a-okay job. Come back, okay?

*via Grown Up Glamour by Anneliese Lawton

Things no one tells you about loving yourself in your 30s:

Things will droop. After babies, after sleepless nights. But, with awareness and reflection, you come to admire the strength in every one of those stripes of life.

The woman looking back at you in the mirror is wiser every day. She’s part your mother and part your own unique self. Trust her.

People will try to cheapen your self-love with promises of the perfect glow, hair color, or skin tone. Don’t chase the elusive rabbit (or go broke in the process). Aim for healthy, and you will land on confidence.

The physical features you may have once hated now define you. Embrace them. These parts of you are what friends and family come to adore because they are the realest parts of you. Channel that positive energy into improving other parts of your life (and you will make the world better).

Little people are now watching. Show them a woman doesn’t have to run herself into the ground to be loved. But, when she waters her own roots, she grows…and gives shade to her seeds.

The woman inside only needs you to love her.

No man will make her come alive.

No product will make her come alive.

But, by the grace of God, I swear:

She is ready to bloom.

*via Lauren Fortenberry – Writer

The first time I gave my baby a bottle of formula, I cried happy tears.

Big, overwhelming, uncontrollable…

Happy tears.

I couldn’t control the flow as the tears dripped down my face.

It was tears of pure love. Overwhelming love.

The decision to switch to formula was not an easy one to make. I felt the pressure over what I “should” do. I cried over it, worried over it, and did my research.

But then I prayed. And the answer was clear.

When I switched to formula, it was the first time I looked down at my baby while feeding and he was satisfied.

We did things we were never able to do while breastfeeding, because of my overwhelming letdown.

When I finally gave my baby a bottle of formula,

We snuggled.

We stopped during the feeding to talk, and jabber, and coo, and smile at one another.

He tried to grab my face.

I cleaned his crusty eyes and put lotion on his cheeks.

I kissed his forehead.

I smelled him and I breathed him in.

I was able to love him better, I was able to bond with him better.

And I cried happy tears.

It was the first feeding where he wasn’t crying and unsatisfied.

It was the first feeding where he looked at me with love instead of worry and tears.

It was relaxing.

It was loving.

My heart screamed with pure happiness.

So no.

No, I did not feed my baby “liquid gold” for long.

I’m not going to tell about all the reasons why, and all the struggles.

Because this is my motherhood.

I switched to formula.

And I cried happy tears.

I switched to formula, and I took my motherhood back.

I made it my own.

My own unique path.

So friend,

Make motherhood choices that are best for you and your babies…your kids.

Own your version of motherhood.

Own what’s right in your heart.

Own what fills you with peace.

Rather than asking the internet, or your friends.

Look up, and ask Him.

He knows your heart.

He knows your child.

He’s got the answers. .

Then own your motherhood.

*via Messy Footprints

My son came home yesterday with a bite mark on his arm and here’s what I did about it:

Nothing.

His arm was bandaged, he was smiling—I signed an incident report which stated he didn’t even cry at the time—and I have enough trust in his teachers to believe they handled it accordingly with the other kid.

Do I need to be upset about it even if he’s not? Nah. Do I need to place blame on the other child? Certainly not. My son may have been on the receiving end this time, but he’s also been the pusher of peers in the past. I remember back then how awful I felt about it—not being able to control my child’s unfavourable behaviour—and I would’ve given anything to have just one mom look up at me and say, “I’ve been there too. It’s okay.”

So, to the parents of the child who bit mine: it’s okay. Your child is learning. He’s doing his best and so are you. This wasn’t bullying, or even intentional, it was a child who can’t verbalize his frustrations and took it out with his teeth. Oh well. He will progress. And in the meantime, you’ve given my son an opportunity to show his progression too. Six months ago, he would’ve retaliated. Now, he took it in stride and went about his play.

He’s fine—and your baby will be too.

We are on the same team.⁣

⁣⁣

Love,⁣⁣

⁣⁣

A mother who’s been there

Credit Tinkles Her Pants

”My mom doesn’t work,” said one little girl.

I chimed in and said, “I think she might. It’s just that she works differently; like she doesn’t go into an office every day.”

“Nope. She doesn’t work.”

She was adamant.

“Okay,” I responded with a smile and walked away while saying a little prayer for that mama that she feels

noticed,

really seen,

and

appreciated.

Because, well,

she works.

She has worked every single gosh darn day of that young girl’s life whether or not her adorably naive offspring is of the age or even willing to realize it.

She worked to have you.

She worked to keep you thriving inside of her.

She worked to get you out of her.

She worked to keep you nourished.

She worked to keep those tears at bay.

She worked to help you grow.

She worked to help you crawl, then walk, and now you can run and ride a bike.

She worked to help you learn.

She worked to keep you clothed and fed.

She worked to keep your home tidy, welcoming, and genuinely comfortable.

She worked to get you into the best-for-you preschool.

She worked to make mom friends so that you could spend time with your kid friends.

And, she still works.

Every day she works to be the best version of herself so that she can set a great example for you.

She works to keep you happy and your mind healthy.

She works to make sure you get enough physical activity.

She works not to push you, but to take you just outside of your comfort zone so that you’ll experience growth.

She works to be brave so that you’ll do the same.

She works to maintain the holy grail of balance between work and play for both her and yourself.

She works to help you through problems.

She works through her problems, so she doesn’t take them out on you.

She works to keep her marriage afloat so that you have a visual example of what a healthy relationship should look like.

She works to ensure you have common sense.

She works to makes sure that you treat those lacking it with kindness.

She works to ensure you’ll never be a bully.

She works to make sure you’ll stand up against meanness of any kind.

She works to make sure that you are always kind to everyone.

She works on her presence.

She works on her reactions.

She works on herself so that you’ll grow up well and–hopefully, because of her love, support, guidance, and example–have less work to do on yourself.

Dare I affirm that this woman works harder than most?

I do.

I dare make that proclamation.

**Via Jthreenme

Two under two is no joke.

But it’s also hilarious if you let it be.

Two under three is no picnic.

But it’s also a treat to savor.

Two under four is a blur.

But you’ll also want time to stand still.

Two under five is a challenge.

But they’ll challenge you to get better every day.

When people ask about having kids close in age, I say the same thing every time.

It’s no joke, but it’s hilarious.

It’s no picnic, but it’s a treat.

It’s a blur, but you’ll want to hold onto the moments.

It’s a challenge, but the absolute best kind.

To the new mom of one, staring in wonder at a stick you just peed on, wondering how you’re going to make this work.

You will.

Because those two little people were meant to come in rapid succession. They were meant to be yours. They were meant to be each other’s.

So yes, two under two will be hard. As will each subsequent year of back to back parenthood. But I think you’re going to love it.

And I know you’re going to love them.

*via With Love, Becca