Sometimes you wonder.

After the hard days.

When you were not at your best.

You wonder, in secret, where no one will hear.

Am I mother enough?

Because you see them around you. Those other mothers. In your town and on your screen.

Gentle.

Peaceful.

Patient.

Kind.

They parent with grace and with joy.

Always.

In the flow. Harmonious.

Children smiling and holding hands,

while your kids whine and fight.

And your baby cries.

Again.

And you question if you even know what you're doing.

Because if you did, the children wouldn't argue.

And the baby wouldn't cry.

Constantly.

So you must be doing it wrong.

Of course you're doing it wrong.

And so you wonder.

And you doubt.

Am I wearing her enough?

Am I breastfeeding enough?

Should we co-sleep more?

But sometimes you're all touched out.

Am I patient enough?

Present enough?

Nurturing enough?

But sometimes you just need a damn break from it all.

Am I good enough?

Am I strong enough?

Am I enough?

And then, probably, you decide that you are not.

Because sometimes you yell.

You say words you regret.

Because you didn't babywear or breastfeed or co-sleep at all.

Because sometimes dinner comes from the drive-thru.

And they watch too much TV.

Because sometimes the thoughts in your head are dark and shameful.

Because every day ends with regret.

And all around you are those mamas who make you feel inadequate without even trying.

Those mothers with stardust in their eyes.

And when you look at them you measure yourself and you know what you suspected all along.

You are not enough.

Sometimes you curse this life you made and all the smallness that surrounds you.

But mostly you curse yourself for your shortcomings.

And then the baby cries.

Again.

Or your children set to arguing.

Again.

And you know you're right.

Of course you're right.

You're not enough.

Oh, but sister. Hear me when I say:

You are.

You are good enough.

You are loving enough.

You are mother enough.

 

You are brilliantly, beautifully – yes! – the mama your children came here to find.

No, you aren't perfect.

But none of us are.

No one has it all dialed in.

We have all made mistakes.

Even the "Dali Mamas" around you.

This I know is true.

And every day you are learning and growing and evolving.

You are becoming.

And you are their mama.

The one they came here for.

And for all of your flaws, they are sheltered by you.

They know love because your love is fierce.

And they learn to get up when they fall and try again by watching you.

And best of all, they know they don't have to be perfect to be enough.

What a gift that is.

And also know this:

As that mama who seems to have it together, I have never been more humbled in my mothering than when I see you keep your head just above water as the rapids around you churn.

 

Yes, mama. I see you.

And I'm humbled.

Now it's time to see yourself.

So are you enough?

Heck yes you are. 

 

: : :

More inpsiration…

There is no label for what you do.

Stop comparing.

What I need.

Ten ways to rock your parenting, where ever you are.

What I did not know: reflections on motherhood.

And you can find more of my reflections on motherhood and imperfection here.

: : :

Originally published in 2013

Given the choice between supervising organized sports or running through the woods dressed as medieval misfits and warriors, my choice is pretty easy. I'd take this option any day.

Indeed, as a twenty year old I participated in a few LARP (live action role play) events, (and not because my kid needed a ride), putting on my own armor, cape, and shield. But this time, at just days shy of 44, I felt a little out of my element. Sage had a two-day LARP that he wanted to attend, and rather than catch a ride with another family he really wanted me to come along. We could bring the camper, then sleep out after each event.

I suggested to Pete that he could go instead, but with a broken arm, sleeping in the camper would be more difficult than managing farm chores without Sage and I. (sigh.)

And so I decided to go. I would stay in the camper and work on lesson plans and recipes for the upcoming summer camp while Sage and the others played. And also I would knit. And drink copious, unreasonable amounts of tea.

It sounded dreamy, actually. Two six-hour days of me-time? Yes, please.

Sage tried to convince me to LARP, too, but I made some excuses and told him that I might join in at the next event. 

But then, standing on the edge of the field, surrounded by LARPers of all ages, one of the organizers looked at me (with piercing transparent purplish-blue contact lensed eyes), and pointedly asked, "So are you playing?" 

Um.

I stumbled about for excuses of about the work I needed to do and she replied with a blank purply-eyed stare. 

"And… that was the lamest excuse ever," I admitted.

She silently nodded. 

 

The next thing I knew I was draped in a gold tabard (game code: invisible non-character) and invited in to lurk on the sidelines and photograph the two day event, despite having only blue jeans and a t-shirt to wear underneath.

As long as I stayed out of the way.

 

I silently tucked my knitting back into my project bag and put my lesson plans away.

Game on.

The truth is, Sage is growing up fast.

His world and mine are slowly moving apart from one another, as they are meant to do.

But he asked me to play. Not just the purple-eyed lady. My teenager. And it isn't often that he asks me to play anymore. How long until he stops for good?

These days are more fleeing than ever, it seems.

And just as I was when he was small and wanted me to play trains or trucks or play kitchen, I'm a little out of my element. I'm fumbling along, faking my way through.

But so what? Isn't that the very essence of parenting? Two parts love and one part faking it. We step out of our comfort zone and into in a world of our child's making, ever surprised by the bits of ourselves we discover along the way.

Another Viroqua mom was there, supervising her son who was too young to participate without a guardian. I'm pretty sure she didn't know she'd be playing when she arrived. Not gold tabard photography and lurking, but a full costume and weapons and the rest.

"Rachel, can you hold my shield for a minute?"

She was wrangling her weaponry as we headed into the woods. I took her foam shield, then teased, "You've never asked me that before."

"Yeah," she replied. "It's a whole new level of our friendship!" 

We laughed and discussed how LARPing is a whole new level of motherhood as well. I think as parents we step up expecting music lessons or organized sports, dance class or martial arts. But not this. Not swords and chainmail and role play.

But as parents we go with the flow. We help our kids find what they love; then we stand on the sidelines (or beside them at the battering ram, as the case may be) and wildly cheer them on. 

And I realized in that moment how amazing it is for these kids – and these adults – to find this niche were they truly belong. To find a place to express this creative, all-in imaginative part of themselves that for many is stifled in their day to day life. 

It was surprisingly inspiring to watch.

Isn't that what we all desire? To find that place that thing that makes us come alive? And yeah, it might be soccer. But for many of us (or I'd wager most of us) it isn't. 

 

And that was how it happened that I rolled into my 44th birthday wishing I had more period appropriate clothing to wear under my tabard, and plotting and planning what I would bring to the next event. 

Parenting is strange business, my friends. It changes us in ways we never, ever imagined.

And for that I am consistently grateful.

 

 

Oh, and one more thing – does anyone have any pointy ears I can borrow for a couple of days in May? 

I might just need them.

 

 

You can read about Last Hope LARP here.

 

My whole family has the flu.

First Sage, then Pete, now Lupine. All three are still in the thick of it.

And I'm worn thin today from caring for these sick ones the past few days, while juggling all the rest that's on my plate. I cancelled a meeting, two demos, and two work days this week already, despite still playing catch-up from our time away.

And while I am grateful to have a self-constructed life where I can cancel meetings and skip work, it's still tiring. And I wonder how I could manage if we had three, four, or more kids. (Parents of big families, I salute you.)

If I'm honest I'd admit to being over it. I'm weary and a tad short-tempered and overwhelmed, despite myself. I've said things like, "Did you really just spill a second bowl of soup?!" instead of dancing across the kitchen like Mary Poppins, singing while I wipe up the mess.

Grace and patience are normally my strength, so it's hard when I can't seem to find them.

I went to bed early last night (to snuggle a feverish little one) and rose early this morning. (Even with flu in there air, there are only so many hours a person can spend in bed.) In the still darkness I made coffee and lit a fire in the wood stove, trying to carve out a moment alone to center myself before the day began.

To prepare for today and choose my focus.

Today. I will tend what most needs tending. I will not get sucked under into the suffering. I will find grace.

 

Because this is motherhood.

I wouldn't trade it for anything, but it's some serious hard work.

 

All of you struggling mamas out there, I see you.

With your harried work-school-daycare schedule and past-due bills; with your middle of the night vomit clean up and your overwhelm; with your heavy heart and busy schedule; with your worry and hope that you'll get this right.

 

You are not alone.

We stand together. Tired and undone, but together. 

 

I thought I might take my daughter with me to march tomorrow. Meet up with my sister and maybe even my mom; don our pink hats and raise our voices. But I felt anxious. Inexplicably so. 

I asked a friend if she and her daughter were going and she said, "I'm not so sure about bringing her to the march. I don't know why. Is it because I feel I need to "protect" her from the impetus behind the gathering? Preserving 'innocence', you know?"

And as I read her words the knot in my stomach suddenly made sense.

Because I don't want to explain these things to my daughter.

Not because it would be difficult for me, but because she – like all of our children - deserves a bit more time to dwell in the innocence of youth. To savor this carefree chapter that always ends too soon.

 

As homeschoolers we are especially blessed with a lingering innocence. And I'm relishing that experience for both of my kids.

I want my children to grow up brave, not fearful. I want my daughter to be hopeful, not draped with shame. I want her to be real and kind and authentic – not cowering beneath the dark cloud of a messy story that we all share.

And though we talk often about consent and about our body being ours alone, I don't want to explain the backstory just yet. 

The backstory of why a "pussy hat" represents feminism or what these words even mean. And while I am raising her to fight like hell if anyone does anything that makes her feel afraid or objectified or threatened, I don't want to talk about assault or rape; violence or oppression.

I want it all theoretical for now. Not real life.

But of course it is real. For all of us. It's just that I don't want to explain that part yet. 

I don't want her to know what it feels like to glance over your shoulder at the sound of footfalls behind you in the street, or to laugh awkwardly after an inappropriate comment, touch, or gesture. I don't want her to know all of the ways that sexism really manifests in the world. But all women know this story. We grew up with it. We have lived with it forever.

And I say this as a white woman. A person who grew up with privileges that many are denied but all deserve. What of those who wear layers of "otherness" in their gender, sexuality, race, and creed?

So we talk about it all, but not in all the detail. 

Because I don't want to explain this to her yet.

Childhood is a time for freedom and wings, not fear and anxiety.

Childhood is for magic and wonder, not uncertainty, confusion, or grief. 

And I want her to bravely soar, not look over her shoulder constantly like all of us grew up doing.

Not now. Not yet.

 

And so I needed to give myself permission to sit this one out. 

As difficult is that is for me, a woman who has identified herself as a feminist since childhood.

I needed to miss "my" march. Because that felt like the most authentic choice I could make.

Girlfriends, it is your right and honor as women to march on Saturday. To make some noise! To raise some hell.

And it's also your right and your privilege to decide to stay home. To give yourself permission to find a different way to make your voice heard.

Your feminist badge will not be revoked if you opt out due to anxiety or fear or overwhelm. Honor your truths, and give yourself permission to go or to stay. You get to decide. That's part of your power. The power to choose your own path.

Likewise, it is your right an honor as a mother to proudly bring your daughter (or your son); to march side-by-side and show them firsthand what feminism looks like. 

Just as it is your right an honor to protect her young heart for just a little while more.

I can still remember what it feels like to mother young children.

The hands-on, in-arms, constant nature of that work.

Being an all-in-all-the-time mama has been my most important role, but also my most difficult. Parenthood (for me) is consuming.

But things change. Kids grow. Space is made.

Today my children are older; more independent. They are big enough that I can be more than just their mama. (Some people pull this off when their kids are young. I didn't. At least not well.) So today I can feel myself expanding. Simultaneously I can be their mother and more. I can be a small business owner; a maker; a writer; a partner; a decent friend. (And not just when someone is napping.)

I can be a person who is a mother and so much more.

Which, of course, I always was. There just wasn't often time to explore it.

 

With that in mind I loaded my cross country skis, a sewing machine, a cooler, and an unreasonable number of knitting projects into my car last week and embarked – alone – for a few days alongside the river.

Once I got over the strangeness of being truly alone I set up a bit of a Santa's workshop in the cabin – sewing, knitting, and otherwise making from before the sun rose until long after it set. Crafting breaks meant walks along the river, too many cups of tea, and skiing through the forest. It was restorative. 

Half-way through my stay my dearest friend from long before motherhood arrived, and we spent the last two days together – catching up, resting, and creating. 

 

And while I was grateful to come home and reconnect with my family, I was even more grateful for this space that has magically formed in my life, for all of the things that I hold dear.

Friends with little ones, know that someday you will sleep through the night again. You will eat a meal that is still hot, and you will find yourself with time on your hands to rediscover yourself again. This I know for sure.

(As for using the bathroom without someone talking to you through the door or full on walking in? That one, I regret to inform you, remains to be seen.)

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

There are days when I ache with this truth.

I feel it in the marrow of my bones.

Clear into my soul.

Because I know.

These days are fleeting.

 

Nothing lasts forever.

Not the sleepless nights of a newborn nor the angst of a pre-teen.

Not the sweet milky smile of a baby nor the quick humor or this half-grown child.

Our life has become this pile of snapshots and in each photo I can see you growing up.

Sometimes it feels so fast I can scarcely breathe.

No, nothing lasts forever.

 

And so I look around and wonder where the time has gone.

It turns out that "this too shall pass," my motto on the hardest days, applies to everyday.

And suddenly I don't want to squander a moment.

Today is fleeting.

And I wonder when my son will be as tall as me.

And when my daughter will no longer curl in my lap and kiss my cheeks.

I wonder at how much longer my arms will be the welcome nest that my children flock to, encircling them as they sleep.

And when they will finally pull away.

And so tonight I will lay beside you until you are soundly dreaming, just in case I wake tomorrow to discover that you've grown up.

 

I will listen to your breathing and remember the days when you were small and sometimes it seemed so hard.

And I wonder why it seemed so hard.

In the darkness I promise myself to lead with my heart.

Always.

To lead with compassion.

Starting now.

I promise myself to stop wasting time speaking words I will regret.

 

I imagine this life with children grown, off to write their own stories and live their own adventures.

And while my mind delights in them finding their wings, my heart weeps at the suggestion.

And there is that ache again.

Perhaps that ache is love.

True, full, indescribable love. The kind that you didn't know existed until you had children of your own.

The kind you can't explain now because language is inadequate.

The kind of love you whisper into small, sleeping ears because you just need them to know what is unknowable.

This much love.

 

Yes. Maybe that ache is the feeling of a heart bursting from a fullness that is immeasurable.

And perhaps that ache will help us remember what really matters.

 May it keep us kind.

May it keep us playful.

May it help us find the words and be the parents that we want to be.

Words like "I'm sorry," and "It hurts," and "I understand."

Words like "I love you," and "You are enough," and "I am here."

Words that heal us and connect us.

May it help us remember how it feels to be small.

I remember how it feels to be small.

 

May we live this life and guide these children with the goal of having nothing to regret.

Not one thing.

And may we remember always that when the sun sets on today our child will be one day older.

One day closer to grown.

And that tomorrow is another chance to start again.

Oh, yes. These days are fleeting.

 

So I will savor the taste of my child's spirit when it rises up.

I will skim it off and drink it deeply.

So that I never forget these fleeting days.

So that I never forget this perfectly ordinary day that will be dust and snapshots tomorrow.

Today I will hold you in my arms.

I will listen to your dreams.

I will take your hand and go wherever you wish to go.

While you still want to journey there together.

Because soon it will be time.

 Time to open my arms and let you go.

 As you find your wings and soar.

 

And I ache.

Again.

 

 

Originally posted in 2013.

Photos by Ray + Kelly Photography.

*This blog post is approximately 9 years overdue. My apologies.

When Sage was a toddler I heard about this crazy idea where people keep their babies "diaper-free".

Instead of checking for a wet or dirty diaper they put their babe over the toilet instead, made a silly "pssssh, psssh, psssh" sound and their baby pees. (Or poops.) In the toilet.

I was one part skeptical and one part awe-struck by the concept. 

I tried it half-heartedly with my walking, talking toddler who proceeded to look at me like I was nuts, then continue to pee and poop in his diaper with prefect predictability. 

He was too old. I had missed my window.

(Also, I had no idea what I was doing.)

 

Fast forward a few years and I was expecting my second child. A dear friend called me (one who had also half-heartedly plunked a toddler on a toilet with great hopes that went unrealized.) She insisted that I buy the diaper-free book we had both heard about so that I didn't miss my window again.

She was amazingly persistent and finally I caved. 

Pete and I devoured the book in a matter of days. We were awe-struck once more.

The concept was simple, natural, and rooted deep in our history as a species. That wasn't some newfangled baby-training technique. This was the way it was always done. We had just forgotten how to listen.

The concept is that all babies cue their needs – be it for sleep, to nurse, to be held, or to pee and poop not in their britches.

By observing our parents and friends and neighbors and siblings we learned early on the basics of baby speak. But the potty communication was lost along the way.

If we only re-learn how to listen we will revive this ancient wisdom and (get this) know when our babies need to visit the loo before they soil their pants.

Cool/crazy? I thought so. 

Elimination Communication breaks down to four simple tools:

1. Watching your baby for "I have to pee/poop" cues
2. Offering your baby a cue and an opportunity to use the potty ("psssh, psssh, psssh" while you hold them over the potty, for example)
3. Paying attention to timing (as in: hmm… he always pees when he wakes from his nap)
4. Listening to your intuition 

We were inspired. Pete said, "Now that we know about this we have to at least try. It's like knowing about the benefits of breastfeeding and not even giving it a shot." 

I agreed wholeheartedly.

So yes, we bought diapers for our baby, but we also stashed baby potties in several rooms in anticipation of ditching the diapers altogether. 

Game on.

After Lupine was born we decided to wait until she was a few of weeks old before we even tried, to get a feel for her communication around the subject. I spent a good deal of time looking at her face and body, then sticking my finger in her diaper to see if it was wet. (Be honest, ya'll. If you have kids you've stuck your finger in many a diaper.) 

Finally I was ready. 

When Lupine was just three weeks old I saw something in her body language that told me she had to go to the bathroom. I nervously removed her diaper and awkwardly held her over the little red potty we had at the ready by our bedside so that she could (maybe? possibly? probably not.) pee.

I held her gently by the thighs, her back against my sternum, hoping all the while that she didn't faceplant on the mattress mid-pee.

Psssh, psssh, psssh.

And? She peed. I caught my first pee! (Weirdly thrilling, I must admit.)

And then – just a second later – she pooped. 

She pooped like she'd been waiting for me to put her over that potty for the better part of the morning. Epic, dramatic baby poop. Right into the potty. 

And then, not missing a beat, she looked over he tiny little pink shoulder at me, looked me square in the eyes and smiled. A huge mouth-open, sparkly-eyed "you finally caught on!" smile. 

My mind was blown.  

Aside from a couple of accidents, she never pooped in a diaper again. Three weeks old, ya'll. 

Three weeks.

We still missed plenty of pees and she wore cloth diapers (without a cover) most days. (Technically "diaper-free", but dang close enough in my book.) But she was done with poop in her diaper after that first time on the potty. After the first go! I'd call that an epic win.

And I sold her yet-to-be-pooped-in cloth diapers long before her second birthday – without every having to deal with a single blow-out, without washing a single load of poopy diapers, and yes, without the stress of potty training.

 

Elimination Communication is simply listening to your baby in a new (old) way.

Just as you can tell the difference between a tired cry and a hungry cry, there are also cues that babies consistently give for needing to pee or needing to poop. It's just as a culture we have forgotten how to read them.

Practicing EC means re-learing these lost skills.

And once you learn them you can never unlearn them.

Just like your milk lets down when you hear a stranger's baby crying at the grocery store, once you've done EC you can see babies cueing everywhere.

I was at the park with my mom when Lupine was five. I saw a toddler who was cuing. ("She has to poop." I whispered to my mom.) Five minutes later her grandmother scooped her up and gave her butt as sniff. "You need a clean diaper, little one!" she said. My mom chuckled. 

Another time Pete and I were watching a home movie of (then baby) Sage. He was sitting in front of our refrigerator, moving magnets around.

Without even turning toward the camera, we saw his body language shift.

Pete and I (watching the video) both cried out, "He has to pee!"

Me in the video: "Blah, blah, blah, you're playing with the magnets! Blah, blah, blah." (Oblivious.)

Sage continued to play with the magnets, then stopped and turned to face us. Poop face. Full on. 

Me in the video: "Are you pooping?" (Day late and a dollar short, lady.) 

Pete and I, watching the video couldn't stop laughing. We caught a poop, just six years behind schedule. 

 

Once you see it you can't stop seeing it. That's what I'm talking about.

Even my mom got in on it, despite initially thinking we were nuts for trying. We were at a gathering and she was holding Lupine, then just a few months old. Lupine cued and my mom noticed (I did not). She quietly stood up and walked outside. When she returned she was beaming. "I caught my first pee!". 

And it wouldn't be the last.

While EC looks like a bit more work in the moment, for us it wasn't. Because slipping a diaper off of a baby to help them use the potty doesn't take more time that cleaning up a poopy bum.

And the satisfaction of this degree of communication with our baby was an unexpected, rewarding bonus. 

As weird as that might seem.

 

Interested in learning more?

While EC is not for everyone, for us it was a game-changer. You can learn more at Diaper Free Baby and from the book we used, Diaper Free.