We were driving home from town after a full day of lessons and appointments and work.

There were a few meetings, a long to-do list, and back home the cows had both broken through the fence and led Pete on an exhausting adventure to bring them back to the farm.

What a day.

With some extra projects that I have chosen to pick up and the day-to-day fullness that is summer, life feels extra busy these past few weeks. Each day we charge into the evening with the laundry piled high, the floors a mosaic of dirt, and no meal plan in mind.

Yesterday was one such day. We had inched closer to caught up and then the cows escaped and hours of chasing negated any catching up we had hoped to accomplish.

As we neared dinnertime Pete and Sage headed in one direction for LARP practice a few counties away, and Lupine and I headed home when her class was done.

It was unreasonably hot out and we were hungry.

"Can I lead you home a way you've never gone before?" Lupine asked.

I looked at my watch. I paused. Laundry, dishes, dinner… sure, I thought. Why not? I'd never get it all done tonight, anyway.

She had me turn down a gravel road I had never given a second thought to, and then onto another and another. I was officially lost. "Do you know where we're going?" I asked. 

She just smiled.

Charlie stuck his head out the window, ears and cheeks flapping, a sparkle in his eye, too. Maybe he knew were we were going, as well. He was feeling better – for the moment anyway – and I thought the detour might be good for us all. 

A few twists and turns later, down a road I had never seen before, she directed me down a hidden gravel driveway that wound away from the road and snaked between the trees. "Public Fishing Access" a sign read. It was a secret swimming hole she and her papa had discovered a week or two before.

And it was delightful.

Lupine (and Charlie) convinced me that a quick dip was in everyone's best interest, and I marveled at the strength and spirit that they each possess.

They swam, we laughed, and everyone felt refreshed after an oppressively hot summer day.

In short, we exhaled.

It was a quick detour, because, well – laundry, dishes, and dinner. But we were cooled and refreshed by it just the same. On the walk back to the car we harvested some milkweed flowers for a syrup recipe we stumbled upon in the last Taproot issue, then headed home for a dinner that possibly involved frozen, store-bought dumplings I had hidden in the deep freeze for a special treat. (Also big salads, because, balance. And, well, it's July.)

We ate, we chatted, and we worked our way through the mountain of dishes left from their morning of mishaps and the 4th of July celebration the night before.

And then, despite the detours along the way, it time for bed. Sure, there were more direct and productive routes that would have brought us here, to bedtime, but it wouldn't have been as nice of a day for anyone.

These detours along the way. They lead us to unexpected slivers of joy, of beauty, and of a pause from the fullness of our days.

And thank goodness for that.

My ridiculously sweet neighbors jogged past my house this morning with their kids. And as I watched them lope by – a vision of health and togetherness – an uninvited thought popped into my head:

“You’re doing it wrong.” 

(Said to myself and not to them.)

“You don’t jog, and you sure as heck don’t take your kids jogging at 8 am. It would be so good for everyone if you did. Togetherness, activity, cardio, rhythm!”

I waved meekly at my superhuman neighbors. The voice droned on.

“You’d be better for it, and so would they. But who are we kidding? You’d hate it. And you’d hurt for days if you even tried to jog as far as the mailbox…”

You’re doing it wrong.

I had the same thought last week when another family rode bicycles past. Out on a grand adventure; out in the world and moving –  together. (What were we doing instead? I don’t remember, but I’m sure it didn’t raise our heart-rates.)

Sometimes that voice whispers in my ear when I hear stories of my children’s friends tackling epic projects for school or getting on an airplane without their parents. That voice, always whispering softly in the back of my mind.

I heard it once when a dear friend shared a video of her child in a gymnastics competition. She! Was! Amazing! But as I watched her vaulting across the floor I thought, “My kids don’t even know what a pommel horse is.”

And I wondered, “What if gymnastics was their destiny and I never even put it on the table? How do you know you are destined for something if you are never exposed to it?”

And there it was again. That voice.

You’re doing it wrong.

But here’s the thing.

No parent – no person – can do it all.

None of us can be All the Things to All the People.

And so what if instead of beating ourselves up for all the things we’ve gotten wrong, we surrender to the idea that our kids picked the parents that would do it right for them?

What if each of us landed in best possible scenario for becoming the best version of ourselves – whatever that life may look like?

What would that mean for you?

It would mean that you pushing your kids hard at academics is just as right as me allowing copious amounts of space in which my kids can dream.

It would mean that gymnastics has no more – or less – value than learning how to draw portraits or how to make tinctures.

It would mean that a child staying tucked up safe and warm in their parent’s arms for as long as they need to is just as valuable as a confident wave and nudge from their mom as they board an airplane alone.

It would mean that we’re both doing it right – no matter how different our paths may be.

It would mean that as long as we’re doing our best we can’t possibly be doing it wrong.

So for me, the takeaway I suppose is to embrace the idea that I’m doing okay, even if there are potholes in the path before us.

And to recognize that if I made space to offer gymnastics I wouldn’t also offer a front row seat to a goat birth in the barn.

That if I pushed my kids tirelessly toward academic success I would not make space for them to delve deep into the waters of self-directed learning.

If we had money for a new laptop my son might have a fast computer, but he wouldn’t have taught himself how to reflow a hard drive when the old one broke.

If I enrolled them in many lessons they wouldn’t learn their way around the kitchen, the workshop, and the woods in the ways that they have.

Because we simply can’t be all the things. There just isn’t room.

And so to those who have told me, “You live the dream! I wish we could do half of the things with my kids that you do with yours,” know that there isn’t a single “right” path leading us there. For every gift we offer there’s another that we don’t.

And the lives that we have shaped for our children and ourselves – however different – each deliver the struggles and opportunities that will transform us in the way we were meant to transform.

And while my children may not thrive in a bustling crowd or under the pressure of filling out a scantron, they are undaunted by long strings of quiet in which to dream, create, and grow.

And while they may not know a pommel horse from a quarter-horse, one of them can teach you the difference between mullein and self-heal and help you deliver a lamb; and the other can explain in exhausting detail the difference between fission and fusion and teach you how (and why) to cold forge steel.

Am I doing it wrong? Maybe. But for today anyway I’m putting that side.

Because – as it turns out – I’m also doing it right.

And – as it turns out – so are you.

Originally published in 2016. 

When my kids were small and we were having a hard day, I remember my mom once telling me to "put them in water". And, of course, like so often when I listen to my mother it worked like a charm. A warm bath or a cool a shallow wading pool; a trip to the lake or the river or a creek. It always quieted my frazzled nerves and calmed their jagged moods.

And so yesterday, when my two very big kids were (happily! loudly!) bouncing off the walls of our very small house, I put her advice to new use, some ten years later. They needed to move – and yell and play – that much was certain. So when Lupine suggested a swim (desipte the 66 F on the thermostat and the even colder spring fed creek) I heard my mom's voice in my head.

I enthusiastically agreed. 

We rounded up swimming suits, my knitting bag, towels, and Sage, and set off for the creek.

And after a few minutes of shouts and screams and rowdy splashes, I happily discovered that "put them in water" works as well for wild-and-crazy big kids as it once did for fussy toddlers. Who knew?

(You're right. My mom probably did.)

Sage and I spent the weekend at my parent's cabin in Northern Wisconsin. Sage was attending a LARP, conveniently located just a half-hour down the road. (What are the chances? We had to attend. Or so he convinced me.) When I wasn't shuttling him back and forth from the game I had a bit of quiet to dig in on a big project I have in the works. (More on that as soon. I promise!) 

I'm not sure if Sage and I have ever wandered off for a weekend like this at the cabin before, just the two of us. And though he was busy with three long days of the game (plus needed rest and recuperation between), I thoroughly enjoyed the time we had together. 

It had me remembering back to when it was so often just Sage and I. When he was a baby and a toddler, those were our days – just the two of us together, while Pete worked and before Lupine joined our family. 

And I couldn't help but recall how difficult those days so often were. They were long and lonely days, indeed. And I remembered how stretched I felt; how disconnected I was from the identity I had built for myself before motherhood. In so many ways I felt lost, overwhelmed, and often alone. 

And now life couldn't be more different.

Parenting these days is relatively easy. (Sure, we have our days. Who doesn't?) But overall I truly enjoy my kids and feel grateful for how our lives dovetail together so seamlessly, in learning, work, and play. Our lives lack the customary compartments of home and work, school and family. It's all one big mash-up of togetherness, and I'm grateful for that. It isn't always a breeze, but the overwhelming feeling is a positive one.

As for my kids, I enjoy who they have become. I love peering over their shoulder to witness how they see the world. I enjoy watching them navigate their lives, and see what makes them come alive. I feel honored to watch them grow, day after day, into adulthood.

During the weekend Sage and I told stores, cracked jokes, and sat by the river in silence. We remembered cabin visits from the past, and how saying goodbye to the river used to be so hard.

In short, we hung out together. Like old times. Except not. 

Because now "hanging out together" is easy. Joyful. And yes, even relaxing.

Hang in there, parents of colicky, sensitive, high-needs babes. The payoff for those long days and longer nights will come – all that and then some. I promise you this.

Love,
Rachel

Sometimes when I quickly scroll through the photos on my computer or on my Instagram, I think that this is what it might look like to see my life flash before my eyes. Snippets and snapshots and memories, flipping by, one after another through my mind. A few of them painful, but most of them sweet. The simple, ordinary moments that make up my life.

This season has been full. With travel and projects and big plans coming down the pike. There are mornings like this morning when it feels like my day-to-day tasks are heaped one upon another. And sometimes I want to grab hold of the nearest rooted object and hold on tight, whispering, "Slow down!"

Slow down to this month and to my bursting to-do list and to my children's growing up.  

Slow it down.

Ten and nearly fifteen years into this mothering gig of mine, it's hard to remember how it felt when they were small.

I can vaguely remember bouncing on the yoga ball at midnight, longing for sleep. I remember endless walks and cuddles, snacks and make-believe games. I remember the enormous piles of story books beside the couch, the bed, the chair. (At least some things haven't changed.)

And I can faintly remember hoping to eek out just one more hour of something to get us through until bedtime, lest I tuck my children in at 6 PM. Today that notion is so foreign. Filling time? I can't recall the last time I had to think up things for them to do, just to fill hours until bedtime. Goodness, we're cutting tasks just to get people to actually sleep.

Back then it was the bedtime story that insured sleep, all of us piled in our one enormous bed. (A twin and a king together. I cant recommend it enough.) After the book came the song and the snuggle, then we laid together in the darkness for what felt like (or perhaps really was) hours until I heard their slow, measured breath.

These days Lupine and I still read together before bed. Then she heads to her own room to read her own books, sometimes awake long after I have fallen sleep. Sage and I always find a moment to connect before bed as well, and sometimes when I wake to adjust my pillow at midnight I can see his light is still on, as he reads late into the night. It's a different world. 

I think in the thick of those years and years of hands-on/24-7 parenting I felt like that chapter would last forever – the night wakings and night nursings; the shared bed; the broken sleep. But of course it doesn't. It didn't. And things unfolded in their own time, just as they are meant to. With no agenda or expectation, just everyone growing older and stronger and more independent, day after day after day.

Last night, in the midst of a fierce storm, a song was requested for the first time in as long as I can remember. And she told me, "sometimes when I can't fall asleep I sing that to myself."

This is what motherhood looks like now. The song from my own lips being rare, but my children singing themselves to sleep, whether literally or figuratively, night after night.

And I'm certain I will blink tomorrow and find we're all ten years older once more, my babies grown and gone.

While all of this sounds rather melancholy I assure you it is not. I'm savoring this chapter. Every morsel that I can. And I'm remembering back to when someone told me, that the "difficult, sensitive babies make amazing teens and adults." For how hard the early years were, the later years would be that much richer. And how true it is. Life was harder back then. Some years were brutal with broken sleep and trying days, my cheeks and theirs stained with tears before noon. But now we're so far removed from that that it's hard to even remember what it felt like.

And  truly, for that I am so grateful.

I remember as a new mother wishing someone had told me how hard motherhood would be. How it wouldn't be all rainbows and fairy dust and butterfly kisses. That the early years in particular were built upon sleep deprivation, exhaustion, and overstimulation, with a bit of lost identity thrown in for good measure.

But maybe no one told me that because it was hard for them to remember. We're selective in which snapshots get saved for the stack that will flash before our eyes.

We filter. We edit. We grow up, too. And we find blessings in those challenging years that overshadow the struggles.

Today I am keenly aware of how much time has elapsed already and how fast that next chapter may come. And how today's struggles will be tomorrow's faint and blurry memories. And all of these years will just be memories that silently scroll through my mind.

Just images and snapshots.

The memories I will savor before I fall sleep.

As a woman with both the children that I wanted and a solid relationship with my own mom, Mother's day is easy. But not so for everyone. For some Mother's Day is woven with pain, regret, or grief. And so today I offer the thought that perhaps mothering is not only for those who have children.

Mothering, I believe, can also mean healing ourselves and the pain that we carried with us from our own childhood; mothering the frightened or grieving or broken child within us. Mothering is the tender nurturing that we offer to all who are smaller and more vulnerable than ourselves. Mothering means standing with humility and grace beside our own shadow selves, knowing that we are often not as we wish we might be. It is being brought to our knees by the day-to-day struggles of this life, then finding the strength to stand up and begin anew. And yes, mothering is also the rewarding but sisyphean task tending of the children (birthed or adopted or chosen) who encircle our lives.

To those who struggle with fertility, depression, or loss; to those whose relationships with their own mother is painful or wrought with grief; to those who grieve the loss of a parent or a child, know that you are seen. And Mother's Day (like everyday) is likely not easy.

Take this day to nourish and nurture the child within you, to heal a bit of what is broken, and to simply acknowledge where it hurts. Wherever you stand today, and whether you stand there alone or surrounded by those you love, I wish each of you love and peace, today and onward.

Happy Mother's Day, my friends.