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.

Oh, yes. 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

Save

I think for me parenting is mostly a lesson in balancing needs.

Before kids my needs were usually first. Pete's as well, and our dogs and cats, work and home, but mostly I had the luxury of taking care of myself when and how I wanted to.

But then Sage and Lupine arrived and in that whirlwind of becoming a mama my needs washed under the parenting bridge with the flood waters of caring for a newborn.

We rode the waves until suddenly, now, there is time again.

A little of them, a little of me, a little of us.

Balance.

Or the beginning of it.

 

This week was exceptionally busy. The kids and I traveled across the state so that I could give a talk at the Wisconsin homeschooling conference. I was nervous (nervous!) and we set out days before my actual talk in order to work our way there without losing our minds in a stressed-out hurry.

Because of distance and time we bookended our trip with visits to my parents, their home on the southern route and the cabin on the north. But it was hard for me to just be in that space and not lost in my head. I was anxious to be away from the farm right now (I missed shearing this year on account of our trip), fretting over my talk (what do I possibly have to say for over an hour?!), and flooded with shoulds and anxiety and worry of every sort.

So nestled in at my mom and dad's house I spent some time locked in my old bedroom working on my talk, did a little mindless knitting in the family room, and tried to catch my breath.

I put my own needs first. I had the space for it and was so glad.

But soon I had done all that I could. I was breathing easier and looked to my kids to see how they were fairing.

And then Lupine saw the flowers.

 

My mom's yard is overflowing with flowers and she handed Lupine a scissors and let her have free reign.

Before I knew it my work was set aside and I was out in the yard, harvesting willow catkins, marsh marigold petals, and mustard leaves from the land that was my childhood domain.

Lupine and I began talking to each other in the funny voices we use when we become someone else in a game and we set to work crafting a table and chairs from some logs from the woodpile and setting it with dishes.

And I shifted. I let go for a moment all of that fretting.

And for that I am thankful.

 

I suppose her need to live briefly in this make believe world – and her desire to bring me along with her – helped me set down my adult cares for the moment and simply see the beauty and magic that surrounds her every day.

And I wanted to go there with her. To put her needs first and let her take me into her realm.

 

All the while Sage was curled on the couch, lost in a novel. Not a better choice, not a worse one, but different – older.  Suddenly. Not long ago it was he I made mud pies with out in the yard. But not anymore. For now is the perfect time for novels.

And that sweet memory of playing make believe with my suddenly big son kept me outside playing Wild Restaurant with this second small chef while I still had the chance.

She'd still small today, but I'm not so sure of tomorrow.

 

As for mud kitchen play in general, I can't say enough nice things about it.

It's the original sensory table, minus the table. It is cold and warm, wet and dry, sticky and crumbly, smooth and scratchy – all woven together with threads of unscripted freedom.

But mostly it's about the imagination.

 

So as spring rolls into summer, if you offer your child one extra curricular activity this season – if you sign them up for one soccer league, one summer camp, or one workshop – also offer them time and space to get their hands in some mud.

To get messy and dirty and get lost in a world of their own making.

It doesn't take much. Just a few yogurt tubs or old plates and spoons, some earth, and a handful of flower petals.

Then give them a sliver of your time some sunny afternoon when you have other things to do (which we grown-ups always do) but choose their world instead.

Go with them onto the porch or into the yard or down to the park and dig and play and laugh and get lost in their messy, perfect world.

And know that in that simple act you may give them the richest memory of the season.

 

And yes, perhaps yours as well.

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

 

A repost from 2013.

I don't need you to keep me busy.

I don't need you to cure my boredom.

 

I need you to throw open the back door and invite me outside.

Into the sunlight or the moonlight or the hazy morning fog.

 

I don't need more lessons or activities or organized after-school-anything.

I need to wander out in the rain and the snow.

Aimless and dreaming. Exploring.

Where I will see fairies dancing in the mist.

 

Give me time for games without rules.

Give me space to run barefoot through the dew.

 

Give me a childhood unburdened so that I may be the person I am meant to be.

 

I don't need more toys.

Or newer. Or better.

I need less. 

 

Just give me a few wooden planks, your old mixing bowls, and a shovel.

Then let me go without guidance.

To play.

To get dirty.

To live.

 

I don't need you to plug me in.

Instead I need you to plug into me.

 

Put down your phone.

Turn it off.

And tune into my childhood.

 

Dig with me.

Be with me.

Share these fleeting and dreaming days.

 

Because all that I truly need is you.

And a simple space in which to grow.

 

Edited: I've added a follow-up to this post. You can find it here.

I had a hard day.

She brought me flowers.

Because she always sees my heart, even when I lose my cool.

I hugged her close and thanked her and said, "So this means you still want to keep me for your mama, huh?"

She giggled at the absurdity of my joke.

And it was a joke but one with a shadow of truth around it.

I forgive others more quickly than I do myself.

 

If my children have a hard day I look for the need. I love. I nurture. I dig deep for patience, compassion, and empathy.

If I have a hard day I blame myself for not being enough.

Good enough, patient enough, loving enough.

 

It's no surprise that this strategy is not helping.

 

The truth is we all falter.

When our cup is dry, our days are long, or our patience is thin.

We stumble. We come undone.

And that doesn't make you a bad mother. It makes you a mother who needs care.

Sometimes then only one there to give you that care is you.

 

Because when you yell or blame or guilt or snap it isn't your truth.

It's not your path.

It's your heart's way of calling for change.

A change in perspective, a change in rhythm, a change in priorities – a change in something.

It's time you start answering the call.

 

As for me on my angry-hangry-grouchy day, I made a choice.

I slowed down. I ate better. I went to bed early. I turned inward, breathing deep.

And hardest of all, I set to work on forgiveness.

When the same triggers came up the next day I had more grace.

I breathed, spoke my needs, and reached for love.

I found humor, patience, and joy.

Again.

Thank goodness.

 

So the next time you start to unravel know that you are not alone.

There are countless others out there, fighting this hard fight.

Go inward. Accept. Regroup.

And be mindful.

And when you lose it (because you'll lose it), forgive, forgive, forgive.

Yourself.

Then as you reconnect and apologize for your mistakes, begin the hard work of doing better tomorrow.

 

And know that even in your unraveling you are the greatest teacher your child could ever have.

Because in your imperfection you have come to teach love, forgiveness, and second chances.

By how you treat yourself.

 

Now get out there and be awesome.

In your messy, imperfect, and beautiful way.

And always, always love. You.

Because even on your hardest day you are worthy of that.

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

I spent part of yesterday sorting through a huge tote of photos I've been moving from house to house for more than a decade.

Yesterday seemed apropos, being Sage's 12th birthday.

What better time to travel back through these years and remember so much that was forgotten?

So while he and a friend threw water balloons at each other out in the yard I dug in.

There was a photo of Pete and me in our mid 20's, standing beside a happy yellow house, just after we were handed the keys.

Seeing that photo again I remembered.

The house that we moved into during our first year of marriage. The house where we became a family. The house where Sage was born (very nearly on the front porch) and the life we know now began.

There were photos of me pregnant with this boy who now grazes my shoulders.

There were photos of me holding and nursing my newborn, my big eyes barely hinting at the overwhelm and worry I felt in those first months of holding another life in my hands.

Oh, how I remember.

There were photos of Pete and me trying like hell to hold onto our sense of humor, our connection, our "before". And I remember that, too.

 

And then as I dug through the bin the photos shifted. We shifted. As slowly, slowly we found our groove and our grace.

And the crying baby became a smiling baby became a beaming toddler became a bright and shining child.

Just like in real life.

And then there were photos of me pregnant again, and nursing and holding another baby, the wild eyes of fear gone completely.

Relief. Ease. Love. Light.

I remember.

 

And the two of them – small – and the four of us – happy – together.

Layer by layer, photo by photo, I uncovered the story of me becoming me and of us becoming us.

And I remember it all.

 

The deeper I dug through the photos, the more effortless and beautiful it all became.

Sure, there were exceptions. There were photos that remind me of hard times. Where he is wearing the pajamas that they cut off of him in the ER, or a photo where something looks off in his eyes.

And so I remember those days, too, with a tender and aching appreciation for how it all turned out.

But mostly I remember the ease that came as we hit our groove.

 

Because even our hardest days turned out okay in the end. No – better than okay. Better than I imagined, even on the very best days.

And now beside me stands a twelve-year-old, confident, self-knowing child where a tender baby once was.

And I remember it all.

Sage taught me how to parent from the heart.

How to honor my inner wisdom and truly listen to my child, even when he can not find the words.

He taught me how to be tender, honest, and kind in a way I had never know before.

He taught me how to lead with love.

 

I've never been in a hurry for him to grow up – nor have I felt the need to pull him back or slow him down.

His life is unfolding in his perfect way at his perfect pace. In every way.

And it has been – since the start.

 

And I'm humbled an honored to be his mama and to be learning and growing right here by his side.

 

Happy Birthday Sage August. Thank you for choosing me to be your mama.

I love you so.

 

 (Last photo by Lupine)