1, 2, 3, 11!


When the kids were small we were down here nearly every day. Wading, swimming, foraging. But as they’ve grown, it’s harder to find the time.

Lupine has been down to the creek swimming with friends a few times already this summer, but Sage and I have barely gotten our feet wet. So yesterday afternoon, when the lunch dishes were washed and the heat was still heavy in the air, we walked to the creek and jumped in.

“1, 2, 3, 11!” The inexplicable dunking call that we have shared since they were young was shouted by all, and under I went. So cold! The spring-fed creek water took my breath away, and our laughter (and my screams) echoed against the hills.

When they are grown, will I wander here alone and whisper “1, 2, 3, 11” before slipping beneath the surface on the hottest summer days? Or will my iced dunking days be over, memories tucked into my heart alongside cosleeping, breastfeeding, and babywearing? A chapter fondly recalled, but long past.

Truly, I hope I never quit. This painfully cold dunk each July helps keep me alive (in body and in spirit). It jolts me from the mundane and roots me firmly where I belong: here, with my feet in the mud and my face grinning up at the sun.

It’s a baptism into the waters of home; my sanctuary, my sacred place. It is my meditation, my joy, and my song.

This creek runs through all of us, and binds us to this place and to each other. How lucky we truly are.


In the thick of it


Nurturing sick ones when we’re already feeling stretched or depleted can be challenging, can’t it? Yet it’s a frequent theme of motherhood—to give the things that we most need.

I’ve been feeling pulled in too many directions these past few weeks. Spread too thin, I have been desperate for some hard to come by solo time to simply nurture my own thoughts and dreams and desires. How grateful I was to carve out an hour last week for a much needed coffee date with a friend. It refilled my cup, and left me with some space to breathe during this brimful season.

And then last week Sage started feeling under the weather, and ended up with the flu. Needles to say, it’s been an intense week of parenting in that ways that illness or injury always area. That’s life, that’s motherhood, but I’m tired.

These ordinary bumps in the journey of having loved ones under the weather are just that–ordinary. Yet they’re awfully trying, too. I think we sometimes negate the feeling that bubble up around these ordinary hiccups of motherhood and life.

What might shift if we instead honored these messy feelings, and ourselves along with them?

So I’m reaching for balance as best as I’m able. Knowing when to say no, when to dial in my expectations, and when to rest. To sleep as long as I’m able, to pause for tea or to knit a row when I can, to steal away for a long, quiet soak in a hot bath. To remember that I, too, matter. And that I can’t nurture others without first taking care of myself.

It’s something many of us struggle to honor.

My self-care game has never been strong. But during these moments of need, it’s imperative I do better.

And so I will.

To all of the mamas out there, just struggling to get through this day or this season for whatever reason: I see you, I feel you; you’re not alone. You’ve got this.


One piece of my keep-it-together medicine is to get outside everyday, no matter what. Alone, with dogs, or with family, it’s keeping me sane. Fresh air, the light on the hills, the weather varying wildly day after day.

Yesterday Lupine and I headed out for white pine needles (Pinus strobus) from the tree in the yard for tea for Sage’s cough, and it was restorative just to feel the cold air on my skin. It wasn’t even a walk, but it was still a pause.

Back inside she chopped the needles and brewed tea for her brother, I organized the herb cabinet, and we strained tinctures, elixirs, and oxymels together. It felt like order in the chaos. It felt like an exhale.

We’re keeping the tea and bone broth and hot toddies flowing, and we’re keeping our sanity, day after day. I’m grateful.


As his illness moves its way toward closure, and the rest of us are doing our best to stay well in this small house full of abundant germs.

We’re all taking daily doses of elderberry and echinacea to shore up our immune systems and keep the crud at bay, sipping lots of herb-spiked teas and broths, and Sage continues to take elderberry, chaga, and other herbs as the symptoms call for.

Wild Bee Balm (Monarda fistulosa) and ginger-sage tea for sore throat and chills, yarrow and elderflower for fever, white pine and elecampane for cough, etc., etc. I even offered him a little rose elixir last night for his (emotional) heart, which is so weary of all this time in bed, feeling miserable.


Since the flu has largely settled out at this stage as throat discomfort and cough, Lupine and I crafted two types of throat lozenges for him yesterday as a part of our homeschooling day. Unlike the sugar- or rice syrup-based candy-like throat lozenges, these are crafted only of powdered herbs, raw honey, and an optional few drops of herbal tinctures or elixirs. Intuitively, they feel much more nourishing than a sugar-based remedy.

The herbal pastilles we made were based off of this recipe. We modified the formulation based on Sage’s symptoms and the herbs we are most called to use.

Our first version (shown at right) we crafted from homegrown marshmallow root powder (in place of the slippery elm), homegrown garden sage, powdered rose petals, homemade wild rose elixir, and a pinch of ginger root powder.

In our second version we substituted Monarda (wild bee balm) for the sage, omitted the ginger we added to the first batch, and added some elderberry tincture for good measure.

As we rolled these little herbal throat balls in slippery elm and marshmallow powder, Lupine popped one in her moth to test our formula. “These are amazing!” she said. Amazing little herb balls.

So there you go. We made Amaze Balls. 

And if nothing else, there will always be humor to get us through!

Annual ice cream bribe

It’s hard sometimes to believe that we’ve been doing this for the past 16 years.

Pressing pause and pulling these old jackets out of the hall closet for our annual photographs (AKA: bribing our kids with ice cream in exchange for a picture).

As homeschoolers, we don’t have annual school pictures to help us mark time. So some 16 years ago, we made up our own tradition.

On the suggestion of a friend, we chose an adult-sized piece of clothing for each of our kids to wear for an annual photograph. Each year we would stage the same picture until someday (in the far distant future), the clothing would fit.

Deeply sentimental at heart, I loved the idea immediately.


One picture a year? We could manage that.

So we chose Pete’s old leather jacket for Sage and my Grandmother’s for Lupine, propped them up and took a few snaps.

We fell in love with this tradition immediately and we’ve done it every autumn since.


And from a beginning as seated, chubby, pink one-year-olds draped in heavy coats, we’ve moved on. They’ve grown up.

And today, both coats nearly fit.

When they were small we bribed them with ice cream, to sit still long enough for a photo. It was the one thing I did just for me, the one time I bribed them with refined sugar all year.

And it was always worth it.


We still make a habit of the ice cream (how could we not?) but somehow–after more than a decade–it has stopped feeling like a bribe, and now feels like more of a celebration.

A celebration of autumn, of childhood, of growing, of becoming.

Yesterday we set off for the creek and captured this year’s edition of the jacket pictures.


Sitting here, with sixteen years worth of photographs spread out in my lap, I am thumbing through time as it unrelentingly spools out before me. Time is a marvelous and disorienting thing.

Hang onto your heart, parents.

This growing up before your eyes business is no joke. It’s humbling, inspiring, and so much more than most of us imagined when we decided to have “a baby”. Because it’s not a baby we had after all.

It was adults we were raising, from the start.


Carpe this diem


Earlier this week, the kids and I loaded up our little vintage camper and set off on our first foray of the season.

We wandered just a couple of hours from home, to see the magnolia blooms and spend a few days playing at our makerspace. There’s something about stepping away from our own rooms and the rhythm of home and sharing this micro-small space… it’s our jam. We thrive in that tiny, quirky camper together.

Being on the road with the kids once more had me remembering the epic month-long road trips we have taken, setting off cross-country to Maine and North Carolina, just the kids and me for 4 weeks at a go; and our recent month-long family road trip around Ireland.

And in remembering these journeys, I was struck once more by how fast the past years have elapsed. Lupine was three when I loaded them up and headed to the Outerbanks. Sage was only seven. But now? They’re big, and showing no signs of stopping with this growing up. I can see the last grains of sand slipping down that steep incline of the hourglass.

Fleeting, indeed.

This summer Sage begins driver’s ed. Last night he said casually, “The next time we take a cross-country road trip, I can help with the driving.”


How did this happen?

Because like 20 minutes ago I was overwhelmed, under-slept, and all touched-out.

And then, poof.

All at once we’ve begun the last pages of the chapter that changed everything. As we complete this transition from small into big, parenting feels simultaneously more rewarding, more complex, and more important than ever before.

I have never felt more bereft of the skills required to do a job than I do now, nor more rewarded by my fumbling, awkward efforts.


Remember that feeling when your midwife finally left, or when you came home from the hospital with your newborn and you looked at your baby and wondered, wild-eyed and possibly aloud:

“What were they thinking? They just left me with this little human, and I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

This new chapter of parenting is kind of like that all over again. Except now the small shoes suddenly belong to you (the kid feet long ago eclipsing your own in size), and your kids outpace you in their quickness of thought, wit, and motion.

And you feel like you should know what you’re doing by now, but like every other stage in parenthood, things shift and change in an instant. And you find yourself learning new skills every step of the way (or that’s how it is for me anyway).

Yet, the basics of parenting remain the same: validate, listen, connect. Be honest and gentle and kind. And for goodness sake, play.

We circle back to this foundation, time and again. Sometimes we forget, but our kids will remind us with their expressions, their words, and their actions.

At the same time that we learn these news skills – this complicated new dance – the rewards of this journey have grown proportionally with the people. These older kids inspire and amaze me constantly with their skills, their wisdom, their spirit, and their wit. They are a delight to talk to, debate with, be around, and hang out with. I adore them – as my kids, yes, but also simply as people. And I can’t wait to see who they become as adults.

My kids. As adults.

Whoa, nellie.

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Which brings me back to Nellie, our camper.

With Sage turning 18 in two short years, the proverbial light is no longer at some distant end of a tunnel. It’s so close it’s burning my retinas. So we decided to carpe the living heck out of this diem.

Did I mention that neither of my kids go to school and Pete and I are self-employed and we already sold the sheep? We can go anywhere. So maybe we just will.

The world is waiting, and childhood is fading. Let’s savor every drop.

We’re planning to take an extended road trip together each year. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to fund another trip oversees like we did last year (we spent all of our abundant 15-year stockpile of airline miles). But to load up our funky camper with cozy quilts and hiking boots and knitting projects and so much Irish tea, then get out there and make some more memories? That we can swing.

We’re contemplating Yellowstone and Yosemite, the California Coast and a loop around Lake Superior. The desert southwest and the redwoods are calling, too. But the truth is, we don’t have that many years left before adult things like jobs or college or business start-ups get in the way, so we’re narrowing it down to our top 2 or maybe 3 picks. 

Because that’s all the time we have left for this carefree childhood we have created.

You could say I am binging on childhood, an accusation I will happily own.

Because it’s fading before my eyes. And the young adults that will remain when childhood is gone will be every bit as inspiring and delightful as the kids they left behind, but for me – for now – I want to make the most of our copious free time and togetherness. Of this last breath of childhood.

Because despite the stress and frustration and overwhelm and messes that make up so much of parenthood, it’s going too damn fast.

And like the most breathtaking sunrise, I don’t want to look away for an instant.

The day will surely be beautiful, but the fleeting magic of the sun cresting over the hills? That I will pause to savor.

So that I may never forget.


Aeriel silks at home


Lupine started taking aeriel silks last year. (I shared her first performance with you along with my reflections on the profound value of this practice for her here.)

Her teacher is amazing: tough as nails (like nothing my kids have ever experienced) but unbelievably invested, committed, and loving to the kids in her care. It’s the perfect temperament for something like this, which requires the kids to be safe but to also feel safe. I can’t imagine a better combination than Francia.

And since Lupine attended her first class, she’s been aware that having a silk at home would not only improve her skills, but also be a ridiculous amount of fun.

With that in mind, every dollar she was gifted or earned during the past year (mostly from her play dough business) went into the bank, earmarked for a silk.

Finally, she had saved enough, and waited long enough to be certain this was what she wanted. And – at long last – she bought her silk. (She chose this kit since it included the hardware she needed as well and this basic mat since it’s good enough for basic protection, and she won’t be doing drops at home. afflinks)


There was a bit of a bump in the road after her silk arrived, when the color was not what we expected. As online ordering can so often go, what we got didn’t look one bit like the photo. It happens.

So the classy raspberry silk she expected arrived in full-on no-apologies hot pink instead. We decided to sleep on it (the keep-or-return decision, not the silk itself), and lo and behold, that crazy color grew on her. She decided that hot pink forever was better than waiting another two weeks for raspberry.

With a dusting of snow still on the ground (and more in the forecast) we searched the house for an appropriate(ish) indoor site. Then together, she and I found a stud in the kitchen ceiling and installed the screw eye.

And she was off.

silks inside

A quick sidebar here: our house is small.

Really small.

And our kitchen – already doing double-duty as the place we cook (and do a pleothra of other kitchen-things) and serving as our makeshift family room – became our aeriel silks studio as well.

It was a little nuts, but a lot of fun too. How could it not be?

But, yeah. The house is feeling smaller than ever with her dangling there between the wood stove and the oven as I attempt to cook dinner.

Finally, yesterday, the last of the snow had melted and the thermometer was on the rise. When it hit a balmy 52 F, it was time. (Click on any photo to see a full-sized version.)

Lupine corralled Pete in the workshop and convinced him to help her hang the silk in the big maple tree in the yard. With the help of an extension ladder and our bag of unused climbing gear, they set to work.

They began by taking her horsie tire swing down, a gift from my dad on her second birthday. Seeing it laying in the yard as her silk was slowly lifted into position? The poetry was not lost on me.

And before long her silk was in the air, and so was she.

As a mom, aeriel silks is a lot like other parts of my parenting journey.

We beam at their skills, cheer on their efforts, marvel at their strengths.

And we do our best to not make that terrified gasp sound loud enough for them to hear.

Make no mistake, it’s serious internal work to watch your baby hand from her ankles five feet off the ground with no safety ropes, suspended above a mat that’s only 2″ thick and probably 1/2 the surface area it should be.

(Because: gravity.)

But like teaching a teenager to drive (something else we’re embarking on at the moment) or trusting that your kids will make safe choices when we’re not by their sides, it all an exercise in letting go.

In trust.

In allowing.

And so we do.

We trust her teacher, her knowledge, her skills, and her strength. We trust the tree roots, it’s branches, and the hardware and knots that hold her.

We trust all of these things and more.

Both here, as she dangles suspended in thin air, and – yes – as she sets off on her own out into the world.

Love, trust, allowing…

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

5 tips for finding your people


Fifteen years into motherhood, I sometimes forget how rocky those early years were for me.

During that time, a group of mamas drew me into their circle and served as something of a lifeline for me during those early days of parenting. I shared a story about how it shaped me on Instagram and Facebook this weekend, and it struck a resonant cord for so many of you.

Today, I am sharing that story again, along with five simple tips to help you find your own people, over on Happy Healthy Family (the LüSa Organics Blog).

Find it all here, friends.

Cold toes and rosy cheeks










Sorry for those of you who are tiring of my nostalgic "savor-this-moment" type of posts. But go with where you are, I say. And this is more certainly where I am.

At least today…


When I look back on when they were small, I remember endless hours strung out before us. We filled each one however we wished, with ice skates and and sleds, glue guns and scissors, tree forts and hiking trails, books and paints.

And each day poured seamlessly into the next.

That beautiful abundance of time is perhaps the one thing I am most grateful for from these 15-plus years of homeschooling. So much time! To get to know one another. To deepen our connection. To slow and learn and be.

There was no where else to be, and they have grown up just as slowly as they wished. We rarely found a need to hurry, something my children are especially grateful for (since it's something I do with embarrassingly little grace). I'm grateful, too.

But now, as life accelerates to a teenage pace, as more projects and work and obligations find their way onto many of our plates, open calendar days are suddenly scarce. When we have them I resist leaving the house, opting instead to revert back to those slow, delicious days that I remember.


And so yesterday, normally a stay-at-home-and-homescool day, when we had to venture out to check on something at LüSa, I decided to make the most of it. We called a couple of friends, then headed to the skating pond in a nearby valley. It was our first trip there all season, and Lupine's new skates could hardly wait to hit the ice. (Or perhaps it was Lupine who was the eager one.)

We spent a couple of hours there with friends, in the cold and quiet of the valley, laughing, skating, talking, and drinking cocoa before heading back to our safe and cozy nests once more.

Sage opted out of skating in exchange for some paid work, and I marveled at how quickly an all-play-no-work kid has become an ambitious young man.

His decision to stay back might have been what motivated me most yesterday – to tie on my own skates, to hold hands with this still young kid of mine, to play and laugh and be. Right here. Right now. Not later or tomorrow or when it's more convenient. But today – with cold toes, rosy cheeks, and the last vestiges of childhood still woven through my fingers.


Fleeting? Oh, my yes.

Fleeting indeed. 


But I plan to savor every drop.




I've talked before about my bumpy, imperfect entrance into motherhood. I've shared with you my reflections on how fleeting this chapter of childhood truly is. 

But sometimes when we're standing in too close it can still be hard to see. 

So when our friends Kelly and Ray came out to reshoot our family photos for the LüSa Organics website, the side-by-side of these two sets of images took my breath away.

Especially when we realized that the first batch was taken only two years and a couple of months before the second. 

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LusaFarm15-075 (1) 4.19.43 PM

Two years. A blip. A blur!

And yet also a lifetime, during which Sage in particular transformed from little boy into young man. 

These images, caught at precisely the right moment (the first just before a major growth spurt and the latter just after) illuminated for me how very quickly these years unfold.

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LusaFarm15-075 (1) 4.19.43 PM

Because suddenly, here we stand.

I'm no longer the mother of young children.

The living room floor is free of toys, replaced instead by books and projects and research. The laundry is free of diapers, replaced by a another pair of jeans in the same size as Pete's and my own. The work of running a family – from caring for animals to cooking meals to laundry and dishes and housekeeping – no longer rests on the shoulders of adults alone, but is divide evenly among us. 

I am no longer the mother of young children. I am instead the mom of a young man and a young lady, both of them on the cusp of grown.

In an instant it happened. And here we stand. 

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And as I look into these eyes and these faces I am lost for words but awash with gratitude for the time we have invested in these hearts, these minds, and these relationships.

However imperfect my mothering journey has been, today I am thankful for each time I managed to chose connection instead correction. I'm glad for the times I made space to play, or made time to refill my own cup so I would have more patience tomorrow. I'm grateful for the moments when – after I blew it as a mother – I found the humble courage to apologize. I'm grateful for listening without judgement and for simply holding space. 

I am crazy about my kids, you guys. As my kids, yes, but mostly as people. They are bright and kind and interesting and passionate. It isn't always easy (what worthwhile thing is?) and there are days when we're all in over our heads. (Exhibit A: me, the past two days, blowing it again and again.) But my dominant take-away is that being a mother is the most difficult, rewarding, transformative job I have ever had. 

I feel so grateful to have been here to witness, however blurred, their constant transformation toward adulthood.

And today I'm surprised to discover that I carry more confidence about them than worry, perhaps for the first time. 

Because now more than ever I'm aware that it's not kids I am raising – it's adults I am gently attempting to shape.

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Though my time as a mother of kids (actual kids) is fleeting indeed, I am doing my best to raise them to be relentless questioners; forces for justice; and authentically, unapologetically, joyfully themselves. 

It's the least I can do.

Because it is exactly what they have both done for me. 

In the smallness that remains

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

The smallness that remains : : Rachel Wolf, Clean

I remember when you were new, tucked into the sling, your thumb in your mouth and your fingers brushing your brow. I felt the warmth of your smallness curled against my chest and the slow and steady rhythm of your breathing.

I bent forward to inhale deeply that intoxicating scent at the top of your head. Like every other mother before me.

Babies grown and gone, they still remember that smell.


And I inhaled of you again.


Let's linger here. Let's take this slow, I thought.

There was no need to race you toward bigness, because small is just right, too.

I didn't want to hurry you.

I had watched your brother grow from baby to toddler to boy before my eyes. In another instant you would both be grown, me holding memories where children had once been.

Why rush it along? It was my last chance. 


And so we lingered.


I said yes to long nursings and longer snuggles and to you asleep by my side in the stillness of the night. There was never any hurry, and I said yes to you growing up as slowly as you wished. 

The sling remained your nest, my arms your branches, my hand your sturdy hold. I let you set your own pace, because there was nowhere else to be but here. There was nothing else to be but small.

And then you grew.

Beautifully and magically you grew, from baby to toddler to girl before my eyes.

In another instant you would both be grown, me holding memories where children had once been. Why rush it along? It was my last chance.


So even still we linger, savoring that smallness that remains.


And then this week you looked at me with hopeful eyes. The same impossibly big, impossibly blue, impossibly deep eyes that peered up at me from your sling when you were brand new and I inhaled so deeply of your scent.

"Can we have a mama day," you asked standing at the brink of bigness? 

May we linger in the fading smallness that remains?

Oh, yes.

Please. Yes.

Right this minute, while we have the chance.

Yes to walks and snuggles and adventures. Yes to games and stories and projects. Yes to tea and popcorn and giggling, cuddled up together once again.

Yes to climbing trees and making plans and lingering here in the slow sweetness of this day – together.

Yes to savoring your smallness while we can, if only for another day.


And even now – especially now – there is no rush for either of us to be anywhere but here.

In the the beauty of the bigness as it melts away the smallness that remains.


Originally posted in 2015.

Looking back

Fourteen years ago, when Sage was just one year old, we wrangled him into Pete's old leather jacket on the day after his birthday. We propped him up on our vintage purple couch and took a few photos (on film, of course), the mid-day light streaming in the western windows of our little hillside home.

I remember laughing as we tried in vain to stuff his little arms into the massive sleeves. There was no point even trying, so we wrapped the coat around his shoulders instead. He smiled away happily – no teeth yet, but lots of gums. 


Looking back at that face, it's easy to remember our life then. What was hard, what was good, and all that had yet to come.

Each year the jacket photo tradition was repeated.

I remember details of our life in each picture: which house we lived in; if they were pre- or post-seizures; before or after our move to town; when our family of three became four. 

And like a metronome, this somewhat silly, somewhat sentimental tradition marks the rhythm of my motherhood, reminding me of the constant flow of time. That nothing lasts forever. 

What is hard in our life ever shifts, what is good continues to ebb and flow, and what had yet to come arrives slowly with each passing year. 





When Sage was small I would sing "Sweet Baby James" to him while he drifted off to sleep. Do you remember that line "with ten miles behind me, and ten thousand more to go"? (I always sang it with "us" instead of "me".) That line always hung in my mind. 

Because then it was true.

Today it is not. 

And this year (as if to prove the point) quite suddenly and surprising us all, the jacket fits.

Fifteen years have flown by, and that baby – the one who turned my life upside down and made me into a mother – is nearly grown.



I went to the basement this morning and pulled out the pictures from the first five years (pre-digital) and loaded the rest onto my screen. And as I look through those piles of dusty jacket photos, one per year for the past fifteen, the flood of memories come rushing in.

I'll be the first to admit that the baby years can be unreasonably, incomprehensibly hard. No, perhaps not for all parents or for all babies, but for many of us they are. For us it certainly was. 

No one warned us that it would be so hard, and we were thrown into it blind. Disoriented and exhausted I remember wondering, "Why?! Why did we do this?"

And why did no one tell us it would be so hard? 

Perhaps the why is this: they grow. They grow and they change and they amaze you and inspire you and fill your heart with the most indescribable mix of hope and fear all in one go.

And suddenly the person who stands before you has taught you more about yourself, about life, about love and trust and courage and patience than anyone else you have ever known.

And those gray, foggy, tear-streaked baby days? They fade. They stop hurting. They become nothing more than stories.

Maybe that's why no one warns you. Because everything that comes after shifts your perspective forever.

Or perhaps it's because they think that if you knew you might not have the courage to do it anyway. 

And the cost is worth the reward, a thousand fold.

What is hard in our life ever shifts, what is good continues to ebb and flow, and what had yet to come arrives slowly with each passing year.


And it's not just my teen who's growing up before my eyes. My daughter is doing it, too. Nearly 11 now, she knows who she is better than I did at twice her age. Confident, bright, a shining light in the darkness.

And before we know it, this jacket, too, (made a lifetime ago for her mother's mother's mother) will fit.

And all too soon October will cease to bring with it our annual ice cream bribe and an afternoon spent marking time out in the yard.



So what can I say, mamas of little ones, except this: if the chapter you stand in is unbelievably hard, know that you do not stand in that pain alone. Do what you can to simply survive this day. Remember to eat, to drink water, and sleep when and if you possibly can. Find forgiveness and grace wherever you're able, and just make it through today if that's the best that you've got.

The dishes can wait. The laundry can wait. Everything but you and this baby can wait. 

You're not doing it wrong. It's just that sometimes it is unbelievably hard.

(And no, despite the constant questions you must field, babies aren't designed to sleep through the night. Tell them to stop asking.)

Find help where you can – in a neighbor, a partner, or a friend. You weren't meant to do this alone.


If it's not so hard for you right now then simply savor. Savor the taste of your coffee in the morning, the sun on the October hills, the respite of a hot bath, a long walk, or a good sleep.

But most of all savor these amazing people who picked you (flawed, imperfect, human you) to lead them along this path. 

And know that each day brings with it another chance for you to be amazed.  


Parenting wasn't meant to be easy. But it was meant to change you in ways that you never imagined.