Tag Archives: Motherhood stories

Motherhood and Finding the Time to Write and Create

26 Thursday Oct 2017

Posted by in Chasing Dreams, Inspiration, Journaling, Motherhood, Personal Challenges, Seasons, Writing, Writing Goals, Writing routine

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“…there is nothing you can buy, achieve, own, or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder. But the good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty.” ~ Anne Lamott

 

The local library where I live brings to town many well-known and accomplished authors. A few years ago, I was one of many in the crowded auditorium at the central high school mere miles from my neighborhood where these literary events are held and the author of a favorite novel was the guest speaker. My memory serves that this author’s talk on writing was exceptional, especially the bits about how her stories came to life and how her writing life came to fruition. She was gracious in her answers during the Q & A, one of which I posed, a version of, “How did she find the time to write with children underfoot?” In so many words, she prescribed that you must write any chance you can get, master writing to the background noise and chaos, scrawl away during short spurts of free time, and urged not to wait for the ‘perfect’ conditions conducive to writing because they will rarely appear and the writing will never happen. What I took from her eloquent answer (more precisely delivered than I am reiterating to you) is that if you are a mother longing to write (or create in any artistic endeavor) then you must accept that you must write to the cadence of the season you are in, and weave the craft into the fabric of your daily life, willing to adjust and change your writing tempo as your children change and grow along side of you.

If you are a mother-writer and struggling to find the time to write, here are a few simple suggestions to help you carve out more time for your writing and that have worked for me:

Take a break, and give yourself a break.

There will be days, weeks, and even months that you won’t be able to carve out one minute for writing, and that’s alright. Don’t berate yourself. Embrace the peaks and valleys. Invite the rest in and allow the time off to invigorate your senses. It’s quite allowable to take time off from writing, and preferred, if I might add. After all, living your life and experiencing the world around you will only improve your creative abilities.

Quite by choice, summers are the most challenging time in my writing calendar. Since I don’t employ a daycare facility, a part-time sitter or nanny, the warm summer months around my house are full and well-enjoyed, even on days when camps and classes aren’t on the schedule. Along with my children, I prefer to soak up as much sun as possible while we are blessed with the Vitamin D producer, and the vibrancy of kids enjoying their months of freedom is something I don’t want to miss out on–especially while they are still so young. This is where personal journaling and keeping notebooks nearby come in handy. When there are chunks of time that I don’t feel like powering up the laptop, though want to record my thoughts, ideas, recollections, observations, and experiences, then I journal. I find that the break from typing also helps to refuel my creativity in pertinent ways. Never once have I felt regret for relishing in the days off.

Write at a time of day that works for you.

Although I would love to tell you to set your alarm an hour earlier than your first child wakes up, this has never worked for me. I’m not now, and doubtful ever will be, a morning person. When I was on a writer’s retreat, I insisted I wake up at 5:00 AM every morning to start writing, and I did. However, I did not have the pressing urgency of a child to attend to that week, either. I was there for myself and had only myself to take care of during five, blissful, writing-centered days. It was my opportunity to utilize as much time to write–and I took the gift of being there seriously, not wanting to waste the opportunity. That was three years ago, and I have yet to replicate that early morning habit so easily enacted on an island miles and miles away surrounded by other women-mother-writers. What I have continued is the discipline and confidence earned, and the ability to be flexible with both myself and my writing process.

Please, do not feel obligated to wake an hour earlier than your family does if the extra sleep is vital to your emotional, physical, and mental well-being–especially if you have young toddlers or school-aged children as I do. In this time of my life, it is more important that I sleep in after nursing Baby Boy in the early morning hours. After we rise and ready for the day, eat our breakfast and clear up, then I can think about some writing if our schedule permits. Don’t neglect your health and essential needs, nor those of your children, for the sake of your craft. It’s a recipe for failure. Instead, take care of yourself and children first, and pockets of writing time will appear, I promise. (Just my two cents.)

Let them see you write.  

If you have young children at home able to entertain themselves for a while, take advantage of late morning play time and make that your daily writing time. After I have finished in the kitchen, and perhaps have even started a load of laundry, I set my toddler up nearby with some favorite toys and I write in my journal while sipping my first cup of tea of the day. This has become my almost-daily practice of emptying my head of the noise and clutter inside, or when I may flesh-out ideas for the book I’m working on, conceptualize upcoming blog posts, or even free-write. I keep my journal nearby for reference, and it’s a daily practice I’ll never reject. (By the way, these are my favorite ones.)

Cultivate ideas during their nap time.

If you’re lucky enough to have a child that still naps, I’d love to know your secret! When The Boy was younger, he was a champion napper. It gave me ample time for freelance projects and personal, creative pursuits. Baby Boy is rejecting his nap time most days, I’m sad to say. So for now, I take a midday walk with him and use this time to commune with nature and let my thoughts run free. I highly recommend an afternoon walk for some fresh air and the chance to gather eclectic ideas for your creative endeavors. During most of these walks, my son will doze off for a short time. By the time I return home and transfer him out of the stroller and back inside, I have only a brief time for writing before the older children arrive at their bus stop at the end of the school day. This is the toughest time for me to write. Nevertheless, I strive to utilize that time for me and my writing, if even for thirty minutes, or less. Thirty minutes spent writing is better than writing nothing at all.

Burn the midnight oil, but only if that works for you.

During my younger days, I was a night owl. In my forties, though, I am slowing down in the evening and feel that my writing time is wasted after a certain hour. My wonderful husband will handle baths and the nighttime routine. If given the choice, I honestly choose to exercise most evenings rather than write because a brisk walk or fitness class helps me to decompress in a healthier way. Though, if the weather is uncooperative, or I’ve had ample time to exercise during the day (which is rare), I will plant myself at my desk to scrawl or type away. On the nights I write (like tonight), it’s usually time well-spent. Anymore, I like to have my computer turned off by 8:00 PM so that I can unwind with my husband and rest my mind. I am confident that the writing pieces swirling around my head after hours won’t flitter away into the abyss of forgetfulness, and this schedule helps me to acquire the essential sleep I need to meet, God-willing, another full and challenging day of motherhood.

Designate and schedule one, non-negotiable chunk of time per week for creating.

Lastly, I have declared the mid-week morning that Baby Boy attends nursery school for two-and-a-half-hours as “Sacred Writing Time.” Sacred Writing Time is designated and guaranteed; the only moments in my week that are non-negotiable, set aside for writing and only writing. During these couple of hours, I do not take phone calls (except from my children’s schools), nor do I read, shop, set appointments, clean, etc… Making this time a priority and only for writing has been a gift and game-changer in my life as a mother-writer. Knowing I will write at least two hours a week takes the pressure off during my busiest weeks taking care of all the essential motherhood tasks, caring for sick kids, running to and from appointments, and more. “Sacred Writing Time” is just that, sacred, and I take it quite seriously. Once I return home from preschool drop-off, I am eagerly at my computer without delay.

For further inspiration about how to carve out the time to write while entrenched in the glories of motherhood, or distracted by your presently busy life, please look no further than to these, more seasoned and reliable writers than I:

http://www.sunset.com/travel/anne-lamott-how-to-find-time by Anne Lamott

https://jamesclear.com/daily-routines-writers by James Clear

http://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-menkedick-literary-value-of-motherhood-20170416-story.html by Sarah Menkedick

https://www.creativenonfiction.org/online-reading/writing-motherhood  by Marcelle Soviero

If inspired to, please comment on how you carve out time in your week for your creative pursuits. As always, thank you for reading and happy writing!

 

“We are all carrying so many things in our life and inside ourselves. Often it feels there is no place to put them down. Where do you place the questions you carry” ~ Sabrina Ward Harrison, Spilling Open: The Art of Becoming Yourself

 

From Darkness to Light

07 Monday Sep 2015

Posted by in Adoption, Attachment parenting, Catholic Parenting, Change, Childhood Mood Disorders, Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), Forgiveness, Parenting, Parenting a Child with Special Needs, Writing Goals

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“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” 
― Albert Camus

When tragedy falls upon us, how do we respond? When tremendous joy is off-set by excruciating trials, which wins over your heart? When your faith in God is tested daily and you feel your mind darkening and your heart hardening, how do you bring yourself back to a place of light and peace?

Lake Michigan's rocky shore.

Lake Michigan’s rocky shore.


These are the challenges of my current days. This year has been filled with the joy of welcoming a newborn son—the most joyful, sweet boy, and the pain of The Girl’s myriad of disorders, special needs, and past traumas affecting her ability to function in a normal place—one far away from our loving reach. My silence on this blog is time spent away caring for my family in a way I never imagined I would have to do, facing enormous decisions that debilitate me on my strongest days, and inviting forgiveness and healing into my heart and home, often, on a moment-to-moment basis.

Always in the back of my mind is my  commitment to writing and what’s pulling me away from my writing goals. So, I’m figuring out a way I can continue to write about this whole mess of a year–wading in the murk and turmoil, despite the incredible challenges, changes, and triumphs, amidst the melancholic tragedies–and trying to not forget or dismiss the golden moments, too. My hope is that I can discover a new way to write it all down in order that my words will count for something and resonate with a kindred spirit living a similar dichotomy of joy and pain; that my wordy reflections bring about peace and hope, shedding light and love back into the world.

Sunset on Lake Michigan

Sunset on Lake Michigan

Born to Write

10 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by in Motherhood, Parenting, Writing, Writing routine

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“If a story is in you, it has to come out.” ~ William Faulkner

Remember my little blog post last week about setting and keeping writing resolutions for the new year? Well, 2015 got off to a rough start. A family member was in the hospital. Wicked weather caused us to have two snow days the week the kids returned from Christmas Break. The Girl’s incessant inability to self-regulate her moods equaled a string of rough days turned into even worse nights wrought with constant monitoring, counseling, and emotional drainage for all of us to deal with and decompress from. To cap off the hectic week, Baby Girl suddenly became stricken with a stomach bug yesterday afternoon not five minutes after I left her and The Boy with a brand-new babysitter so I could get The Girl to a much-needed appointment with her therapist. Although the worst, I hope, is over, I’m still in care-taking mode.

How many words did I actually write this first week of the new year, you ask? Not many, but some. More than I thought I would get done given the upheaval around here, to be truthful. I’ll take that as a victory despite the fact my good intentions and scheduled writing time were thrown out the window.

On a brighter note, today I’m able to make up for last week’s lost writing time. Since I’m (gladly) stuck at home caring for my sweet baby, (it’s freezing outside anyway), I’m writing at a leisurely pace and have already logged well over my daily word count goal!  Additionally, I’ve been able to research upcoming writing contests and submission guidelines for a few pieces I’m intent on polishing for possible (hopeful!) publication.  The Girl is with her caring and capable respite provider all day, so the lack of chaos is helping me to think more clearly even with a head foggy due to lack of sleep from staying up with Baby Girl throughout the night.

This is life–chaotic, unpredictable, often cold and tiring. Much of the same can be attributed to the motherhood journey, personally. I’m learning to live, write, and parent better despite the trials that smack me in the face. My writing will follow-suit. It may be a bit fragmented in the beginning, but I’ll get there in the end. This I know, I was born to write.

“I think if you feel like you were born to write, then you probably were.”
—  Lena Dunham

In keeping with the theme of writing goals for 2015, The Writer published quite the motivating article about how to be successful at keeping your writing resolutions this year. Well worth the read, you can check it out here.

Happy Writing. Happy Mothering.

Choosing Love in the Tough Times

25 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by in Change, Forgiveness, Inspiration, Love, Marriage, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons, Parenting, Peace, Personal health, Perspective, Tough days

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“Be content with what you have;
rejoice in the way things are.
When you realize there is nothing lacking,
the whole world belongs to you.”
― Lao Tzu

 

I’ve been working on being content with what I have. Trying to fall in love again with my home. Trying to be happy with what I own, and being fine living without accumulating much more than what we already have. It’s a tough war going on inside of me. I see friends with bigger homes, houses cleaner than mine, their kids better dressed and well-mannered, enrolled in the greatest of sports opportunities, their lives seemingly soaring with perfection when my own seems a jumbled puzzle of trying times. I struggle with the balance of being fine with what has been given to me and what we work hard to maintain; what is being asked of me and what I feel I can manage with grace and balance, and it isn’t much.

I’ll admit my tendency toward selfishness gets the best of me many days. In realizing this awful truth about myself, I try to combat the inner-greed by turning my attention toward the practice of giving thanks daily. Over the years, I’ve retrained my brain in a way to instill a sense of gratitude, not loss. At first, I thought my efforts fraudulent; now I know that’s farther from the truth. What contemplation of blessings brings is a perception of will and a renewed mind, body, and spirit. A peaceful place of heart and a contentedness of spirit grows with practice. Amazing what a simple, “thank you for my good health, thank you for the kids I finally have, thank you for the husband I can’t even believe is mine, thank you for the goodness all around me” can do for one’s overall emotional and physical health.

What I’ve garnered from the practicing of minding grace is that my environment is affected by my natural discontented spirit. My home is a large source of contention, in this game, I’m afraid. Too often, I’m nervous when new friends are invited over for the first time, when family gather, even. My inner-critic feels fear of being judged for our ancient couch covered in a decade-old, faded Pottery Barn slipcover, the discount pillows strategically arranged to camouflage red marker and juice stains, all of the bargain Craigslist finds. Years ago, I used to be proud of my frugal nature, the knack I possessed for scoring the hidden gems at consignment shops and Goodwill. Deep down, I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, for this is who I really am—a delightfully frugal, sort of crunchy-kind of woman concerned with too much excess. Honestly, I’d be a nervous wreck having much nicer things than we own since my kids are still in that exploring stage, hard players, not too careful with a red marker in hand. They don’t care if our things don’t impress. So, I shouldn’t either.

“We need much less than we think we need.” 
― Maya Angelou

If I’m completely honest with myself and you, my patient readers, I’m not—at all—that unhappy with our place of residence. There have been countless wonderful memories made here, certainly some major heartbreak, but mostly the inner-workings of a family trying their best to live and love together inside the confines of a relatively small home. Most days, I like that we live among one another, that there aren’t too many places to hide away, that The Husband and I are teaching our children to be happy together. After all, what matters more than those we love?

What is restless, truly, is my heart. And when this cracked, pumping vessel of mine becomes restive—as it is now—I realize that the unease is due to a level of great imbalance within our family, something is off-kilter inside the four walls of our home. An imbalance that I can’t seem to tip back to level. Discontented in spirit is a personal defect I struggle with each and every day.

My initial reaction—when life becomes so overwhelming that it can’t be ignored—is that if I could just escape the confines of the instability here then the discontent will release its hold on my family and me, and we will be able to break free of the confines of the pain, the source of disruption, and all the troubles will disappear. In my right mind, I know that these issues we are grappling with will follow no matter the place and space, no matter what the numbers on the mailbox say, despite the size of the mortgage payments. Though, the fantasy of someplace fresher, cleaner, brighter, untarnished is a pleasant divergence from the reality of our messy lives. And so today, I remain stuck inside the walls and look for a resolve inside myself. For, we all know that the only control we have is over ourselves and our own choices.

During quiet times of reflection and prayer, I can change my outlook on the muck before me and merely choose love, stillness and calm, patience, and tender care no matter the trial set before me. It’s my choice. And the choice is yours for the taking, too, if you are brave enough to change.

“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.” 
― Pema Chödrön

The focus now needs to be keenly set on love. And not just the mushy-gushy type of heartfelt sentiments, but the difficult, tough-love kind—the talking myself into loving when my heart feels like a stone, when my stubborn nature builds walls around me, when I’m just plain tired of caring. When The Girl retaliates by ingesting foods with her allergens that she knows will make her sick, yet deliberately sneaks down to gorge herself on these intentionally, I need to find the love to deal with her terrible choices and the patience to remain calm when she is sick and wheezing all day long—she, yelling at me, as if I’m the one who made her so allergic and sick, as if it’s all my fault. These challenging times are the times to have compassion for her, to see the plight in her eyes from the slight stance where she stands before me, too often screaming in my face, her pain and anguish shooting daggers at my heart. Even in these trying times, I choose love.

The focus now needs to be on remaining still—right where I am, exactly where I’ve been planted—because any slight movement might erase the magic in the moment—imperfections and all. For, when Baby Girl slides into bed beside me every night lately because of her fear of the dark despite a nightlight in every outlet, and the rising fear she feels of losing her almost-four-year-old self to the baby she once was not so long ago. Even when I feel the anger  in losing precious sleep because of her beside me tossing and turning, snuggling up to every inch of me like she’s going to lose me in the intensity of her fears, I choose to be still beside her in her fear. Even in the middle of the night when I have been awaken too many times to worsen me for the wear—most definitely then—I must find the love for Baby Girl in the morning as she remains cuddled next to me, so innocent and happy, and kiss her sweet porcelain cheek despite my wretched grouchiness. I choose calmness and love, because who knows how long my Baby Girl will want to remain so close by my side?

The focus now needs to be on patience and tender care—the kind that can mend hearts, minds, and moods—the type of uplifting calm and true presence of Love itself. So, when The Boy stays out late with his dad for a Cub Scout camp-out and at 11:00 PM comes home hyped-up on the thrill of Halloween excitement, animatedly describing the fun he had that night with his buddies, too jazzed-up to fall asleep, then suddenly, quickly resorting to full-on meltdown mode, startling his sisters awake—this is when a mindful patience is necessary. Certainly, when The Boy wakes up at his usual early bird time, clocking only eight hours of sleep last night, uncharacteristically grumpy during breakfast, head-strong and groggily resolved to build Legos this morning, speaking only in whiny retorts to his sisters who are annoying him a little too quickly today because of his sleep-induced edginess—this is when I still remain patient in loving him in the rough moments together and all throughout this jolted day. For my son, I choose love because he needs to know that he is deserving of my love despite his having a bad day, and that I will always love him no matter what.

Folks, my dad said it best when he turned to me, just before he walked me down the aisle to be married to The Husband, with tender concern in his eyes and stated, “Remember, LOVE IS A CHOICE.”  My late father’s words have remained within me, and make more sense now than ever before.

“All your life, you will be faced with a choice. You can choose love or hate…I choose love.” 
― Johnny Cash

Going forward, my focus remains inward with the intent of turning all the interior reflection outward realizing the swirl of imperfection in my family’s less-than-ideal traits are so delicately mirrored as my own personal deficiencies, though it can all be overcome in time by choosing love. Humble mom moment.

 

“However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.” 
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

In Loving Memory, A Wave of Light

15 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Infertility, Love, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month, October 15th, Poets and Poetry, Tough days, Wave of Light

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Surprised by Joy

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee?—Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
IN LOVING MEMORY
October 15, 2014

Wave of Light

 

October 15th Wave of Light

14 Tuesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Infertility, Love, Miscarriage, Motherhood, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month, October 15th, Wave of Light

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“There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.”

― Charlotte Brontë

 

October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Memorial Day. At 7:00 tomorrow evening, I will partake in the “Wave of Light” for all children gone too soon. For at least an hour, my home will be aglow with candlelight to honor my own six miscarried babies and the dearly missed children of friends and family members. In annual memory of those children we never had the chance to hold and in honor of their short lives, here are the names The Husband and I gave to our six miscarried children:

Agnes Elizabeth (April, 2004)

Julian Olivia (June, 2005)

Max Kolbe (April, 2006)

Catherine Teresa (December, 2006)

John Victor (January, 2013)

Francis Cuthbert (March, 2014)

If you’d like to learn more about National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Memorial Day, here are some well-informed websites that will help you to spread awareness for SIDS and child loss, find an event in your area to participate in, and further make a difference in the lives of deceased babies and their families:

Please join me in the “Wave of Light” by lighting your own candle on October 15th at 7:00 PM (in your time zone) to honor all families grieving the loss of a baby, infant, or child.  Please spread the word, as well, by posting pictures of your flickering candles on your blogs and social media accounts, and let’s set the world aglow with awareness, support, and love.

The Gift of One, Simple Day

12 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by in Change, Childhood Mood Disorders, Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), Love, Motherhood, Parenting, Peace, Personal health, Perspective, Seasons, Stress & Anxiety, The Husband, Tough days

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Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.  ~Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then to rest afterward. ~Spanish Proverb

(Blog post authored by purdywords)

My family is in our fourth week of the school year, fall soccer is well underfoot and Baby Girl is officially a lover of all things ballet. The kids are happy, yet I’m barely staying afloat with all the expectations that come after 3:00 PM in a bustling household being taken over by Friday folders and signed papers, homework battles and fundraisers to promote, attempting to cook nutritious meals that match a delicate balance of life-threatening food allergies with a hint of young-kid pickiness. In a matter of two days, our weather has gone from the humid and sweltering 95 degrees to a cool and tolerable 65–perfect. Under the cloudiness, I’m no longer worried about applying sunscreen, but digging out sweatshirt layers for each little arm I clothe, reheating soup and warming pasta noodles for the bellies I’m charged with feeding. How quickly the seasons of life change before our eyes.

By the time my three hit the sack near 7:30 PM, I’m ready to climb into my own bed. But, alas! The dishwasher died a few weeks ago, so The Husband and I have been spending our nights finishing chores, exhausted from the days’ work and the arguing and tantrums that have become second-nature with The Girl. Honestly we are still climbing our way back from the emotional upheaval The Girl has been putting us through, her pinnacle reached only a few weeks ago when we thought we had nowhere left to turn. Yet, her tides finally crashed and she’s regained some of her level of normal—not a new normal, not a peaceful normal, yet a normal that is tolerable by comparison. Still, The Husband and I remain on guard for the next crest of high emotion and turmoil. We’ve not quite recovered from our tumultuous summer, and the residual effects remain in pieces of our every day.

Recognizing that I might be reaching burn-out, The Husband responded in-kind and for the first time, I felt no guilt for accepting his offer. So, dear fellow moms, please listen. When your husband offers you the priceless gifts of time and space, you graciously accept. For, he may know you better than you know yourself.  The peace and quiet, calm and rejuvenation of just one day may be enough to carry you through, strengthening you for the journey ahead. No, I didn’t book any fancy spa treatments (although he told me to). No, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, really. However, what I did do was finally make the time to see my doctor for a physical (it has been two years!) and then treated myself to brunch. I came home and opened all the windows in the house, ignored the breakfast dishes in the sink, and climbed the stairs into my bed for an hour-long nap. I read, prayed, and stretched. For lunch, I ate leftovers. I signed on to my computer with the intent to write for the first time in—I’m ashamed to say—more than a month and that is just what I did for the last hour. A homemade decaf chai tea beside me warmed my body in the chilly afternoon air, and the spicy scent and simple beauty of a burning pumpkin-scented soy candle warmed my senses with a calming peace. In less than an hour, I will retrieve The Boy from his bus stop, and together we’ll drive a mere ten minutes to pick up the girls from our care provider. Today’s afternoon drive will be different–I feel the change churning inside of me. For the first time in a long time, I will be rested for the journey before me, beginning with our Friday night soccer games, a restful peace remaining with me for the days ahead.

 

 

 

The Magic of “Three”

03 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Baby Girl, Birthdays, Change, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters

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(blog post authored by purdywords)

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child.  There are seven million.  ~Walt Streightiff

Baby Girl is now three years old. The days that inhabit between ages two and three are tremendous to watch, aren’t they? It’s like viewing a slow motion picture unfolding before your eyes of one joyful life lived in profound newness and exploration of the most plain, yet beautiful moments.

It’s incredible–the simple and complex changes, I mean–that occur in one short year. All of a sudden, I see marvelous, natural progress in my Baby Girl, when I didn’t quite notice the differences before her third birthday last week. Where I once saw a little girl with chubby fingers, a round face and rosy cheeks, I now look with amazement into a delicate faced version of a growing-up girl; eyes replete with wonder, a mind quick to widen with study, a dainty body wanting to stretch beyond its limits.

Her bouncy blonde hair, once a short halo of ringlets that framed her angelic baby face is now a long, flowing cascade of Rapunzel-like lockets falling just shy of the small of her back.  From her tiny rosette mouth, she once spoke short staccato words of newness and amazement. Now she speaks a lengthy flow of little girl sentences interrupted only by quick bursts of amazement or emotion, using advanced phrases confidently from the surface of a soft pink pout.

Baby Girl dances around the house playing ballerina fairy and the magical make-believe pixie dust falls around her petite shoulders like snowflakes fluttering through an imaginary winter blue sky. She’s one of those kids who wears her emotions out on her sleeve for all to see; facial expressions truth-telling of what she feels deeply on the inside. And that heart of hers? It’s pure as light and strong as diamonds.

She loves all things sparkly—she’ll ooh and ah over my wedding ring set, spend as much time trying on her bejeweled Cinderella crown, and put just as much effort into chasing rainbows on the surface of the wall in the front hallway or watching the streaming sunlight reflecting off a nearby pond. My girly girl, she is rarely seen without the color pink somewhere on her ensemble, and more than likely in the form of a ballerina’s tutu.

photo credit: purdywords

photo credit: purdywords (http://asadsongbetter.com)

Music is her guide and she will stop anywhere, anytime for the sake of a catchy beat. It’s common for Baby Girl to break out in dance, shaking her tiny tush to the beat of a drum, the strum of a guitar, the rise of a lyrical voice. Her shoulders will begin shimmying to and fro, and she’ll start to  match her own sweet voice to the song being played overhead. Later, she’ll recall the melody and verse by carrying the tunes as a secret kept inside her heart. (Some nights, I catch her singing herself to sleep.)

Ah, my Baby Girl, my delightful charmer is three years old! I can not believe how fast these few years have flown by. So fast. Too fast. All of these days–all of these lightning-fast days spent as her mother–have been one miraculous adventure after another. More than anything, I hope she continues to find unending reasons to dance, sing, and dream for all the days of her life.  That is my lifelong wish for my Baby Girl.

(blog post authored by purdywords)

Grateful for the Words: Giving Thanks Day Four (30 Days of Thanks)

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by in 30 Days of Thanks, Writing, Writing routine

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“Writers live twice.”
—Natalie Goldberg

 

It’s not an easy story to tell, this life of mine, this journey I am living out now and the paths I have crossed long ago. Despite the trials, I’m surviving and often, I think, thriving even with new challenges thrown my way. This intricate, complex life of mine makes for a great story to tell. At the very least, I’m determined to try to make sense of it all on paper.

Some won’t like what I have to say—not one bit. Others won’t care what I have to say—not at all. Actually, the point of all my writing is not for the approval or praise, but for purpose–my own. Publication one day is a goal, of course. Though, I keep my current focus on building writer discipline and refining my creative skills in order to make up for all the years I wasted on other frivolous pastimes while ignoring the call to write. The point is that I’m writing all the time now and I can’t seem to stop. That’s real passion.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention here that I have the amazingly talented author and writing teacher, Kate Hopper to thank for helping me gain back the confidence I lost years ago after I put my writing aside. Last fall, I took a chance on myself and signed up for the first writing class I have taken in over a decade, an online section of Kate’s course Motherhood and Words. Her phenomenal writer’s guidebook in conjunction with the online class helped me to discover my own writer’s voice–the one I have been searching for all these years.

On social media today, I expressed my gratitude for the writing passion burning from deep inside me; for the catharsis and enjoyment I garner from writing that keeps me intact and makes me whole. Writing is such a release, and tremendously fulfilling. Last autumn, I promised myself that as long as I am given new days ahead, I will spend them writing. So far, I’m making good on that promise.

Making Time for Each Other: Giving Thanks Day Three (30 Days of Thanks)

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by in 30 Days of Thanks, Attachment parenting, Blessings, Love, Memories, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons

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Don’t wait to make your son a great man – make him a great boy. ~ Author Unknown

And mothers are their daughter’s role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships. ~ Victoria Secunda

This morning, I wanted nothing more than to linger under the white feather down comforter covering my always-too-cold body. My morning-tangled strawberry-blonde tresses were sprawled all over the pillows three in a line across the width of the queen sized bed that I share with my husband, and most nights with Baby Girl snuggled in between us. Daylight Savings Time did not allow for a grand morning sleep-in, unfortunately. Even with an extra hour on the clock, I was sluggish in starting the day. Commitments of Sunday Mass and Sunday school class for The Boy were calling out to The Husband and me to get our act together. All I really wanted to do, truth be told, was spend the chilly day in my pajamas, drink tea, and read from my Kindle.

Because I’m not a member of the Crawley family, I returned to reality and willed myself to get a move on. It helped that The Kids brought up breakfast to me (as is their sweet custom on Sunday mornings) before rushing through the rest of my get-ready-and-be-somewhat-presentable-about-it routine involving a lightning-quick shower and changing clothes a few times before comfort won over and I felt just alright about my appearance. By the time my menial transformation was complete, I felt equipped to manage The Kids’ dressing and grooming routines while The Husband stole a few moments to himself.

It’s becoming easier, the Sunday routine. For the less-hectic pace, I am thankful. More often than I would like to admit, however, I kind of long for the time I spent a few years ago sacrificing my own set beautifying pattern for nursing an infant just one more time before heading out the door to church. On Sunday mornings, I feel my arms at their emptiest.

For years now, The Girl no longer needs my help with dressing or self-care. She only looks to me now for verification that her outfit and hair are presentable. Lately, the only reason The Boy comes to me for any kind of help is because he’s been operating without the use of his right arm due to a bad fall off of his bike while I was away in Martha’s Vineyard. Next Friday, he gets the full arm cast removed and will be back to regulation speed in no time and needing my help less and less. The most assistance Baby Girl wants anymore is in wrestling on her always-pink patterned tights, or untangling the mess of a knot in the back of her curly, blonde tresses. She’s mastering buttoning, zipping, brushing teeth, and all other bathroom situations. Where does the time go?  It’s a scary thought–frightening, honestly–to think that one day I might need my kids more than they need me. Is that even possible?

Being that I’m a mom of three children of various ages and stages, it’s difficult to find time for myself, but even trickier to carve out time to spend with each child separately. Presently, Baby Girl gets the most individual time with me for the very fact that she is in school for only a couple of hours on Friday mornings. (I am more in love with my kids every single new day, but having two hours to myself every week has been life-altering. A huge change for me. No joke.) Anyway, when the complaints start rolling in that they need some “special mommy time”—complaints heard mostly from The Girl and The Boy—I remind them that I had daily alone time with both of them before the other was born. The Girl had a straight run of fifteen months with me all to herself between the time she was permanently placed with us and before her baby brother was born. And, since The Girl was in preschool most days by the time he was born, The Boy actually enjoyed twenty-seven months of mommy-son time before becoming a big brother. Now, I tell them, it’s Baby Girl’s time to have own succession of mommy-daughter time. When the grievances become prevalent, though, spoken loud and clear without mistake, I abruptly tune in and take note that now is the time to start making more of an effort to ensure that each of them gets a few minutes of my undivided attention daily.

Special, daily alone time with each of my three children is fantastic—even if it’s just for a few minutes to talk about their day, read a chapter from a book, or complete a puzzle together. What’s even better, though? Extra-special “dates” with each them.  Ever since the school year started, Baby Girl and I share a weekly lunch at a neighborhood Asian-fusion restaurant so she can eat her favorite dish, “Broccoli and rice, please. No chicken. Just broccoli and rice” as I enjoy a delicious cup of wonton soup and side dish of steamed mixed vegetables. The Girl and I have our time together monthly on a Friday when we make our way home from one of her routine doctor appointments. We’ll stop for a treat—a dairy-free fruit smoothie in the warmer months and hot teas when the weather chills—and we just talk and talk in the van as I fight against the traffic from downtown to our home. (Or–confession time–sometimes we just crank up the music on her One Direction album to pass the time away.)

A couple of weeks ago, I started volunteering in The Boy’s Kindergarten Sunday School class. Ever since, we have started a new trend of sharing lunch together while The Husband and the girls have their own lunch together at home. It’s a win-win. Today was an especially good date with my only living son. He pulled out all his charms, asked for many hugs, even held my hand a few times! I’m not naïve, I know that these “dates” might one day too soon become more of a treat only for me and more of a chore for The Kids to attend. But just for today, I am grateful for them whether we are just spending an ordinary day together or heading out for an extra-special treat.

Today, I posted on social media that “I am grateful for weekly Sunday afternoon dates with my son. His sweet nature and joyful disposition are contagious.”  My hope is that my children never doubt how much I admire each one of them and appreciate their interesting company. I hope they never–not for one day–question the joy that their lives bring to mine.