Growing Pains

It was somewhere in the slowness between sunset and sunrise, the house quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the heavy breathing of the dog. Rain pelted the window, but living deep in the pacific northwest, it’s a sound we are used to and feels like nature’s sound machine.

The stillness was interrupted by a cry from Leo.

Ouch, mom. Come here. Mommy…

I threw the covers off, and tiptoed to his room, careful not to wake anyone else and found Leo sitting upright, rubbing his foot. It wasn’t my first rodeo with these kinds of aches and pains - Elsie used to get them and because of that, I knew to go heat up a warm pack, and give him a little 3 a.m. leg massage. The duo worked like a charm, and he drifted back to sleep. As I laid shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling the rise and fall of his little-boy-chest, I couldn’t help but remember laying next to Elsie years ago doing the exact same thing.

But what I’ve learned lately is her growing pains aren’t over. Sure, they don’t wake her up with an achy leg in the early morning hours anymore, and they aren’t solved with a little bit of heat and a soft rub on the arch of her foot - but we find the aches and pains manifesting differently. She’s growing differently, or at least the almost ten-year-old growth is a different kind than her four-year-old little brother.

Elsie’s growing pains are in her heart and her mind and her consciousness. She’s learning more about the world and exploring friendships differently and feeling things like jealousy and empathy and worry. She now knows what it feels like to be left out and how it feels to fight with a friend and she has rode a sometimes bumpy path learning the curves and peaks and valleys of her own road. She’s already grown so much and sometimes, it has hurt.

As I tell her all of the time, she’s the best girl I know and I’ll love her forever, no matter what. In fact, she rolls her eyes at me when I tell her that I love her when she’s mad, I love her when she’s sad, I love her when she’s happy and I love her when she’s sad. I tell her (and Leo) this a lot, because it’s true and it’s important that they know and feel it.

And in all of it, me, a forty year old mom, I realize that I’ve been having growing pains too.

Gosh, it hurts. I hurt. It hurts when they’re sad and it hurts when they’re mad and my heart breaks when their hearts break and when they take their hurt and frustrations out on me, that hurts too. But I don’t need a warmed up rice-pack or a leg rub, because, well, because I love them when they’re mad and I love them when they’re sad and I love them when they’re happy and I love them when they’re glad.

I love that I get to be on this journey with them, together.

What I can give them always is a place to grow, whether that means growing up another inch or it means evolving into the amazing people I get to watch them become, and I can always give them comfort, because doing so comforts me. So I’ll be there, with whatever tools I need to ease them through the pains of growing up. Turns out, I’m still growing up too.

Defining Success

Sometime before summertime, Elsie came home from school beaming about her day. When I pick her up, I always ask her the same question and she always answers the same way. It’s become a fun, weird tradition that I look forward to, but I guess that’s the very definition of a tradition.

I ask her to tell me three things about her day, hoping for specifics.

She shares with me, It was fine, it was good, it was fun. No specifics.

We both laugh and then on this day, she tells me that during P.E., they played softball and she hit a home run and it was the BEST DAY EVER. She asked that when it’s time to sign up for softball, could I please please please sign her up because it’s her new favorite thing.

So, I watched the interwebs for fall ball signup and found a league and a team and I paid the registration fees and we chose her jersey number (98) and we headed to the sporting goods store to buy a glove and balls and a facemask and a helmet and a bat and pants and socks. We bought the wrong size bat so we went back another time for the right size.

We showed up to her first practice and we didn’t know anyone. Elsie joined the other girls, all who knew each other from previous years of playing the game, in the dugout to meet the coach. They practiced hitting and throwing and catching and it all seemed okay. It was okay. We went back to practice again and learned sliding and stealing bases. It was okay too. Elsie made friends with a couple of girls and we were looking forward to their first game.

And then it was game day and it suddenly wasn’t okay.

Anxiety crept in and we thought about not going to the game (a double-header). And after a lot of talking and a really supportive coach, Elsie decided she’d go to the game, sit with the team, and see how it all felt. Afterward, she could decide if she wanted to keep playing or not, and that it was totally up to her but she had to see at least this part through.

She ended up playing outfield in the second game and left the field confident and beaming - just like she did on that day after P.E.

We got cotton-candy flavored ice cream to celebrate and I was so proud. We persevered. We did it. We succeeded. We’re doing this softball thing. We made it through the tough stuff together.

We did it.

And then it came time for practice the next week and Elsie looked me right in the eyes and made the decision that softball wasn’t her thing and she didn’t want to go back.

My heart sunk.

We failed.

I failed.

I failed her.

I asked if she was sure, and she was sure. I asked her again, and she was still sure. And my heart stayed heavy because failure feels bad.

But then I wondered, why is it a failure? Even though we didn’t make it back to the dugout, she did a lot that I’m so proud of.

She found out something new to try.

She walked into a gaggle of girls and made friends.

She faced her fears.

She was able to tell me the truth.

She was empowered to make her own choice and she did.

So, it’s time for me to redefine success and redefine failure. Success isn’t the outcome and for us. Success isn’t hitting a grand slam or sticking with the game or sliding into home. Success for her right now is finding herself outside her comfort zone and taking small steps and big ones too to figure out who she is and what she likes and feeling brave enough to hit the brake pedal when she needs to.

Failure is doing something you don’t want to be doing. Failure is being afraid to say when things are feeling like too much. Failure is keeping your inner voice quiet.

Failure is not trusting your instincts.

So, I’m sitting here thinking that I’m going to get comfortable living sweetly in the success of a nine-year-old girl who is getting to know herself because that’s really her one and only job, and my job as her mom is to be here to cheer her on from whatever sideline I find myself cheering from.

XO

Celebrations

I’m really good at celebrating.

I love champagne and balloons and confetti and glitter and high-fives and fist-bumps and heart-emojis and hugs.

I love celebrating your wins and your milestones and moments big and small that make you smile. It makes me smile too. I’m working on celebrating me.

I just had a big birthday, and my family and friends did a lovely job celebrating me and for that I’m so grateful. It was a milestone birthday, and for months I vacillated between throwing myself a party or taking myself on vacation or buying myself something big.

I couldn’t decide.

I didn’t plan anything.

We had no dinner reservations but we had an idea of a favorite place to go, so tentatively Joey and I planned that.

So the day came and I received flowers and champagne and cupcakes and cards. Our original dinner plan failed and we had to randomly end up somewhere else and the pivot was wonderful. We had margaritas and laughed our tails off and all of it was so warm and fuzzy and I’ll remember it always.

What I will equally remember always is when Elsie and Leo not-so-causally shared with the waitress that It’s our mom’s birthday!" at which point I painted a pretend smile on my face and did my best not to recoil from the impending attention I was about to receive.

That is not my thing.

And it happened, a restaurant full of boisterous singing and a sombrero placed on my head. I was sitting across from the kids and through their eyes, the light and the love and the precious ownership of celebrating me that they had, it was palpable. I could taste that stronger than the fried-ice-cream that was to follow.

My first instinct when the waitress was summoned and those words were said, It’s our mom’s birthday, was to quiet them. My first instinct when the sombrero was brought over was to politely decline. My first instinct instead of laughing through it was to bring my hands to my face and run for cover behind my palms, embarrassed of my own celebration.

But it hit me right then, I’m raising people who love celebrating others, too. They will cheer for the wins, big and small, of the ones they love. They will bring attention to special moments and make sure hugs and high-fives are given out and they will sprinkle confetti and sing loudly and congratulate people and they are learning to lift up others. They have learned how great that feels, just like I have.

So, I smiled through the embarrassment and you know what? I loved it.

Kids love birthdays and days that are all about them. At what point in the journey of growing up do we begin deflecting and expecting less? Do we want that for our kids? That one day they wake-up and deem themselves a little bit less worthy of celebrating a birthday or a big win or a special moment? I don’t. I forever want Elsie and Leo to hand me their spelling test, or whatever it is as they grow up, and expect me to put it on the fridge under a magnet where it shall live forever in celebration.

I guess the lesson is here that it’s important to know and to remember, we have the responsibility of being a walking, talking, living example to those around us and especially the young people around us. They’re always watching and listening and hopefully, they are celebrating too.

Happy birthday, me. And thanks to Elsie and Leo for making it so special. I’ll never forget it.

xo

Teeth

It was later in the evening on an almost-snowy Thursday night. Leo had just gone to bed where he was beginning his current hour-long adventure of being thirsty, hungry, bathroom needing, snuggle wanting, book reading, bedroom gymnastic tumbling bedtime routine.

Elsie and I sat on the couch, and she sweetly smiled my direction. I commented that her tooth looked a little wiggly, at which point she ran to the bathroom and minutes later exploded back into the living room, tooth in hand.

Mom, I did it! I pulled out my tooth!

What a moment this is - the excitement and anticipation of the tooth fairy making an appearance now dominating the night. I held her baby tooth in the palm of my hand and in typical me fashion, I found myself in both an avalanche and tornado of emotion, as the memories of first teeth flooded back to me. Even though this is the seventh tooth she’s lost, every time it gets me.

I remember… I told Elsie.

I remember your toothless smile, ever so sunshiny and warm.

I remember when your baby teeth were first coming in.

I remember the sleepless nights and the struggles and I remember the frozen teething sticks and frozen waffles and the time spent scrolling Amazon for anything that would make it all easier. I remember the rosy cheeks you wore like a uniform of one cranky toddler and I remember the pain you had and how I wished I could take it all away.

I remember first teeth and second teeth and molars and I remember learning to brush those teeth and the apprehension and then success first dentist appointments.

I remember.

I remember it all.

And in this moment, baby tooth still in the palm of my hand I realize that we’re not just losing teeth, but we’re losing our baby and our toddler and we have the journey and the job of knowing this not-yet a teenager and no-longer a toddler person, who stands there - one tooth fewer in her smile - beaming with pride and excitement, about to tuck her tooth under her pillow and cozying up to a chapter-book while she awaits the childhood magic of the tooth fairy.

Of course I’ve known this and I feel it deeply as I watch Leo grow, he’s bid goodbye to his crib and his pack and play and about to give his diapers the boot. Every stage, I want to remember everything and I fear I don’t. I fear I don’t, but then I hold a baby tooth and it floods back to me - these memories I know are imprinted on my soul.

Is this the lesson here? We can firmly stand in this moment, savoring all of the I remembers while welcoming whatever it is that comes next. And whether it be growing baby teeth or schoolyard bullies or anything else the world throws our way, we’re in it together. My journey as their mom is my own, their journey as our kids is exclusively theirs and no matter the storm, we can batten down the hatches and see it through.

There’s always sunshine around the corner. I remember that too.

Hands

It was a later than usual bedtime, as anxieties about the new school year were hovering all around all of us. Elsie, at eight years old, sweetly asked if I would sit and snuggle with her as she drifted to sleep this one night. Of course, knowing snuggles are seeming to become fewer and farther between, I slinked my legs under her fluffy white comforter and found my formerly regular spot by her side. I could feel her breathing relax, time slowed down, and she reached for my hand and draped it across her body to hold as she drifted off to dreamland.

I’ve held her hand a lot, easily a million times, and in this moment, something felt different. As a new parent, you know your baby will grow. You expect the chubby baby cheeks to morph into an older more kidlike face. You know inches will add to inches in height and there are so many more milestones you look forward to.

But the hands. I wasn’t planning to notice the hands.

Stronger grip, longer fingers, painted nails. Instead of her baby grip wrapping around my pointer finger, we laid fully hand-in-hand and the change, the difference struck me. It sank me, actually. Those tiny baby hands that I remember digging into their first avocado or splashing around their first bubble bath or reaching for me in the wee hours of the night - those tiny baby hands were gone. Changed, forever they were.

Even Leo, who is three, has grown out of those baby hands. His still enveloped in that toddler body but now he wears dirt under his fingernails like a badge of honor. He reaches for popsicles and opens granola bars and those hands, they’ve changed.

But then again, so have mine.

Aged, lived-in, and worked. My hands aren’t of the 30 year old new mother who so carefully lifts her baby out of bed or who worriedly cuts up cantaloupe or who frantically dials the pediatrician for the minorest of things. I’ve changed too.

We’ve grown together, me and them. My hand in their hands, we have been on the best journey that there ever was, and I guess the lesson in all of this is that growth and change are inevitable for all of us, but nobody is growing or changing alone. Our journey is with each other.

We all have each other, hand in hand.

The Half Story

Autumn is beautiful here.

Evenings in the fall are magic. Leaves make their way to the ground, crunching under your boots - those same boots that have been collecting dust all summer long but you bring them out now, because fall is here. The temperature is cool but not cold, the stars shine a little earlier in the night and the air is crisp. It’s beanies and flannels and some evenings, you’ll find grown-ups drinking red wine while the kids grasp every last inch of daylight running around the fields.

Magic is real and it exists in the fall.

It was one of those nights, I was standing next to a friend and I started telling some story about the day. The topic is unimportant now, but mid-story I found myself running after sweet Leo redirecting him into another activity. We launched into the next story and I found myself stepping away to do something else toddler related. And it happened again and again and again until we said our goodbyes for the evening.

The half story is my whole life right now.

I sat down after the kids were in bed and I was thinking about how often this happens - with friends, with my husband, on the phone with family. It happens all the time. And then I wondered - do these people think that’s the whole story? That I’m a terrible storyteller and that everything that I care to share is wildly anticlimactic and boring?

Probably.

Or maybe, they’ve had toddlers too.

Parenthood is a wild juxtaposition. It’s feeling tired yet energized. It’s feeling overwhelmed with joy and grief.

I thought about the frustration with the half story and at the same time I was thinking about a past weekend mini-vacation we took with family. Elsie, not a toddler anymore, is finding strength in herself and her own joy in her inner voice. She’s confident and brave and everything I’d hoped she’d be, but more too. This three day trip to the coast included her cousins, and because of that, I barely saw her.

We shared a house.

We did the exact same activities.

But she was doing her own thing, using her voice, expressing herself as a person who doesn’t need her hand held and would rather run and play just barely in sight of us, looking back to be sure we’re still right there but no longer needing the full-court-press of toddler parenting.

I missed her. But I had my own time, sort-of, because as she’s budding into her own, there’s still Leo who needs it all right now which I know I’m going to miss someday too.

Elsie was running ahead down the trail to the ocean, sea grass skimming her legs as sand squashed between her toes. I picked Leo up, settled him on my hip. Joey looked at me and laughed.

You know he can walk this trail, right?

Of course I know. He’s growing so fast and so brilliantly.

I know. But I’ll only be able to do this for a little while longer.

Again, it’s all so hopeful and happy and heartbreaking.

I guess that’s my whole story right now.

XO

Garbage Guilt

Go out, they said. It will be fun, they said.

Okay, we’ll do it.

And then we’ll feel like garbage. As soon as we leave the house. Sounds like a dream, right?

In JANUARY of 2020, we bought concert tickets.

It was January, of 2020. So, you can imagine the concert was rescheduled once, twice, three times. And then it was here. My parents, who are wonderful and kind and generous and who my children absolutely adore for all the right reasons agreed to stay overnight while Joey and I went to said concert. They were to get take-out and to watch movies and to just enjoy the sleepover. The end. Everyone was SO excited.

So excited.

My mom arrived, got some snuggles from Elsie and Leo and I finished getting ready. We were staying at an airport hotel (another long story - Joey had a 4 a.m. wake-up call the next day for a flight for the beginning of a week-long motorcycle adventure), so we packed a few things, said our goodbyes and were about to head out. I would be back in 12 hours, before anyone was awake.

And then, it happened. Alligator tears, sobbing through verbal cries, Elsie’s arms were locked around my torso.

Please, don’t go. I don’t want you to go.

I tried to rationalize all the reasons being gone was going to be okay - she’d have so much fun with grandma and grandpa. I’d bring breakfast treats in the morning. I’d be back before she even woke up. We weren’t going far.

Please, don’t go.

PLEASE.

Don’t go.

I nestled into her, told her how much we loved her and how important it was for grown ups to have grown up time and that she’s very safe with Grandma and then I picked her up, sat her on the couch, pivoted and ran to the door. I closed the door quickly but quietly and then hopped in the car, which Joey had running. And, I felt like garbage. My heart was racing. My stomach turning.

Garbage.

I felt like calling it all off.

Garbage.

The guilt had me feeling like total trash. And we were on our way to this thing we had planed for literally two and a half years, and I wanted nothing more than to just go home and snuggle my babies. It wasn’t worth it.

Tell me you’ve been there - those moments, and we have so many, that you’d sacrifice yourself again and again for the happiness of your little people? That your needs, wants, the things that used to make you whole get put on the back burner because those little ones are your whole world? It sounds selfish, but especially over the last two and a half years, when it’s all been just so heavy and so riddled with worry and all of it, a little time and a little bit of a different kind of joy - I don’t know, we were really hungry for that.

Tell me I’m not alone. I mean, I hope I am, but I bet I’m not.

But then, you know what? We drove for about five minutes before I checked in with my mom.

They’re fine, everything’s fine. Have a great time.

She sent pictures. They were fine. Everything was fine.

I breathed. Deeply with gratitude, I breathed.

The traffic was terrible, the company was wonderful, the weather was awful, the concert was magic, the 4 a.m. wake-up was challenging and the breakfast treats were delicious.

I’m just saying, if you have the means and you have the village (I realize this is really hard), take the time. Everyone will be better for it.

Also, thanks mom and dad <3 And to Joey who reassured me it was okay to keep driving.

Pic above is proof we made it.

XO

M

Expectations vs. Reality - Spring Break Edition

It was the week before Spring Break. In true me fashion, I found myself reviewing both Joey and my work calendars, weather forecasts, availabilities at AirBnBs and hotels in fantasy-land far-away destinations (because when doesn’t dreaming about Hawaii feel nice?) and more realistic nearby getaways (because the Oregon coast is always magic, even for a day and even if it rains).

I took Monday off hoping we could at the very least extend our weekend and head to the at the beach. I actually found a super cute place at Agate Beach (look it up) and almost booked it when I mentioned it to Joey. Of course, there were a bunch of real-life things that weren’t on the calendar. A car maintenance appointment, and a work trip for him. Not yet ready to take both kiddos and both dogs on a getaway as the only grown up, I turned my research into other things we could do just on Monday - the zoo, a waterfall drive, ugh - what were we going to do? For goodness sake - it’s Spring Break and it’s supposed to be special.

I have the fondest memories of this week, spent with my family at the Oregon Coast actually. With cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents all in a very crowded but equally wonderful space, spending time doing a combined amount of literally all the things and absolutely nothing. From buying a special barbie at the Rite-Aid (what a treat), to returning said Barbie when my cousin made fun of me for buying it (what a jerk) and all of the growings up that happened, each and every Spring Break. I guess I was looking for something like that for our family and I was beyond frustrated I couldn’t pull it together.

And then, on Sunday morning, Elsie fully orchestrated a sleepover at her Mimi’s house with her two cousins. She made phone calls. She asked questions. She called to ask permission. She called to update on plans. She packed four bags of games and toys and clothes for just 24 hours of fun. And I decided I didn’t need to take Monday off after all.

When I picked her up on Monday morning, she was all smiles and all stories. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, and her heart was full from a belly of laughs that were had.

Because we’ve got to eat, I took her to lunch. She sat hip-to-hip with me in the booth and we talked about how much fun her sleepover was, and how much she was looking forward to a week with her cousins and the babysitter. I dropped her back off at Grandmas with her little brother, went back to work, and that was that.

My expectation was a full-fledged, chalk full of memories, probably expensive, lots of planning, getaway vacation. Our reality today was steak bites and lemonade in a corner booth. And guess what - it was all we needed. Because turns out our kids don’t always need the stuff. They don’t need the things. They don’t need what we allow ourselves to feel guilty into constructing for them.

The memories will come, regardless of where we make them. Because what we really need to give each other is just time and attention.

I asked my mom about our Spring Break beach trips of yesteryear. I don’t know what I expected her to say, because they seemed so enviable to me as a grown-up. But for her and my aunt, they just made sense. An accessible, dependable location, a community in parenting, and cheap (my grandparents owned the place we stayed in). It’s so weird, because my reality then baked my expectations now, but I bet sometimes their reality didn’t meet their expectations.

I say that because you know what? We’re all just figuring it out. And that’s the reality.

Time and attention, time and attention. In the end, that’s what we’ve got to give and that’s what we remember.

XO

The best age.

I’m standing in the newborn isle at Target, eyeing all of the teeny-tiny and adorable infant things. A friend of ours is expecting, and I was preparing a basket of essentials to bestow upon her at her baby shower.

I reached for the nose-frieda (that snot sucker thing that is equally disgusting and miraculous) and as my fingertips made contact, I was brought back to when Elsie was weeks old. It was sometime between nighttime and morning and her nose was clogged and she was having a hard time breathing. I grabbed the bulb-syringe and we tried our hardest to suck the globs out of her nose, her six-pound body resting on my lap, my body all-but resting on my bed. I still remember the temperature of the bedroom and the size of Joey’s eyes as he stared at me as we tried to figure it all out. How could anyone have left us alone with this beautiful baby girl in the middle of the night. We had no idea what we were doing. We were scared. I was scared. That moment passed and later, I learned about the snot sucker and how I wished I knew about it during the first weeks of life.

I filled my basket with all of those memories. The extra-strength Desitin, the infant Tylenol, the newborn diapers and the pacifier with the stuffed animal attached. All of it brought memories flooding back on the newborn stage, my heart aching a bit because well, I thought it was my favorite of all the stages. The snuggles, the smells, the sounds. All of it is just so delicious. I felt a twinge of mourning. But then, I thought about what comes next - the smiles and the steps and the sensations of first foods. And then I thought, gosh, that was my favorite. For sure, full stop.

And then there, in the middle of Target, my phone dinged. New email. It was from Elsie’s elementary school and her first-grade photos were in. I clicked the download link.

And I was breathless. She took my breath away. And I thought, no, age six. This is my favorite stage. Because she’s funny and fun and smart and witty and thoughtful and inquisitive and it is just no-holds-barred, my favorite stage.

But what about one-and-a-half-year-old Leo, who generously shares his meals, morning, noon and night with his dogs and who has discovered how to cheesy-smile on command and who has such big feelings balanced by big belly laughs and I wondered, well shoot. How can this not be my favorite stage?

And if I really wanted to throw back to some favorite moments, some of them are before we earned the parent badge. Those times were great too and I miss them.

How do we mourn the passing of time and the ending of our favorite stages while being present in the place we’re in? With our eyes and our hearts wide open, I think.

I’ll be honest here. Every stage is beautiful but also really, really, really hard. There’s no escaping that. With the newborn snuggles comes sleepless nights, weeks, months. And every stage is just a different flavor of hard.

A friend who has kids quite a bit older than ours shared the best advice I think I’ve ever gotten (outside of our pediatrician suggesting the snot-sucker) - She cautioned me to be able to leave the past behind so we can fully appreciate the time we’re in, without worrying too much about what was coming next.

It’s hard. But, she’s right.

The journey is my favorite part.

Thanks for that, Erin <3

XOXO

Meagan

Celebrating

“Mom, I won a mustang!”

She raced into the kitchen, where I was grabbing a quick bite before the next Zoom call and her smile spanned her face from ear to ear and she had the kind of energy that was both palpable and electric. My mind was doing another kind of racing, wondering what in the heck a mustang was and what in the world she had done to win one. Please tell me a horse isn’t about to show up, but on some level I wouldn’t be surprised because let’s be honest, nothing surprises me anymore. So, I asked.

Turns out, her kindergarten mascot is a mustang, and Elsie was awarded an honor for showing up and working hard.

Showing up, working hard and celebrating. Out loud.

She was so proud, if we were on a mountaintop, she would have shouted.

At what point in our grown-up lives do we stop wanting to shout our accomplishments from mountaintops? Why do we quiet that inner voice when we really want to be celebrating out loud? And why do we reserve these feelings for the big moments, the impressive points, and not just for working hard and showing up, especially right now.

Because working hard and showing up should be something we are proud of. It’s not always easy. It’s always important. And it always should be appreciated.

Maybe next time you show up for something and you just might not want to, and you work hard even if you’re tired and don’t want to - maybe you run into the kitchen and tell somebody that you’ve won. Maybe not a mustang, but you’ve won something.

I’m going to do that - and when a big moment comes, I’m going to find that mountaintop because success, winning, shouldn’t be embarrassing and we need to stand in our own success more often, not being fearful that it might make others feel less-than. I’m guilty of this, shrugging off kudos sometimes because the spotlight feels too hot or too blinding. So a reminder to me, thanks to a hard-working five-year-old, I need to let that light shine a bit.

After my work day ended, we were snuggling on the couch and talking about her award.

Mom, how was your day?

I thought for a moment and shared with her a couple of things I was proud of.

Wow! We both had pretty great days.

Yes, we sure did. We closed that moment with a hug and a high-five.

One quick shoutout to her most fabulous kindergarten teacher - thanks for shining the light on her during a challenging year. A final lesson, I guess, is to elevate those around us, highlighting others for showing up sometimes too. It matters.

XO

The Firsts and Lasts of Parenthood

Sweet Leo James is five months old.

We are quickly saying goodbye to the newborn stage of him, the deep and all-day couch snuggles are being traded for the action and activities that come with a growing baby.

This change-up is so, so good. And I’m so, so sad.

I’ve been thinking about when Elsie was making this transition - all of it was exciting and new. I was thrilled to buy the next size up in baby clothes, and tuck her old things into a bin for the next baby. When she moved from the bassinet to her own room, it was exciting. We tucked the bassinet into the attic and there it sat for five years as we waited for her baby brother’s arrival. The first smile we celebrated. The first giggle. The first rollover. The first crawl. The first step. I craved all of the firsts and was so focused on the nexts.

I was looking ahead. Every next-thing was intoxicating. The windshield was right in front of me and the headlights were on bright.

I think I wish I stayed a little more in the moment back then. And also, the newborn stage is just not fair, because it’s so fast and you’re so tired and you’re navigating a big new world and trying to figure so much out, including and not limited to the new life you just welcomed. But you know what they say about hindsight.

And so right now, I feel myself looking back. The rear-view mirror is fogging up for me. I’m savoring the time so much more, which is a gift in itself. Those firsts with him, you better believe we celebrate and we hold on tight to, but the fact that they are our last firsts, that’s a lot for me to handle. But I’m handling it. And I can see it coming at me like a freight train - the last first step, that last first haircut, the last first diaper - all of it is so, so good. But so, so sad.

We moved Leo into his room over the weekend. And this time the bassinet isn’t going in our attic, it’s going out the front door. It’s not being saved for my next baby, but handed down to a family member for their first. I’m packing away a few of my favorite newborn sleepers, but just for the memories of how little he was and for nothing else.

Thrift stores are getting a lot.

I am so, so happy. And so, so sad. My heart is so full but it also hurts a little.

How do we mourn things we are so blessed and happy for? What is this crazy dichotomy of feelings?

After we had dinner last night, and settled in with a glass of wine, Joey and I looked down and saw Elsie playing with Leo on his playmat. They were both giggling. That was a first, and won’t be a last.

I take a deep breath because that freight train is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, or even slow it down. And I don’t want to.

I’m jumping on board.

XOXO

Pregnant in a Pandemic - A letter to you, baby boy.

On a sunny day in late June, you arrived.

I’ll never forget the moment the nurse laid you on my chest, and the immense sense of relief I felt. I looked at your dad, tears filling my eyes, and I looked back at you.

I’m so glad you’re here, baby boy.

There some things you’ll only know through stories we share with you, about the nine months you lived inside me and the worry that the world caused us.

From the moment the pregnancy test told us you existed, we worried. It was all normal stuff at that point, hoping you’d be healthy and that we’d get to meet you one day. And then in February, the worry amplified.

People started hoarding toilet paper, hand sanitizer and Clorex wipes. You couldn’t find them in stores. Covid-19 took over the headlines. We were preparing our own emergency kits and I started shopping lists that were full of medicines to stock the cabinets, canned food for just in case the world went even more wild and we were filling the garage freezer with meats and bread and anything that would keep. We filled the motorhome with fuel and propane, just in case we needed it and then we watched the news, which the 24 hour news cycle we live with was enough to make everyone feel even more crazy.

People were dying. With the virus being novel, we, as a country and a world, had to watch to learn how it acted and reacted. Controversy over face-coverings were the norm. For awhile, we were disinfecting groceries and delivery packages before they were allowed in our house. UPS would deliver things, and we’d leave them outside for 48 hours worrying that a virus could live on cardboard that long.

Then, hospitals became overrun. There weren’t enough beds for patients and enough ventilators for those who needed them. Tents popped up in cities to house the sick.

And then we worried more.

Would there be a hospital bed for us?

We half-joked with a friend who is a skilled nurse through “what if” scenarios.

I started going to our doctor appointments alone, because guests weren’t allowed. I had ultrasounds without your dad being there to see you dancing around my belly.

Would your dad be able to be in the delivery room with me? Could I do this alone?

I kept working, but so many of my friends lost their jobs. The economy tanked, and companies struggled to recover and stay viable. I felt so isolated. We were quarantining, in effort to mitigate the virus. I didn’t see your grandparents for weeks. Schools went all virtual, and daycares closed, leaving your dad and I to balance caring for your sister and working full time. It wasn’t all bad and the silver linings were thick. We got to spend so much time just the three of us, we worked on projects around our house and property and we were forced to truly slow down. I’ll always be thankful for that.

And then, in May, George Floyd was murdered on camera by police officers in Minneapolis and everything started to feel just so, hopeless and crushing. Beautiful peaceful protests took over our city, but headlines focused on small but dangerous riots. Messages were getting lost but people kept fighting for the right voices to be heard.

Oh, and just general being pregnant with you things - complications, which I’ll tell you about another time.

But then you were here, happy healthy and whole (which was my mantra the whole time). Your dad drove me to the hosptial. There was a place for us. He was there the entire time. We had to send photos and videos and Facetime family members, because they weren’t allowed to meet you in the hospital. I’m sad we don’t have those iconic family pictures other people have with your big sister joining us in the hopsital bed, meeting you for the first time. But we have other things that are just as sweet.

I like to end these peices with a lesson learned. But I don’t know if I can do that right now. I think whatever lesson is to be learned in all this might still be in process. But I’ll tell you these two things I know for sure -

We can do hard things.

I’ll work my hardest to make the world a better place for you and your sister. Always.

XO

Hey Parents: Our kids are listening.

The photo above may not mean anything to you, and that’s okay but it means literally everything to me. Let me explain.

Like so many of you, the recent pandemic has upended our normal life. Our daughter no longer goes to school or daycare. Under normal circumstances, I already work from home but have surrendered the official office space to my husband, and I’m now conducting what feels like hundreds of virtual work meetings a day from the comfort/lack of comfort of our dining room.

The scene is messy, I’ll be honest. Papers litter the countertops, cords everywhere. It all gets piled on each other at the end of the day when we convert office back to a working kitchen, and then spread back out the next day. Normalcy is gone and I’m having trouble even remembering what it feels like.

Where’s that pen? My notebook? Is this meeting on TEAMS or Zoom or WebEx? How did I get double-booked and Why is this day taking so long and How is it already almost over?

The good news is the coffee machine is now at arms reach and the fridge about ten steps away. And the other good news, yet a difficult part, is that through the kitchen I can see our five-year-old in the living room, with her ABC Mouse or PBS Kids, or with her workbooks and crayons and baby dolls trying her best to play independently while not being ignored.

A schedule hangs on the door of the fridge, signaling meal times. That, I can say for certain, is being ignored. We’re doing our best. You are too.

We’re operating in different spaces, mentally and physically all-day long until we come together at the end of muddling through the chaos, getting back to our few hours of what sort of feels like normal until we rest our heads on our pillows that night.

I know I’m not alone here. There’s comfort and uncomfortableness in that.

One evening, I was talking with a friend on the phone about potential layoffs at her company, how things were going where I work, and just life and parenting overall. Elsie, our five-year-old, hands me the note you see above. “Mommy, I wrote you a letter.”

I replied. “Thanks love. I am so proud of you with how well you wrote your name!” and was back to my conversation with my friend.

“Mom! Do you know what it says?”

No. (I mean, what does she want it to say?)

“It says - Mom, I know work is really hard right now and just tell me how I can help you.”

I melted, right there on the floor of my new office/old kitchen. It was time for a heart to heart.

First of all, I felt so proud of the empathy this little person was showing in this true and honest moment. And secondly, I felt the whip of the world right there, realizing how much of my every day she was listening to, absorbing. I felt, quite honestly, that during those hundreds of virtual meetings she was so tuned into her living-room activities that she wasn’t listening to mine.

I was wrong.

Parents, our kids are listening more than we know. They’re listening especially close right now, as their worlds have turned upside down too and they’re working to make sense of it all, just like we are. They’re listening for clues, for pieces to the puzzle, to shape their reality of life. How they shape it will inform their memories of this time, and quite possibly the actions and reactions in the future. So yes, they’re listening.

I’m not saying let’s stop talking or start hiding what’s happening in the world around us. I’m actually arguing for the opposite. I’m just hoping that the lens we view our struggles through is one of optimism, of truth, and is met with all of the things we want to instill in our children - resilience, faith, trust and hope. And of course, belief that no matter the barrier, we can get through hard things together.

All of this happened a couple of weeks ago, and just today Elsie and I were having a conversation about my pregnant belly growing bigger and bigger. I pointed it out and said “Look how big our baby is making my tummy, Elsie.” with a warm smile and a hand to my middle.

She replied, “…and your legs too, mom!”

I really wanted to roll my eyes, say something self-deprecating about the growing thickness of my thighs. I looked into her green eyes and took a breath. There’s no way I could spoil this sweet moment for her, or for myself really by doing that. And I’m so glad I pivoted from that dark space to one of light.

“Well a growing belly needs strong legs to support it, don’t you think?”

She agreed, and we went on with our day.

Parents, we can’t control everything and in fact, we can control very little. The world is moving fast and it feels like those things we can control are slipping through our fingers like sand, so fast and unmanageable. Nobody is going to swim through these uncharted waters perfectly, and so we have to give ourselves a little grace. But remember this, and I really believe it - we control the narrative. We control our reactions. And that’s a good thing because there are people watching and listening with a whole lot at stake.

XO

Meagan

The best day ever.

It was kind of a shit day.

It was kind of like that book, Alexander and the no good, very bad whatever sort of awful day or something like that. It was a day like that. If that kids book was written for grown-ups, the title would only be it was a shit day.

We’ve all had them. Days where we wake up, we feel off, something happens followed by something else and then our feelings are compounded by something else and there you are, it’s that kind of day. I found myself having one of these days lately. The details aren’t important or maybe they’re irrelevant or perhaps they’re’ better suited for another chapter of this story - either way, here we are.

And then something changed. I asked Elsie about her day, with honest and genuine interest and with an honest and genuine response, she replied.

It was the best day ever.

And all of the sudden, through the beaming of her eyes and the openness of her heart, my day became the best day ever too.

And that’s it. That’s my entire point. We have the power to change the trajectory of someone’s day. Our energy is contagious. And let’s just sit for a moment and think about the kind of power that we really have.

It’s a lot. It’s gigantic. And that power, it’s important.

The photo above wasn’t taken by me. It was taken by Elsie. We had trekked for miles to the peak of a mountain for an overnight backpacking trip. Her first. While we stood together, we stared into the great beyond - focused on miles and miles of scenery, clouds floating on top of trees and other mountains greeting us in the far-off distance. And Elsie was taken aback by this flower.

That flower was at the tips of our toes and right under our eyes. Beauty isn’t far away and it’s easy to see if our eyes and our souls are open. It’s right here. And during each and every day, we should try to focus on what’s right in front of us, the positive things that create the good moments, the sweet seconds and we’ll see the tiny things turn into big things and before we know it, we’ll turn our shit days into the best days ever.

And then when someone asks you, be sure to remind them of that beauty.

That’s our power.

Be Brave.

This one’s for me.

Because I just don’t want to forget.

We found ourselves deep in the woods, following an old trail. Through evergreen trees, just bloomed trillium flowers were signaling the arrival of springtime.

Your dad was leading the way, finding the best path forward. I trailed closely behind you, closing our pack of three. He joked we were going on a bear hunt, just like your favorite story book.

The forest was quiet. We heard our heavy breaths as we traveled uphill. We heard the crunching of branches under our feet. We heard the occasional bird sing and we watched as the sun fought its way through the treetops to shine on our shoulders. We felt the warmth.

And then I heard you.

You’re so brave, Elsie. Elsie, you’re so brave.

You were just thinking, out loud. Your inner voice apparent.

You’ve got this. You can do this all by yourself, Elsie.

Your hot pink, sparkly light-up rain boots crossed over puddles and through old ferns. My heart swelled.

You believe in yourself. When I tell you how strong you are and how brave you are, you listened. That power is part of you.

I just need to capture this moment. I need to remember forever and frankly, I need to harness that kind of power sometimes too.

We focus so much about the importance and the necessity of positive self talk. And through hearing those words flow so freely from your little body, I learned something else - you taught me something really big in that moment, deep in the woods - that hearing others be kind to themselves inspires kindness everywhere.

Days later, in the car on the way to swimming lessons, I told you that I thought you were so brave. And that if you got scared, just remember how brave you are.

Without hesitation, you replied.

I know.

Knowing you believe in yourself helps me believe in me. It helps me believe in others, and it makes me want to believe in you even more, if that would even be possible but it isn’t because girl, you’ve got this. And I’ve got your back. And I’ve got me too.

XO

Something you need to read about self confidence and believing in you.

It’s middle of the workday and I glance down at my notebook.

I had written myself a note.

“You got this. You’re going to kill it. Be brave.”

We have probably all read articles about the power of positive self-talk and how important it is to be your own best advocate and how crucial it is to our mental state, which often times is swirling with negativity, to shut the door on such negativity or self-doubt and to really just believe in your best self.

Sure, blah, blah, blah.

I still write myself love notes because I need to write myself love notes. Sometimes, our self-confidence dwindles. But has it always been that way? Are we born with doubt? Do we arrive on this earth not believing in ourselves? I often wonder, but last weekend I found my answer.

The answer is no.

We are born our best advocates. We are born believing we belong. We are nurtured and inspired to believe that by those we love and who love us from the beginning.

Let me take you back. Back to my weekend, back to a motorcycle track that was wet with spring rain. We loaded up, Roscoe dog included, for a little weekend getaway. Joey would “compete”, as he put it - a joke we laughed about because he’s not the professional racer of his youth (he’s still crazy good though and still crazy fun to watch - end of shameless husband plug). Elsie is in love with her Minnie Mouse bicycle helmet almost as much as she loves her Strider bike and she spent most of the weekend mobbing around mud puddles on her bike and wearing the pink polka dot head wear.

(Elsie, you have always been an observer. You watch. One of my favorite things is to follow your eyes as they widely follow what’s happening around you, your expressions a silent but loud analysis of what you see. You quietly observe your environment and those around you. You solidly make decisions based on your observations and your intuitions are strong).

We were in the infield of the motorcycle track. The rain had stopped for awhile. There were older boys building a series of small sand jumps, which they would then ride their bikes across hoping to catch a little air. Their dad was watching. I’d guess they were six or seven years old.

We quietly circled the activity going on with these boys. Elsie watched. She observed. She saw what they were doing and after a little time passed, she lined herself up behind the boys.

It was her turn.

She rode on. She belonged there and she knew it. She claimed her space and you guys, I WAS PROUD.

It was her turn. She knew it.

SO PROUD.

Deep somewhere in my soul I had a moment of hesitation. This is a boys game. They’re doing their thing. What if they’re mean to her? What if they laugh because she’s so little and can’t do what they’re doing? We should go somewhere else. But we didn’t because it was her turn and she knew she belonged and so we stayed and I cheered her on as she lined up behind the boys dozens and dozens of times.

I helped rebuild the jumps when they got broken down. Their dad helped too.

And then I learned something else and it’s about how strong and how much power we as adults have. Because I was worried about these boys being mean to my daughter, I cheered louder. I made my voice heard. And their dad, who appeared at the onset a bit gruff, cheered for her too. And then the boys helped and they encouraged. They followed the positive example set forth and they were inclusive and I was thankful. And we had a great day.

So, what happens? If we’re born with self-confidence and we’re shown and taught to believe in ourselves when we’re young, why do those feelings go away? When do we start questioning our value or our worth or our abilities, or even our place? Something changes.

I’m afraid to see the day that we are in a similar situation and Elsie feels like she’s not good enough and she doesn’t belong. She questions if it really is her turn, or if she should sit this one out. She arrives at a decision that it’s not and she’s not. I’m afraid of that day. I bet it comes though, because at one point or another it comes for all of us.

Here’s what we do - here’s the challenge and it’s an easy one, a feel-good adventure for your day.

NEVER STOP BELIEVING AND NEVER STOP ENCOURAGING. Not just our little people, but each other. Coworkers, friends, family members. The tired looking mom on the hiking trail, believe in her and encourage her. The frustrated dad at the grocery store, encourage him and believe in him. Each other’s kids and each others parents and just, I don’t know, literally every person in our respective universes. Never stop.

Confidence is a state of mind, and we can all be there but let’s agree that it’s an evolution. We will never know everything, but believe in what we do know and be open to learning what comes next and how we can be better. Confidence is welcoming those opportunities with open arms.

Because once we stop hearing the belief from the outside, it’s easy for the belief to grow dark on the inside. And that light should shine bright always.

When we see others questioning themselves and their beliefs growing dark, pull them up from the shadows of self-doubt. Remind them of their power. Help them harness it. Remind them what they bring to the table. And then move on.

And the love notes to yourself, those help too.

Expert Parenting: 101

Hey Moms and Dads -

How’s it going? Are you winning? Are you failing? Are you absolutely killing it, or is it killing you (rhetorically, obviously).

I know, it depends on the day. On the minute. The hour. The nano-second.

I guess the right answer is just it depends.

Every day, we are forced to make a million different decisions that impact our little people and it goes way beyond what school to attend or what nanny to hire. I mean, those are critical decisions - but the every day ones, those are the ones that really add up. Their weight is heavy and compounding. It’s more than what to have for dinner or what kind of kid shampoo to purchase. (By the way, what shampoo are you guys using?)

And we analyze every decision, don’t we? We wonder if the organic peas that our kids won’t eat are better than store-brand peas that our kids won’t eat and then we wonder why in the world our kids won't eat peas at all. We read books and watch Instagram stories and read blogs about sleep habits and maybe it’s just me, but in the moment, we throw all of that knowledge out the window for a last minute, late night snuggle with our little people and then we analyze if that’s okay too. They’ll be big people soon and the snuggles won’t be an option…don’t get me started on those feels.

If we work, we might worry we work to much.

If we enjoy date nights, we might worry are we date-nighting too often.

If we send our kids to school, we might worry about the other kids and the teachers and what they’re learning inside and outside of the classroom.

If we want to grow our family, we might worry if that’s the right thing to do.

If we’re saving, we might wonder if we’re saving enough.

So, how are you doing with all of that? I know.

It depends.

Are expert parents a thing? Are there people out there that have all of the answers all of the time? Instagram and Facebook surely suggest that the answer is yes.

I think no.

And I think that’s the key to being good. Be vulnerable. Ask questions. Be confident but find your village that will help, that will set you straight if you need it. A village that will jump in and support you, that will answer a text at midnight. Trust your partner (if you’ve got one) and be honest enough to talk about the tough stuff. Admit defeat when you feel defeated. Acknowledge when it’s tough. Fight to make it better. Be okay with a solid ugly cry with each other when life gets ugly. Life gets ugly sometimes.

Set a good example because your vulnerability as a parent, as a person, is golden. That’s the kind of people we want to raise, right? The kind of people who feel okay with not having all of the answers, but search for the right ones. We want to raise the kind of people who find joy in the moments, who love with their whole hearts and who have perfected the art of the best squeeze-hug around.

So, let’s stop trying to be expert. Let’s just quit the quest for perfection. Let’s be okay with trying our hardest, doing our best, and loving the most. Let’s ditch the idea of not getting dirty because it might be messy, and let’s search for the best mud puddle to splash in, hand-in-hand with our little ones and with our grown up friends too.

Everyone deserves a little splash once in awhile. Literally or figuratively, everyone deserves one.

Mamas, they won't need us like this always.

MOM! Mom! MOM! MAMA!

I peel my eyes open and check the clock. It’s 3:34 a.m. I take a deep inhale and slowly exhale. Some nights, in that space of time, she falls back to sleep and I do too. But I can tell by the calls that continue to come, not this time. So as sweetly as possible at 3:34 a.m., I call back to her.

Yes, Elsie? What do you need?

I knew the answer. It was always the same. It’s been the same every single time. The answer keeps me exhausted. The answer never changes.

You, mama. I need you.

Facing a battle between awake-me and still-sleeping me, not wanting awake-me to win at 3:34 a.m., I throw my legs out of bed, feet gripping the soft carpet beneath. I put one foot in front of the other, taking heavy, labored steps. I make my way around the dining room table to the entrance of her bedroom. The night-air is illuminated by the light of a pink and white unicorn nightlight. The blankets have fallen off her princess-pajamas and her eyes are bright with anticipation.

Mom, lay with me for just one minute, please?, she pleads.

And I do. Each time. I lay with her at 3:34 or at 2:41 or 1:57 in the morning for one minute or five minutes and at this point, awake-me has celebrated victory. I run my fingers through her soft blonde hair and I watch her drifting back to dreamland. She’s safe and she’s secure and she’s beautiful.

And I’m tired.

But another battle takes shape in my mind, this one between my mind right now in this moment and my heart of the future. My mind right now in this moment wants the warmth of my own bed and a three-year-old who consistently sleeps through the night. My mind right now in this moment wants equal work between me and her dad during nighttime, but during nighttime wake-ups, she only wants me. We’ve tried sharing the work, but it results in tears and bad feelings and is honestly, just a lot more work than my zombie-like walk to her bedroom some nights. Resentful, I am not. Tired, I am.

And my heart of the future longs for those words.

Mom, I need you.

Mom, lay with me for just one minute.

Because my heart of the future remembers just figments of the sweetness of her voice, and only somewhat how that hair felt exactly as my fingers made their way from front to back. I am no fortune teller, of course, but I know my heart and I have a pretty good guess that longing for those things and for those moments, it will.

To the moms and dads and aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas who share work in the village that it takes to raise our tiny children while they are tiny, I want you to remember this:

They won’t need us like this always.

So those moments for you, whatever they are - the games we play at the dinner table to encourage eating one piece of something, the fights over nap times or bath times or dinner times, too - they’re temporary. The meltdowns in the grocery store or the seasonal flu that we become the world’s best nurse during - they’re fleeting, actually. And the soft and sweet words when our babies and little ones honestly and genuinely tell us their truth - that they need us, even for just one sweet minute at 3:34 a.m., is just that - a minute, a moment. We live through it and then it’s gone.

Let’s find the joy there. Let us own the feelings of tiredness and let us figure out how to cherish those moments where we are the most exhausted. Because we’ve earned it. Joy exists and is so rich in those moments where we feel down and out, when we feel just done - when we have to rise up and reclaim our value, and let the heart of the future win, every time.

Because the heart of right now will thank us.

XOXO

Meagan

Baby, breakdown. It's all right.

Have you ever had one of those days? I mean, one of those days. Heck, it might not be a full-fledged day at all. It might just be a moment. A snapshot. A small little bit of time where everything feels heavy. And then you move forward and get past it and everything feels normal again. But that weight doesn't go unnoticed and it doesn't get lost. It stays with us, probably because the fact that they existed make all of the other days taste just a little bit sweeter.

Please be nodding your head right now so I don't feel crazy. Thanks.

My work had me on the road this year, a lot. Don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I love the chance to travel and I love the impact that I really do make. I love my team and I love the organization I work for. But this year, I was on the road a lot.

I was in a lot of hotel rooms and on a lot of airplanes and in a lot of Ubers and Lyfts and I ate alone in a lot of restaurants and was thankful for Facetime a lot, too. Because Facetime, friends, is how those of us who travel for work stay in touch with our families and blow nighttime kisses to our little ones and stay connected (and to help us be visually aware that the house hasn't caught fire in our absence).

And this means that I was tired, a lot. Often times, I will take the earliest flight out so I'm not having to leave the day before, and I take the latest flight home, sneaking in so I'm at the table for breakfast. You guys, tired. Really, really tired. Because when I am home, I feel the need to cram all I can into those days. Family dinners, birthdays, adventures, snuggles. All of it. So, tired at work and tired at home and I finally had my moment where it caught up with me.

I broke down.

I had just boarded an airplane in Dallas. I was coming from somewhere and headed somewhere else. I hadn't had a chance to use said Facetime in a few days, because of the level of busy and time differences and all of those other excuses we give ourselves. I was boarding the plane, and my phone rang. It was home. And the connection failed. And then it failed again. And I wanted it to connect so badly, that my eyes welled up with tears and I tried calling back. My hands were shaking. My breath heavy as I kept hitting the little camera button on my iPhone. Over and over again.

I took my window seat in row 6, feet up against those in first class. My phone rang again. This time it worked. It was hubs and daughter and they were laughing and rolling around on the floor of her bedroom. She was telling me stories of the day before and their adventures and the air was sprinkled with I love you mamas and a few I get to see you soon mamas and quickly I found my voice cracking and the need to hang up the phone overcame me.

I texted Joey, "Sorry, I can't right now."

The weight, you guys. I meant those two words. I really felt, I believed, that I couldn't. I couldn't be on another airplane and I couldn't stand one more night away and I couldn't miss another dinner and I couldn't look into her sweet and beautiful eyes via that stupid Facetime app one more time.  I. Just. Couldn't.

The tears were falling at this point and I was in full-fledged ugly but secret cry mode. I will admit that I was wiping my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve, equally embarrassed and disgusted in myself. Row six. Just behind first class. Two men sat to my left. One offered to stow my bag. One asked me if I had kids at home.

For the reader - if you see a woman on an airplane and she's just hung up the phone and she's crying, DO NOT ask her if she has a family. I have it on good authority that this will encourage the tears to fall harder and faster.

A little while passed. The first man looked at me, straight in the eyes with the warmest smile I'd think I'd ever seen. He said to me, "I don't know what it is. But it's life."

That.

Thank you, stranger. For the reassurance that we all have these kinds of moments. Whatever our jobs are or if we have the job of raising our kiddos full time - everyone has those days, those moments and those little bits of time where everything feels so heavy. And he was so right, it's life.

I later learned that this stranger was also a pilot traveling home to his family. During the in-flight service, the flight attendant handed me two mini bottles of Titos with my orange juice, and sweetly and quietly said: "Honey, it's on us."

I arrived home a couple days later, and that weight was gone, but not forgotten. I was welcomed by bear hugs and I brought gifts so that probably helped. We had so much to talk about and the lump in my throat came back a little. I want to live in these kinds of moments forever. With my people. On the couch. Snuggled up, my soul thick with love.

There's always going to be something. Something that challenges us, something that demands our attention in a new or different way. Something that takes us away from home longer than we want or something that forces us to act differently than we may have wanted. There's always something. And I guess that's the lesson - take that something and find a way to make that push you forward. Propel you. The hard times can be the good times. In fact, when you look back, its what we learn in the hard times that make us better in the good.

Cheers, friends. It's life.

XOXOXO

Meagan

Filling up the Tank of Positive Self-Talk

On a beautiful winter day - one where the sun crept out from behind the solemn grey clouds, warming our bodies while changing the rainsoaked ground to a glossy shade of mud - on that day, our daughter turned three.

It was a Saturday.  We spent the day as a family of three together, or to be fair, a family of three plus a dog and two cats and five chickens and an undisclosed number of motorcycles. We played. We adventured. And we celebrated. Like I said, it was beautiful.

Throughout the day, I watched her. And I thought of my hopes and dreams for her over her lifetime. Hopes I can't yet imagine and then hopes that seem so clear to me right now.

Stay steadfast in your love for everything around you.

Be hopeful for the future and thankful for your past.

Love yourself as much as I love you.

Don't let anyone break you down, ever.

I know, these are grand and ambiguous goals for me to have for her. But as we run and jump and play, I see the wonder in her eyes and I feel the genuineness of her belly-laughs. I want her to be this way forever. Full of life and wonder and so very curious and open to learning. She chases giant bubbles in the field behind our little house, catching some and missing others. She trips and she falls. She looks to me for a reaction, for affirmation. She smiles, gets back up, and keeps on playing, unphased. Her mud-soaked leggings and glistening rain boots carrying her through this brief flash of childhood.

I find myself wishing for the power to protect her for eternity, to anticipate what might knock her down and stop those moments before they show up.

But that power doesn't exist. As parents, we do the very best we can to give our little ones all of the love and all of the protection we can. And at the end of the day, our best power is in the tools we give. And the best tools are those of ensuring her Self-Talk-Tank is overflowing with positivity. It's chalk full of only everything good. 

See the positive. See the hard work. Communicate it. Recognize it. Communicate it again.

Because I think we, as parents, can own that for a while. That's something we can do. When she fails, we praise the trying. When she succeeds, we praise the hard work it took to find the success. When she falls, we celebrate getting back up. When she thinks she can't, we encourage her that she can.

See the positive. See the hard work. Communicate it. Recognize it. Communicate it again.

And at a small but mighty three-years-old, we have to know how much she's watching. She's observing. She's forming ideas about the way things work; the expectations she'll have in her lifelong relationships start here. The behavior she sees in her parents and her aunts and uncles and grandparents - those actions become her truths. And it's about the small things too, as much as it is the big things.

Does she see her dad steal a kiss in the kitchen, while I'm making dinner? Does she see him hold my hand while we snuggle in for a movie at night? Does she hear of the I love yous and the You made my day extra special sounds from her day? Are those notes of affection and kindness things she'll come to expect? I hope so. But I hope so because they are there. And they are good.  Because she also watches me catch a second glance at my body in the mirror, or touch the wrinkles on my forehead with a disapproving breath. I vow to pay attention to these moments where my own Self-Talk Tank feels empty, and force them to be full again. Because she's watching all of it.

It's my job. It's my job to love me, and love her dad and love our world because she's learning what all of that means. My hopes and dreams for her depend on this time with her.

I want her tank to be full of the good stuff. Of the love and the magic and the power of being not just a smart and fierce three-year-old girl, but of also the responses and the reactions she must pull out in the moments life throws her curve balls. In those moments where she might be led to believe she's not enough, or question her worth, I want her to easily pull from that tank and remember just how wonderful she is. At three, or at thirty.

My advice, for what it's worth: Keep your Self-Talk Tank full too. Not just for you, but for the people in your world.

XOXO

Meagan