Like you I am human.

Like you I am flawed.

Like you I have ideals. Of who I am and how I live.

And sometimes I achieve those ideals.

And other times I don't.

 

As a mother I strive for peace.

I listen. I hear.

I reach for compassion. Understanding. Love.

I empower.

I allow.

 

And today I yelled.

I really, really yelled.

I was frustrated. Impatient. Angry.

And at it's core was fear. It's almost always fear.

And from that shadow space I lashed out.

I yelled.

 

And around here a yell isn't so different than a hit.

It's violence, from one person to another.

We can dress it up, but it's still violence.

 

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can cut much deeper.

I did that.

In a weak and fearful moment.

I yelled.

 

And even as the words came tumbling out of my mouth, I knew I wanted to take them back, but they just kept coming.

Frustration.

Anger.

Fear.

 

And then…

I stopped.

 

Because this was not what motherhood was meant to be.

 

I didn't come here to be the mama for this.

To do harm to those I love most.

No.

I came here to be the mama with arms open wide.

To hold these precious souls in love and light and grace.

To listen. To hear. To allow. 

Not to knock them down.

This isn't what mothering is about.

I was on the wrong road.

 

And so I said:

I'm sorry.

 

I'm sorry.

We sat, my child upon my lap, both of us with tears in our eyes, and I said I was sorry.

So, so sorry.

And I said I was human. And I made a mistake.

 

It's okay.

 

It's okay.

We are human. We all lose our way sometimes.

 

My child forgave me.

In an instant.

We worked together to undo the harm.

We found a solution to our struggle.

We found connection once more.

 

And then I set to the hardest work of all.

Forgiving myself.

 

Because I was still angry. But now I was angry with me.

 

Yet when my children yell, I forgive them.

In an instant.

When others fall apart I reach for understanding. Love. Compassion.

And I am deserving of that same gift.

 

I am flawed.

I am human.

And I am forgiven.

Yes, even by my harshest critic: myself.

 

Because I taught and learned more through this simple act than any other today.

 

And from here we can truly move forward.

 

Love,

Rachel

 

I have a secret for you.

You might not have been told this before, but it's about you. And it's true.

Ready?

 

You're doing it right.

All of it.

Every hard day when you lose your cool, every day when you've got it all dialed in. Every. Single. Day.

You're doing it right.

Life, parenting, everything.

 

Even when it's imperfect.

Even when it's hard.

Even when you feel like a failure.

 

I know.

Somebody told you othewise.

And you might have even believed them.

But they were wrong.

This journey is meant to be flawed.

In fact, I think that's the point somehow.

 

I hadn't heard the concept of "mommy wars" until recently.

I didn't even know what that could possibly mean.

Because we're all on this journey together.

 

And yet we're all different.

Our goals are different. Our needs are different. Our kids are different.

Our lives are different.

So how could our parenting possibly be the same?

Am I the only one who finds the entire premise of "mommy wars" absurd?

I doubt it.

 

And everyone has advice to help you change the way you're doing it to be more right.

But you can't.

Because you're doing it right already.

 

So what do you say we stop telling each other how to do it our way, and instead start listening to each other's truths and struggles, heartaches and fears?

Because often we need an ear more than another voice.

Doesn't that sound better?

 

But before we do, let me share one last thought.

Perhaps the only advice that anyone needs.

It's simultaneously tiny and immeasurable.

And – I believe – helpful. To all of us.

 

That advice is:

Listen to your inner voice.

Because you hold the key.

 

Does it feel bad?

Don't do it.

Or don't do it again. Or do your best to stop doing it.

Try. And try. And try.

 

Does it resonate with your soul?

Do that. No matter what the "experts" say.

Remember it. Believe it.

Hold it close and do it again and again.

 

Because you know the way. You have the map. It's there. In your heart.

And in motherhood your choice to co-sleep or not won't determine how fabulous your little one's childhood will be.

And breast or bottle, your baby can be fed with love.

And firm rules or utter freedom, your child will find a way to let their soul sing.

 

There is no expert on your family but you.

Trust that truth.

Honor it. Embrace it.

And allow others to embark on their own path.

So that's it.

All the parenting advice you'll ever need.

Does it feel right to you?

There is your answer.

And it's the only one you need.

 

Listen to your heart.

Because you, my friend, are the expert.

And you're doing it just right.

 

Love,
Rachel

 

Want more? You might also enjoy the post "There is No Label for What You Do."

This post starts grumbly, but it doesn't end that way. Stick with me…

 

I spent the weekend in and out of bed with two kids with change-of-season bugs.

Oh, come now. Both of them? Over the actual equinox? How punctual we are.

 

Now it's Monday morning and I both feel and look like death after spending most of the past three nights tending fevers and oogie bellies; rubbing sore heads, back, hands, etc.; and running up and down the stairs for bags of ice, hankies, and puke pails.

Sleeping? Not so much.

 

Oh, motherhood. Thanks for keeping me humble.

At around 3:27 AM this morning I had this delusional moment of self-pity when I remembered what it was like to have a sick baby and pretended that that was somehow easier.

Because I could latch that little one on and go back to sleep.

 

Except when I couldn't.

 

And then I'd tuck an arching and screaming babe into a sling – too congested or miserable to nurse – and wander the neighborhood, diluting their cries into the cool night air. And sometimes my own.

 

And now here we are.

Big kids.

And autumn.

 

And while the seasons of our life change, the essence is always the same.

It's about nurturing. Loving. Being real.

It's about pushing the limits of what you can give while still remembering to take care of you. (That one has taken me a while to learn.)

 

I remember when Sage was a baby and life felt so hard, all I wanted was to fix it. To fix him. 

If I did this right he would stop crying. If I tended that need it would be easy. If I stopped eating those foods or found the right remedy or the new magical hold for burping.

Then it would be easy. We'd find our groove.

 

But then my midwife (mama to many) said to me, "It will never be easy. But it will always be different."

 

While she was speaking specifically about mothering a highly sensitive child, her words applied to motherhood in general.

Never easy. Always different.

 

And I was free.

Her words freed me from my need to fix it all. To fix Sage. To fix me. To fix every hard moment.

 

Because life isn't meant to be easy.

It's meant to challenge us. To help us grow. To inspire us to stretch and evolve and expand and to break every boundry of what we think is possible.

 

And no, last night was not easy.

But it was different than those early sleepless nights. And like those early days it pushed my limits of compassion and patience and giving.

 

How much did I have to give?

Just barely enough.

And could I take care of me, too?

Yes. This time I could.

 

Never easy. Always different.

So tonight we'll pull dinner from the freezer. I'll say "yes" to reading books together, but "no" to reading one. more. book. when I need some space. And then I'll pick up my knitting instead. Maybe we'll even watch a movie.

 

I'll find the balance in caring for us all. Myself included.

 

No, it won't be easy. But it will be different.

 

Love,
Rachel

It's hard to believe it's been eleven years since I became a mother. What a journey it has been.

I'm over on Mothering today remembering those early days and reflecting on the difference between an easy baby and a "good" baby.

Won't you join me?

My post is here.

Even if you don't have children it might make you re-think they way you talk to mothers about their little ones.

Love,
Rachel

 

Sometimes we're starving for it.

Time alone.

With ourselves.

With our partner.

With our thoughts.

We hunger for a break.

For a breath.

For silence.

 

We're desperate to remember who we were.

Before. 

Who was I before?

We wrestle.

We grieve.

We struggle.

 

And then somehow, through grace, we let go.

We journey from resistance to surrender and let it all fall away.

From pushing and fighting what is, from trying to claw our way back into what was,

to peacefully laying back into today – eyes closed and smiling, heart filled with gratitude.

 

This.

Only this.

 

We become.

We grow.

We embrace.

We allow. 

We find peace in acceptance and our life blooms as we embrace today.

Surrender.

Presence.

 

This.

Just this.

 

We fall in love with the messy here-and-now and that dull hunger for something else subsides.

And they grow.

Always they grow.

And each day we're blessed to bear witness.

And soon they, too, dream of a journey all their own.

 

And then they venture out into the world.

Without us.

Even if for a moment.

 

And that breath that we once hungered for so desperately falls silently upon us.

And suddently everything is new again.

And we try to recall what it felt like before.

 

And then we remember:

Surrender.

 

Always surrender.

 

Because again

and still

there is only this.

 

Ever-changing, ever perfect this.

 

In my heart I desire days that are free.

Free of worry and regret.

Free to wander.

Free to live full. Out loud. And real.

Real in their messes.

Real in their connection.

Real in the work and struggle and joy that is being alive.

In my heart I want to look back and see the shining faces of my children looking back at me,

smiling

from my memories.

Without regret.

Without clouds across their eyes because I can not remember.

Because I was not here.

In my heart I want so much to never again answer the question, "How are you?"

with the apologetic – or proud – reply of,

"Busy!"

But instead with the words

Happy

or

Thankful

or

Blessed.

In my heart I want to leave behind anxiety and worry.

I want to shake off fear.

Fear of getting it wrong.

Fear of judgement.

Fear of everything falling apart.

Fear of being seen with my dirty floors and piles of laundry.

And instead embrace this day.

This life.

This moment.

For all of its messes and imperfections.

 In my heart I choose to put down the need to do it all.

I release myself from the pressure to get it right, because it's all right already.

In every sense.

 

In my heart I mindfully choose the path most joyful.

Because it leads to the life that I want.

Yes.

I choose joy.

And I am joy.

 

 

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?

Hell yeah 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.

: : :

You woke with a tummy ache.

You knew you were going to throw up, so you asked for the pail. Then Papa brought you a remedy.

I drew you a warm bath and sat by your side until you vomited, rested and asked for salts in the bath. ("Somehow I just think after throwing up that salts in the bath are a good idea," you said.) Then you vomited again as we were drying you off.

The salts were a good idea. They help your body detox. I guess you knew that already, somehow. At six.

I often marvel at your wisdom and intuition, even at times like this.

I went and found your softest pajamas and you gratefully let me put them on you, then we headed to the family room to cuddle are read books.

It turned out you were too tired for books.

You fell asleep with the bucket propped beneath your chin in case you threw up again.

Oh, sweet baby. It's hard being sick.

So I held you.

And you slept.

In my arms all morning.

You never heard your papa bring me breakfast or the boys leave for the day in town. You never heard the soft click of my knitting needle or the keys on my laptop. Mostly I just sat. Quitely. By your side.

And as I kissed your hot forehead I realized that there was so very much I could have accomplished that morning. There were dishes to wash, floors to sweep, projects to finish, work to attend to. All of it would have otherwise would have called my attention.

But not today. Not with your silent request for me to simply be with you.

I remember reading a quote as a young first-time mother that said something like, "Everyday you have dozens of things to take care of. But only one of them has feelings." And I got that. I still get that. I guess that's part of why my house is usually such a disaster.

With your exhausted and aching little body in my arms my to-do list simply melted away. It was just us. Nothing else mattered.

And I counted my mama blessings in minutes spent squeezed close in that chair, kissing your head.

You didn't even realize you had fallen asleep when you woke hours later and announced brightly, "I feel completely better. Well, almost completely better," and then asked for lemon balm popsicles.

Again with your intuition. I'm humbled by you.

So still in our pajamas as the clock approached noon we headed into the garden to pick lemon balm to brew into tea. You also asked for nettles to dry and catnip for the cat so we added those to our bags as we came inside.

And then you sat at the table and colored while I made herbal tea and popsicles to soothe your little belly.

And it worked like magic.

And then I felt that familiar maternal relief that all mamas know. The one that only comes when your little one feels better once more.

And I can breathe deep and easy again.

Lemon Balm Tummy Soothing Tea or Popsicles

1 big handful of dry lemon balm or two hand-fulls of fresh

A few slices of fresh ginger root

2 tsp fennel seed

3 C water

1 1/2 Tb slippery elm bark powder (optional)

Honey to taste

Bring all ingredients (except slippery elm and honey) to a simmer over medium heat. Reduce to low and hold at a gentle simmer for 10 minutes. Cool slightly and strain. (You can make a second infusion by adding 1 C of water and simmering again for 10 minutes, then steeping for 10 more.)

Return infusion to pot with slippery elm powder an simmer again for 3-5 minutes. The slippery elm will become quite thick and gelatinous and is ever so soothing to a sore belly.

Sweeten with honey and serve warm or freeze into popsicles.

Lemon balm is great for calming the nervous system, soothing sore throat, and settling sore stomaches. And it's delicious!

 

I remember wandering around my yard with my camera in the rain five years ago, plotting my first blog posts.

A close friend spied me across the yards and gave me a playful teasing. Because yes, I was photographing the rain coming out of my gutters. 

I remember feeling the tiniest bit embarrassed that she had seen me. That she knew what I was up to.

Because really – who was I to start blogging? What did I even have to say?

But I was determined just the same. So I kept photographing. And I started writing.

It was simultaneously scary, thrilling, and embarassing to hit "publish" on those first few posts. But I did it anyway.

And now it's been five years. Five years of sitting down in the early morning light, tea in hand, talking to you.

I don't recall precisely why I started this habit.

I think part of it was a desire to create a little transparency for my business. So that my customers had a better understanding of who I was. That I was a mama like them, not a big corporation somewhere.

I think part was a desire to have a creative outlet with two small children at home. Because I love to write and it had been a while. And what exactly did I do just for the joy of doing it back then? Just for me? I think this was the first thing I started doing almost selfishly. Because I wanted to.

And now five years have somehow passed and my small, quiet blog has remained a small and quiet blog, yet grown to embrace a beautiful community I never expected to find.

And now I write because I need it.

Writing feeds me. It gives me connection to a greater community as I live my quiet, semi-hermit life each day.

And somehow along the way I developed the confidence that I do have something to say. And I believe that sharing here can bring good to your lives and the lives of your kids.

And I didn't expect that.

I'm talking about this today because I know we have full lives. We're busy. Over-extended with too much on our have-to-do list.

But what's on your want to do list?

What could you do if all you had was time?

Then do that. Taste it. Dream about it. Make it a part of you.

Move toward it in small measured steps or great hungry bounds – beginning today.

Because even the long, hard days should be woven with something that we do just for the joy it brings our hearts.

Find what makes your heart sing.

Today. Tomorrow. Any chance you get. Becuase it will help you come alive.

And the joy that doing it brings into your life will transform you.

In ways you never imagined.

Thanks for coming here. I'm honored to have you as a part of my community. And I daresay you have changed me far more than I've changed you.

Love,
Rachel

I was laying in bed with my kids at dusk, settling them in for night.

The rain was softly falling on the roof above us, the birds still chattering in the trees below.

My mind was wandering as it always does at bedtime. And through the darkness and I was marveling and wondering at the path my life has taken in these past forty years.

How every choice I've ever made has led me here.

Every. One.

Each decision I ever made now links seamlessly to the one that came before and then to the one that came after.

Even choices that were hard. Or conflicted. Or scary. Or spontaneous.

Even if the decision ended with, "Oh. That was a bad idea."

Choices, choices, choices, choices, choices, choices – this life.

And in the half-darkness I wondered why I ended up here, doing what I do each day. I wondered at why I made each decision that led me down this path that I am. I wondered almost like I did as a child about what it would have been like if I had made different choices. 

Not with heaviness. Just with innocent curiosity.

And then in the half-light of dusk I rolled over and opened my eyes.

And there beside me was the moon-face of my child in the shadowy darkness, eyes open and sparkling.

Smiling. At me.

Oh. This.

This is the answer to every choice I have made.

So that this soul could fly down from stardust and into my arms.

So that I could love this person – these people – so deep.

This is why.

Every. Single. Choice. They lead me here.

 

Oh, yes. Now I understand.