ALMOST!

It’s a bright Sunday afternoon and we’re at our nieces church to see her baptism. Eliot loves visiting our family’s church, because he loves seeing his cousins, of course… but I think he mostly loves that there is a trunk full of sporty toys and he’s allowed to play freely in the fenced yard. It’s a rare occasion that we’re here so I’m trying to catch up with people, but Eliot keeps coming to grab my hand.

“Momma, let’s play baseball.”

I can’t say no to his pleading hazel eyes, even though he’s absolutely terrible at baseball, and it’s scorching in this summer sun with no shade. I throw the ball probably 1000 times (it feels this way) and then slip inside again for conversation. He’s only appeased momentarily.

“Momma, come back, play baseball.”

Ok… let’s go sweat some more.

It’s a dance, we’re right in the middle of it—and I’m doing most of the work. Not only am I lead in this scenario, but it appears my dance partner is just stepping on my feet. Not only do I have to pitch the ball to him, but when he misses it —which is most of the time— I have to retrieve it, then go back and pitch it again.

Basically, Eliot stands there swinging the bat hoping for a miracle. I’m not annoyed that he keeps missing the ball, but it is a little disappointing that he doesn’t seem to have any skill in this area. Maybe I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t walking across this yard a hundred times…

Even still, I’m his biggest cheerleader. Every time he swings and misses, I yell out, as heartily as I can, some variation of,

“ALMOST! Great job!”

“Almost! You almost got it that time!”

“Great swing, buddy! Almost!”

He is just as happy when I cheer for him and his “almosts” as he is when he actually hits the ball. He is so proud of his attempts and I am so proud of him.

My parenting is not research led; I’m not reading papers to inform my choices on how to be a mom to my children, but every now and then something comes up that teaches me and really sticks.

Like recently, I learned about the work of psychologist, Carol S. Dweck. Her research shows us why children should be celebrated for their attempts —rather than just when they get something right! It’s a gut feeling I think all moms have anyway. We naturally want to praise our kids for trying, and it’s cool to understand why that matters.

Children praised for their tries instead of only their successes are more likely to develop a growth mindset. A growth mindset meaning: our children are more likely to believe that their abilities can be nurtured and improved through practice.

In her work, the children praised for their attempts to answer questions in their classroom, tried MORE than kids praised only for correct answers.

Praising a child for trying encourages them to view failures as opportunities to learn, instead of something to be embarrassed of

Obviously, this mindset has profound implications on how we and our kids will approach trying things.

I have the opportunity as a mom to teach my boys that success is not solely determined by getting things right, but by the dedication and determination they invest in what they’re doing.

I want to communicate that my boys are capable, that their efforts matter, and that I am steadfastly supporting them every step (and every failure) along the way. I want be the mom cheering Eliot on for his attempts so that he keeps trying.

I can’t even remember all the times I haven’t done something because I haven’t wanted to be bad at it, because I haven’t wanted to embarrass myself, I haven’t wanted to fail.

I want my home to be a place where my kids can try, that it won’t even cross their minds to be embarrassed of the things they don’t get right.

Because failing is just a part of trying, and trying makes life a whole lot more fun.

A few evenings after that hot, baseball-filled Sunday afternoon, after I tucked him into bed and was beginning to leave his room, Eliot called out, in his tiny 3 year old voice,

“mem-member, mom? mem-member baseball? mem-member almost??”

He’s still so proud of his almosts. Ohhh, yes, baby. I mem-member. I’m glad you do. I love you. Good job trying.

Home: work & rest

If I could describe the vision I have for our home, it would have more to do with feeling than aesthetic. Not that I don’t value a beautiful home; it’s something I’m continually working towards (and probably spend too often worrying about).

But I know from some emotionally hollow years inside of a professionally designed and decorated home, that no perfect sconce, end table, or wallpaper makes up for a suffering family culture.

I do want our home to be beautiful, comfortable, and safe. I want to feel snug, hugged by saturated colors, warmed by dappled natural light, and have books within reaching distance in every room. (Thank you, baskets, for your service.)

Home is the place to have my hair down, shoes off, and stray mugs on too many surfaces.

Home is a restful moment.

Home is the place to be off, the least-done and most-cozy: PJs and slippers and makeup free.

But home… is also where the people I love the very most live. Home is also where my full time career is, as mother and caretaker of this space.

I am constantly working towards finding the balance of

this-is-where-we-rest

and

this-is-where-life-happens-with-my-people-so-I-better-really-show-up.

I need days off, too, of course. But I spend most of my time at home and I have found that only being off at home doesn’t work for me.

I want my husband ands kids to see: out of everyone in the world, I care most what they think. I don’t want to consistently give them my second bests.

The balance of I rest here, and I show up to serve, love, work, and do the majority of my life here, is so weird and vague.

If there is a perfect balance, I haven’t found it. But, I have learned some things about myself... like…

I don’t want to only get dressed or put on makeup for other people. I do it for myself, and I do it because I like feeling like I’ve tried.

I want our home to be clean for us. Not because other people are coming over, but because we enjoy being here more when we do the work to keep it up.

My attitude is a matter of what I let myself think and I am constantly course-correcting my negative thoughts (especially around how repetitive household work and child rearing can be).

I want my children to see me acting out my thoughts: Hey-I-really-care-that-you’re-here-and-with-me. And this-job-at-home-matters-too-so-I’m-trying-to-treat-it-with-respect.

So while I am continually on the lookout for ways to make our house more aesthetically beautiful, I’m trying to stay tuned-in to my thoughts, attitudes, and behaviors that contribute (or detract) from our ideal family culture and home atmosphere.

Recently I’ve been struggling with some “I am failing at this” thoughts with my household. When it happens, I go for a walk and tackle a project, and find those make me feel like I haven’t completely lost my handle on our home.

It’s a process and I’m okay here, living in the middle.

I’m learning to be okay in the middle

If you ever come to my house, please wear socks. Not because I don’t like your feet, I’m sure they’re just fine, but because I want to spare you the feeling of walking across my dirty floors.

I wish my floors were clean, I really do. But that would take a thorough sweeping AND mopping three times a day, and that’s not something I’m willing to commit my life to, to be honest.

We live in the forest, but for some reason there’s so. much. sand. It seems at least one small bucketful of it is tracked inside our house each day.

If I wanted to live near sand, I would’ve moved to a beach where I could at least enjoy some ocean sounds, but I don’t live anywhere near the ocean… and still, sand, everywhere

I’m in a moment of life right now where I keep going back-and-forth between being totally okay with the fact that I don’t have everything under control, and feeling totally unequipped for this current job of running household and trying to raise tiny humans, while I love God and try to teach them the same.

Of course, the days when I feel like I have it together (my house is decently clean, my dishes are unloaded, my laundry isn’t behind) I feel like somehow… somehow, I’m going to be able to be the mom these boys deserve and the wife I want to be and also the best caretaker for this home.

And on the days when laundry is behind (which is nearly every day) and there are dishes to be done, because I haven’t unloaded, and my bathroom sink could really be wiped out, I despair a bit… wow, I don’t have this, and I am not equipped for this. Does this come more naturally for some people than it does for me?

On the good days, I remember that how I keep my household in a single minute is not a picture of how I keep my household as a whole. I’m allowed to have a Tuesday afternoon where everything is a wreck and that’s okay, because I will get back to it, the reset will happen.

But, on the not great days, it feels like this exact moment - of my dishes piled up and being behind on laundry again - it feels like this is my whole life, and like that somehow means I’m a failure.

I find when I’m really on top of the household - spotless floors, perfect systems - my children get a bit neglected.

But if I spend all my time with my children and don’t take the appropriate amount of care of our important household chores, then we all suffer; because who wants to have to wash a fork every time you need one?

I have to be okay with living in the middle.

In the middle of the process,

because it’s always a process and our home is as alive as we are.

The middle is…

an okay place to be.

And actually, the middle is the only place I can be.

So I’m learning to be okay with being in the middle of my own life. And I’m learning not to judge myself so harshly when the middle isn’t the perfect representation of who I want to be, or what I want our home to be, as a whole.

The skeletons in our closet attend family dinner too

The noise of 28 humans rumbles through the house in a way that makes me think my mom needs more carpet. (Is an area rug an inappropriate birthday gift?) I’m a wood floor person, but all of us together (especially with 10 in our crowd being 4 years old or younger) just makes it seem like we need some more insulation. In April, when a fire started licking mom’s beautiful white cabinets, while the alarms blared, the children went outside for their ears sakes, but none of the adults even moved. The chaos is just too normal, most things are unlikely to make my family flinch. It’s a storm and, actually, it reminds me of that breakfast scene in Cheaper by the Dozen. Remember when the entire room erupts into madness? It seems to almost always feel like we’re near that level of disorder, even though we haven’t had a frog jump directly into our scrambled eggs.

It feels like there’s always at least one child screaming for an unknown reason, the toddlers push each other around on the trampoline in a way that has us all cringing, and there’s always either not enough food, or way way too much food. Cliques form around the house as 3-5 adults make separate conversations, and inevitably the groups migrate and merge as the volume continues to rise, because even though we’d like to have separate conversations, we want to have them all in the exact. same. place.

I imagine the entire situation could be compared to being in a mosh pit at a rock concert. At the end of the night you’re a little bit deaf, you’re exhausted from all the movement, but you couldn’t stop while you were there, because the energy was a 10 and you can’t not be a 10 when you’re with those people, and in that place.

Our regular weeknight dinners are more intense than most families entire holiday season. But… it’s magic. There’s no formality in the way we sit down. There’s no passing of the entrees around a beautifully set table, and our children aren’t learning manners (unfortunately), but they’re getting time together. The cousins play so hard they tend to sleep a bit later the day after. We sisters get a chance to reconnect while we sip hot or cold teas, and coffees, while we breastfeed the abundance of babies we have in our midst. This familiar routine is a staple we can look forward to each week. We have a family dinner on both sides - Frost and Bonin. And both give us so much to be thankful for. And I want to be clear: we are not perfect families. I don’t want to over-romanticize the picture of what it is to be one of us. We have skeletons in our closet just like most. But it’s OK, we just get together and hang out anyway, skeletons and all. And we’re all the better for it.

An unexpected friendship

Sally Clarkson has been my friend since I was a little girl.

Well, I guess you wouldn’t really call us friends, since she doesn’t know me.

But my mom introduced me to Sally when I was young; through her written word, and also speaking events.

It feels like I’ve spent many hours with a cup of tea in my hand, sitting across from Sally talking about the important things in life. Getting to the heart of the matter on all things.

Whether it’s with my attitude, or my habits, or the love & words I bring into my home and to my family, it really feels as if Sally has taken me under her wing and mentored me personally.

There’s something so special about the written word.

Sally gave me (and the whole world!) such a gift when she decided to become a writer.

Mentorship in general is one of the greatest gifts. Older women taking younger women in, allowing them to journey alongside them through life’s ups & downs, with the mundane parts, difficult parts, seasons of changing relationships, and all the beautiful moments in between… it’s sweet. And special.

Recently another friend & mentor came into my life. And this one actually knows me by name. (😆)

Tammie Jurek, a wife, mother of adult children, an intentional mentor to a group of us young mothers. She’s lovingly called “Garbomb” by the children, since that’s her grandmother name, and she’s become like a grandmother to many more than her own!

In the Fall of 2022, Tammie began meeting with a group of us young moms, in a home, spending time with us late into the evenings.

Some of us on dining room chairs, or spots on the comfy couch, some on the floor, some with babies in their lap, we would discuss Mission of Motherhood (by Sally Clarkson, of course!) together, and Tammie would let us into her own story.

She shared pieces of her life and heart, stories from her young motherhood years, and passed along wisdom and encouragement. She brought us together so that we could begin knitting our hearts to each other in this group of women in similar seasons, so that we wouldn’t have to do this motherhood thing alone.

Tammie’s heart is for younger moms - reminding us to love our God, love our husbands, love our children. She lives out the wise older woman role, making us each feel seen, important, loved, and wanted in the group, even though we’re all just now getting to know each other.

Since it began, our little tribe has moved on to another book (Sally Clarkson’s “Awaking Wonder”) and we’ve changed meeting times, locations, new women have joined, we’ve spent days at the park, met at a coffee shop, had a mom swim night. It’s evolving, and every step of the way, I’m thankful to be invited. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never been a part of anything like this.

It feels so special to be included in a community that is tied together with a meaningful common purpose. It’s a group of girlfriends that doesn’t take away my attention and focus from the greater things, but always draws me back.

Leaving time together with them, I’m always pointed again toward what my true focus should be. This community is so life-giving. (Speaking of life-giving: have you read the Life-Giving Home by Sally? Go download it on Audible immediately!)

Tammie has been bringing in other older women with a similar mission— making more time & space when we’re together for one on one conversation and mentorship with younger/older women.

I am thankful for the influence Sally has had in my life with her words. And for the impact Tammie is having in my life (and so many other moms right now) by pouring her heart into our community.

My hope is that this experience we’re having in our little part of the world encourages you. If there’s not an older woman in your life stepping up like Tammie, (let’s be honest about how rare this is!) please don’t feel left out. I don’t know that I’m qualified to make recommendations, but I’d tell you what I would do if that was my position right now.

First, seek out mentors through books— connect with women like a Sally Clarkson through their words! Even if she doesn’t know your name, you will be blessed by your time spent with her in her books. Second, seek out friends who have the same desire to discover beauty and truth, and perhaps put a little book group together yourself. I think you might also be surprised if you ask an older woman in your life to be a friend and guide, she would probably be willing and honored.

I feel like this is important to note. I am not best-friends-and-texting-about-everything with the women in this community. I don’t want to over-romanticize what we have or paint a false picture of what friendship in motherhood looks like for me right now. While I am so thankful to be in a circle of such amazing women whom I respect, we’re also all really in the trenches, busy doing life with our own children and spouses, in our own homes, at our own churches… I guess I want to mention that because I don’t want it to be assumed this community is perfect in some magical and unachievable way.  This is just regular women doing our best and thankful to have each other along the way.

I missed that second group photo. I was up hosting the sweetest Blessingway for Mikayla right before Reverie was born. Hey, I should write about that. 🥹

PS. I asked Tammie if she had anything to add and here is what she shared:

I realized early on in my parenting adventure that I needed wisdom from older women because I saw the lack of it in my life.

I began praying asking God to show me one woman who I believed walked close to Jesus and would be someone who cared about me enough to share her personal story as a momma. God always answered my prayer above and beyond my request. So pray first for a mentor.

Be willing to take the initiative as a young mom. Older moms have just released their own children and need to know their journey has value. They need people who want to hear about it.

If you do reach out and the mom says no, then accept that this isn’t the right mentor for you and move on. Again, God knows your need and will answer in the right time.

Do not walk the mom road alone. You need people even if you are an introvert.

- Tammie

My mom & I dont have a perfect relationship (and that’s ok)

The mother and adult daughter relationship isn’t one that always comes easy. At least in my experience, even if you’re very close friends with your mom, there will sometimes be hurt feelings, misunderstandings, arguments, or times of emotional distance.

It would be nice if relationships were perfect. Life would certainly be smoother if friendship didn't demand time and effort. But I guess that some of the magic in relationships stems from the depth they acquire through time and shared experiences. If every relationship had effortless connection and perfect compatibility without any effort or practice, I think something valuable would be lost.

It seems it’s the shared experience of investing time, putting in effort, and learning how to navigate challenges that allows relationships to grow and become meaningful and transformative.

My mom and I have had 28 years of getting to know each other, and along with all of the best memories, I’ve also found at times, bitterness I’ve had to uproot, judgments I’ve had to toss, opinions I’ve had to reshape. We are changing, and so is our relationship.

I’ve found working things out in relationship really comes down to direct words, spoken carefully.

There is a delicate balance between being truthful and being considerate, and finding that balance is the a game of getting over myself and practicing self control.

I’ve definitely been ashamed of how I’ve acted in our friendship before, and those times are always after I've allowed my overwhelming emotions to guide my speech.

I've discovered that pausing to let my storm settle before speaking is always the better decision. It allows me to carefully consider my words.

The most powerful words aren’t the words spoken with the most emotion or volume, but the words spoken that get most closely to the truth.

And perhaps, sometimes it seems like speaking more loudly gets you closer to the truth of how you feel, because you’re angry. But in my experience, when I let the anger simmer down, underneath is usually some thing else… like fear, or rejection, or loneliness.

This recent season of life I have felt has brought distance between my mom and I. She’s mothering four at home, running a business, keeping her marriage thriving. It’s honestly hard for her to fit in time for anything outside of that, like one on one conversations with me.

Recently, despite feeling a bit embarrassed at 28 years old, I found myself reaching out to my mom. I had to express that there's still something in me that aches for a deeper connection. I realized that what I truly needed was dedicated time for just the two of us to have meaningful conversations. So we’ve started going to breakfast together. Actually, it's a familiar routine. Reminiscent of our 5AM breakfasts when I was a teenager. Looking back, I realize that even then, it was challenging to find moments of solitude for us to have quality time.

We’re reconnecting over bacon and eggs and at least 3 cups of coffee each. It’s a mixture of life’s current happenings (since we aren’t in the day to day together anymore) dreams for the future, hard things going on (like needing to get our roof replaced because of mold), and more. It’s just… time. Basic, but so important… time.

I’m grateful that the conversation comes easily, that we make each other laugh, and that my little one peacefully dozes off for half the time and then plays contentedly in my lap for the rest.

It’s 4:30AM and the birds are singing loudly, and it throws me back into my memories: being six years old, tagging along to work with dad, stopping for donuts along the way. There's a touch of magic in those memories. And now there’s magic in buckling up my baby, heading to the diner where mom and I have shared many breakfasts at 5AM together before.

The waitress pours us coffees and we ease in the conversation with laughter and how cold it is where we’re sitting. Let’s definitely bring sweaters next time.

Mom, I’m so glad you’re my friend. Thank you for thinking my friendship is worth working for too.

I can finally see where I’m headed next

This has been a year of less.

Less communicating, less consuming, less distracting myself. Less.

And it’s been a year of more.

More face to face time without interruption, more walks through our forest, more time for joining in free and imaginative play with my boys, more art, more research, more dreaming, more doing. More.

At the end of 2022 I was experiencing that distinct gut feeling (the kind that may as well be a voice speaking audibly to me). I want to get away from the noise.

Specifically because I wanted more space to become mother I dreamed of being.

More living in my day and enjoying it, with all of its slow and mundane qualities (ugh I want this to be romantic, but seriously so much household work is so not), less living in the quick digital universes built for, or by, me.

More time to laugh, less time concerning myself with the worlds problems or trends, political or otherwise.

I’ve always been one to praise the many gifts the internet, and specifically what social media has given us; especially women who choose to stay home with children. So I’m not the person who will poo-poo instagram or facebook in their entirety. It’s thanks to social media that I built two successful businesses back to back that have supported my family in incredible ways.

But… I’ve been peeling back the things outside of motherhood to see who I am inside this role and I’m finding, with guilt… I am not entirely fulfilled in this role; just mother doesn’t seem to keep me interested enough to not need... a nap.

Ouch. I can’t believe I said that out loud.

I assumed motherhood was it. The be-all and end-all. But instead I find the repetitive nature of house work and dirty diapers and meals and meals and meals and dishes and dishes and dishes and, oh my, how does our toilet look like that again? really zaps the life out of me. The management of a household and the needs of toddlers and babies don’t use my favorite skills, or the parts of me that make me feel the most productive, interesting, and creative.

I struggle with fighting the guilty thoughts of "this should be enough" and "some women would give up everything to be mothers" and "God created me for this." But that isn't the whole truth, is it? God created me for so much more in this life, and while motherhood is a beautiful portion, it's not the entirety of my existence.

This last year, stepped back from my entrepreneurial pursuits make more space for mothering, but apparently, I wasn’t specific enough about whatever that was supposed to mean… and social media as default started filling that time. (Mainly sending reels to my BFFs. Hear me out... This was fun.) But no. I flat out refuse to be the social-media-scrolling mom. (No judgements here. Again, I have always found social media useful for business, but I think it’s more of a net negative when I’m using it to consume instead of create.)

I’m just figuring out who I am, who I want to be, and how all of this works in this household with me and our 8 month old, 2 year old, and 3 year old. This last year has been very revealing and I feel like I now understand the direction I want to move forward in. I think, for the first time in a while, I can see clearly the woman I want to grow into next. The wimpy parts of me want to delete the rest of everything I’ve written here and just leave that.

If you haven’t gathered this already, my blogs don’t end with tidy little bows, packaged perfectly with a the formula I’ve figured out or designed to make life better immediately. I wish I was a pro like that. I’m just here writing because I’m an external processor and writing helps me understand and untangle what’s going on inside my own head.

Spending 2023 committed to exploring, learning, and growing. Here’s an abrupt ending to a whole lot of jumbled thoughts. ✌🏻

Writing these down for later

The things I wish someone was telling me right now as a stay at home mother.

Writing these down because I want to speak these over young mothers when I’m on the other side of this season:

What you are doing right now is so important.

The time you spend in the kitchen is more meaningful than you realize. Seriously, so much life happens in the kitchen.

Serving your people IS serving Jesus.

Someone seeing what you do doesn’t make what you do more important. In fact, the things you’re doing when no one is looking are the most important things you do.

Just because someone is a successful entrepreneur and a mother does not mean you have to be an entrepreneur while mothering. You aren’t less worthy or valuable in the world because you want to give all of your time to your children, spouse, and home.

There are many good things you can be spending your time on, but don’t let all those good things steal your energy and heart from your family.

Let’s repeat that. Good things can steal from what should be your number one priority.

God only gave your children to you. (Well, and your spouse. But that’s not what we’re talking about here.) That means you are solely responsible to God to on the matters of how they are treated, loved, attended to, and how their hearts are stewarded. You will answer to Him.

When it comes to priorities: made beds, ironed clothes, a clean toilet, and delicious meals all fall very very short of being #1. Yes, of course, you should be stewarding your home well, but if it is coming at the cost of teaching your children to know, love, seek, serve, honor, and delight in the Lord, then the cost it too high.

If you can only do one thing today, seek the Lord with your children.

You home has become your idol if… It’s costing your peace. It’s causing you to snap at your children. It’s keeping you from the more important task of stewarding their hearts.

Just because self help gurus preach perfect morning routines include things like journaling, working out, meditation, scheduling planning, reading, etc. does NOT MEAN you have to do those things if you decide to start getting up earlier.

The activity that is going to get you excited to get up in the morning should be the thing you plan to do.  That activity can totally be sex.

I want to sit at the table hungry

June 28th, 2022

Because I’ve lived here my whole life, I have a very American way of viewing food and eating. The quicker the better, for everything: the preparation, eating, even the shopping. Meals were the thing in-between what was happening in my life.

In the last couple of years I’ve been reading a lot more about food. I want to nourish my body and my soul and what I was doing, the way I’ve always done things, isn’t cutting it.

I’ve returned to a book by Mireille Guiliano several times in the couple years. The way she sees eating changes me. I keep going back because I’m refreshed by the gladness she takes in meals. Not as in-betweens, but important moments in themselves.

Taking time to adjust my perspective on meals, a little habit change here and there, more care for the grocery trips, less frustration in longer preparations, more intention to linger at a meal, it’s all changed me, a bit at a time.

One thing that’s been missing is our lunch hour. I haven’t really set a rhythm around it. It feels hard to do because it’s in the middle of the day, in the middle of everything. But maybe that’s what makes it more important. Taking the time to pause and reflect on a morning, breathe before an afternoon and evening. Stop. Be. I have written across on of my journals from like 10 years ago, I’m a human being, not human doing. I don’t think that hits everyone the same way. But it’s stuck with me.

Our lives are made up of years which are just months lumped together, and months are just the weeks made sensible and tidy for our calendar, and our weeks are just our days… so my days are my life. And I think… how do I want to live it?Certainly not rushing from task to task so often I can’t sit at a table and savor a meal, taking pleasure in each bite because I’m present enough to pay attention to the textures and flavors and temperatures and joy of the things that make up my plate.

I don’t want my life to be such a buzz my children don’t remember sitting down and thanking God for the provision of whole foods and a safe and beautiful home to enjoy them in together, and often.

I’m the mom who eats what she’s cooking while she’s over the pot and in the mess, before I’m at the table with my people. But I want to choose differently. I want to prep patiently, I want to sit at the table hungry: for the food, for the conversation, for what happens when we enjoy a meal socially, hungry to become the kind of person who dines long and well, no matter what’s on the menu.

Reckless, boundaries

May 2, 2022

My default setting is to run my life at reckless pace. Because my mind runs at a reckless pace. I know part of this can be accounted for in the personality I was formed with, a desire given to me to want to pursue better, for me, for the people around me.

The gift of always wanting growth comes with the challenge of a rushed nature, a forward leaning mind instead of one planted in the present. My unsanctified state, which is easy to fall back into is: it needs to be done, and done right now,

and it probably really needs to be done my way, because I know what I’m doing. (ha ha ha)

Sometimes I crawl under the covers at night and it washes over me: that deep knowing, that I didn’t stay present, I wasn’t in my day, and if I’m not careful my whole life could go by and I won’t have experienced many hours of it, not truly,

not with intentional presence, because I wasn’t here, now. I was there, then.

The freedom I’m finding is that I don’t have to give up my gift of dreaming extravagantly to live presently.

I can both desire and pursue growth, while planting my heart and mind firmly in my Wednesday morning, cleaning up spilled milk and wiping down sticky, jammy toddler hands. Appreciating the way the light hits my kitchen table and floors, really listening to the sounds of my own home and children,

I can be here, seeing, smelling, tasting, touching, hearing, I can choose that.

And all that requires of me is as simple as it is hard: having boundaries.

For too much of my life boundaries felt like the walls to push up against purposefully.

I’ve realized with time, boundaries are a gift I can give myself, so I can be where I am, living in my purpose, being able to breathe a sigh of relief because I know I’m in the right place, doing the things I’m accountable for at the present moment.

There’s a time and place for each of the things life requires of me.

It doesn’t get divided up evenly each day, but over the course of a week, when I live within the proper boundaries, the important tasks get done and can be done without fluster and frustration.

Late spring, early summer after Emerson was born I transformed into a mad woman. Like: couldn’t stop pacing, sweating, writing things down, talking about, working towards, and sweating over a large business goal. I had a newborn that literally didn’t stop crying for 4 months straight,

leaky boobs, an adventurous one year old, and somehow I decided setting a preposterous goal in my business was appropriate. I was barely managing our household and my nerves, but hey, why not heap a lot of pressure on myself?

I don’t guilt myself for wanting to chase my big dreams, but if I could go back one year ago today I would be a gentle and kind voice, a friend to myself, a little hug, a little tough love, and I would set real boundaries.

Because within the walls of my boundaries there is actual freedom. Freedom to work my business, when it’s appropriate. Freedom to just be mama, and not feel like that isn’t enough. Freedom to do the household chores without feeling like I’m missing out on other things.

Within the boundaries of my life, I can live and drink deeply of the life giving water— the purpose God set before me, and only me, in that special way He does for each of us.

With intentional lines drawn in the sand of my life, I find peace.

Many times we just think if we had more time, we’d do the things we wanted. If there were more hours, we’d make time for that book, in our favorite chair near the window. But it tends to be the more time we have the more those “important” tasks seem to pop up and add themselves to our calendar.

I’ve never lived without, but sometimes I imagine what it would’ve been like, not owning a washer. Either of the clothes or dishes variety. The electric washers exist to save humans so many hours a week. I am imagine what it would’ve been like being a woman dreaming of the day I’d be free of the chore, wondering what I could do with all the freedom, what I’d tell my husband I could do with all the time waiting for me on the other side of just owning those tools. Thinking somehow if I just had that… things would really work out.

It’s a funny thought isn’t it. Where has that time gone? Is the saved time not hand washing clothes and dishes spent reading to children or enjoying the sunshine, taking a walk or learning to bake something new? It seems like the gift of more hours in a week has just disappeared. Like the hours never existed at all.

That’s what happens when to time though. Like money, if it isn’t given a purpose, it just seems to leave of it’s own accord.

There is no pretty bow or beautiful thought to end all of this with. It’s just what I was thinking this morning and it felt important to write it down. So I’m doing more of that, more quiet so I can have these thoughts, more space for pen and paper.

But when I do it right, it’s like I can taste…

April 27th, 2022

It’s hard to break old habits. I have a handle on who I want to be and the decisions I need to make to be that person.

But it’s really easy to fall back into waking up in a flurry of what feels like purpose but is more a toxic cocktail of screen time, rushing out the door,

ticking things off my to do list, and not even slowing down enough to hear the still small voice.

What feels like opportunity to have a full life is often just a distraction from the little things that actually make up a fulfilled life.

Reading under the shade of a tree, making a meal with the intention of sitting down and sharing it with my children undistracted, making room for silence and space to listen. Listen to the birds. Listen to the wind. Listen to my children playing.

Listen to God’s whispers. I want margin. I want to create a life with room for life to create.

I’ve spent too many years filling the calendar knowing it would give me a sense of propose but I didn’t know that that purpose was one dimensional and when I finally tapped into living slower and with more intention I found new dimensions altogether. It’s like before I could only touch. But when I do this right, when I live right,

I can taste, touch, smell, and hear. It’s meaning.

Someone asked me recently. How are you? Busy? It came out kind of awkwardly because I’ve idolized busy culture for most of my life, but I said

“No, we’re not busy, but we’re living well.” It’s not that my days aren’t as full of as many tasks as every other wife and mother but I refuse to pin on the tag, busy. I refuse to wear it like a badge of honor when now I know it was a thinly veiled lie,

a way to be distracted from life in the littler things.

I’m spending my time the way I want and paying attention to what adds joy to our life. I’m opting out of grocery pickup and taking time to stroll the aisles of our grocery store with my boys in the cart because it’s special to me. When Eliot was 11 months old and I was just about due with Emerson I I remember telling a friend how much those moments in our HEB meant to me, having Eliot face to face with me, without the discomfort of holding him while so pregnant. It’s so small, but so not. It’s what I call the big little.

And I’m not ignoring in my life anymore. I am looking for, listening for, paying attention to the big little things.

This morning it was making sure I didn’t leave the house without watering the garden. It would’ve been fine without because we finally got some rain, but it’s not just about the garden. It’s about what happens when I go out there. When I take the boys in the wagon and show them with my actions what we’re choosing to prioritize as a family. Responsibility, cultivation, sunshine, togetherness.

I love this life and I’m going to teach them how to love it too.

A crisis / Callan lives ❤️

April 25th, 2022

I don’t remember a lot of crisis in my childhood. We went through our own family crisis times, certainly, those I remember clearly, because of how they shaped me. But I wasn’t privy to the all the crisis times happening in other families as they so often do.

My parents protected my gentle & easily bruised heart often from the weight of broken promises, broken families, the fallen world with its sickness, hardship, and death. Though it’s not that we didn’t see it at all when they wanted us to.

I could tell you the stories I remember of hurting people, because when I was allowed into that world my parents wanted to teach me, or let me watch, how to be a friend, sister, a prayer support, a person who was there.

I saw them bring meals after friends lost babies, they let us kids get our hands dirty helping weed & keep clean a local widows lawn, and when a friend in chemo - who was also living in a difficult marriage - needed friends to talk to, our home was open and my parents welcoming.

I remember when she died. It felt impossible because she was so young and beautiful.

So, yes, there was crisis, and yes, I remember it. But it wasn’t a part of my daily life. They’re not beyond what I could recount to you with detail.

In adulthood I am more tuned in to crisis and how often it touches communities. It’s everywhere, it’s in every family, church, neighborhood. And it’s every day. Someone, somewhere today feels like the world has stopped, or should, because their has in some breathless, heart-skipping-beats way.

The continual access to heartbreak and tragedy online, at the tip of my fingertips is overwhelming. I have to tune the noise out at times, not because I don’t care, but because I care too much and it feels like I will break under the weight.

This has taught me to look carefully, paying attention to our real life circle of friends and community though. I can’t bear the weight of every hurting person, but what about one friend, today? That’s possible.

Earlier this year a dear friend was bathing her baby boys and just for a minute, maybe two short minutes, stepped out of the room. Not because she was distracted or selfish or a careless mother, quite the opposite. She’s an attentive mother and there was mess in the kitchen, the mess that made the bath a morning requirement this Saturday,

she was just going to quickly clean it so their bath time wasn’t rendered useless as soon as they got out.

But it’s just like that, isn’t it. One moment your life is normal, it’s Saturday and you’re giving the boys a bath and then all of a sudden, everything is wrong. The story has gone all wrong.

Callan’s under water when she returns, he’s only 6 months and she’s giving CPR and calling 911.

We’re at brunch when we get the text. They’re at Texas Children’s hospital, he’s alive, not awake, they’re in the hospital and they have immediate needs for their 3 year old, Levi.

A group chat message gets sent out, Sydnie’s picking up Levi, my sisters and mom & I are going to Cassie’s to clean up.

The bathtub is still full when I get there, and there’s water, a lot of water, in the bathroom. It’s why I wanted to go. I didn’t want her to come home and have to look horror, death, or near-death, right in the face, to relive those forever minutes of waiting for help while she tried to revive her baby on the bathroom floor.

The least we could do is give them a clean, safe home to come home to.

I was doing dishes when a woman from her church arrived, the Bluetooth speaker played worship music as we thanked God for the goodness of sparing Callan’s life.

More women arrived, more serving hearts, we prayed together, worked together, bonded in the weird way you do in crisis.

New sheets and a new comforter on the master bed. All of their laundry was bagged and delivered to the laundry fairy — a miracle worker who washes, dries, and folds clothes quickly as her very business. What a concept. We cleaned out the fridge & pantry, got food and baby formula, flowers for around the house.

That very evening Cassie and her husband Josh got to bring home a healthy baby and we got to be there to hug them, cry with them, praise with them, and then leave them in place they wanted to be as a family.

You know how we all have the place we’d probably never want a friend to see in our home? I have that shame. Like please, please, don’t look under my bed because I definitely haven’t cleaned under it since we moved in, and even with my love of minimalism my closet is still a disaster.

We’ll I’ve seen inside, cleaned even, under the sink in Cassie’s apartment. Any dark place she my have hidden previously was not a thought this day. I’ve picked up her dirty laundry, literally, and you know what? I love her all the more for it. Her crisis was an opportunity to see her, truly, and that makes me feel close to her.

Crisis bonds in a way good days can’t.

As much as I can, I’m going to protect the childhood innocence of my children, they won’t be bombarded with the grief of the outside world daily, but when there is crisis in someone’s life nearby and we can do something to help,

I want to give them the opportunity to serve alongside us and learn what it means to be the Church.

Special thanks to the women of Restoration Church for all the kindness extended to the LaDuke family.

I want to write

April 20th, 2022

I want to write more. Writing is just thinking, basically. It’s a little more challenging and probably a little more important to me right now because it requires organizing my thoughts instead of stringing them together in my head with the word “like.”

I want to be intentional with my thoughts and words. I know what I think about shapes my worldview and has a profound affect on my daily life. My thoughts are the difference between a train-wreck of a Tuesday between the dirty diapers, load of dishes, and ever piling laundry. Like seriously, what is with the laundry? or a sweet day of joy because I have the privilege of loving the babies God gave me, I have the opportunity to stay home and be the person feeding them, reading to them, doing the ordinary things that make up a life. I love - have learned to love - those things.

I wondered often as a teenager when my life would begin. I kept thinking it was just around the corner, just beyond that next big thing that would happen to me. You know how the movies we all watched growing up have the moment, then it ends with dramatic music and a beautiful montage of the person living their dream… ahhh, everything’s right, real life, the good life happened to them. No more ordinary, just magic.

Do you hear it? I hear it now. The lie I was believing that the magic wouldn’t be in, couldn’t be in, the ordinary, now.

But life isn’t really like that. In fact, it’s so obvious to me now that the magic that I thought was someday, has always been here, I just was looking over my shoulder or too far into the future to notice what was happening in front of my eyes.

The person I’m becoming is just the person I am today plus the decisions I make between now and tomorrow.  The many many times I’ve fallen into the someday trap, I’ve done things like putting off tasks, decisions, life til tomorrow. Because I could. Because my moment hadn’t happened. Because there wasn’t magic or a reason to do the right things, right now. This wasn’t really my life, not yet.

Thankfully through mentors, mostly writers, people I’ve never met, will probably never meet, I was nudged, woken up. Here, now, it’s happening, it’s beautiful, if you’ll pay attention, be present. This is your life. It’s not going to happen, it IS happening.

So how do I want to feel about it? I want to feel joy, I want to feel peace, I want to be the wife that dances in the kitchen, the mom that plays imaginative games with her toddlers, the woman who takes time to clean the house on Sunday’s because it makes all of our weeks better when we start off fresh.

I want to live now. For years I’ve thought about the garden I wanted to start. It felt like the thing the next version of me would do, it took me so long to finally decide I am that person, now. I feel a bit silly even writing about it, I’m probably 6 weeks into my journey and have grown exactly zero things.

My flowers are still seedlings, my vegetables were just planted, most of them still doing their work under the surface of the soil. But I can’t help but talk about it makes me feel. Because beginning this work has made me have to cultivate new things in my heart.

Gardening, here, for me, is growing more than food and flowers. I’m growing presence and patience, willingness to do work that doesn’t yield quick results. I’ve had to pay attention and tune into the weather, learn about and tend to soil, get my hands dirty, literally.

All things I’ve always wanted for myself, but for some reason I thought I had to become that person, to be… that person. Well, I’m realizing right now that might not make sense, so so much for using writing to clarify thought.

What I’m saying is, I thought someday I’d be that person, then I’d start. But instead, I had to start. And now I’m growing those things in myself.

Cheers to living now. I hope you go out today and do that. Show up in your ordinary. Begin the thing you’ve always imagined would be someday.

I want to value more than “tidy”

I love the idea of teaching my boys to enjoy an intentionally creative life. I want a home that encourages experiments, failures, art, any pursuits that my boys want. I want that for myself too.

But…to be totally honest… the messiness of it all keeps me from a lot of those adventures. Creativity is not a tidy event. (Is anything worth doing actually a tidy event?😂) I allow myself to get so stressed in the middle of the journey, in the middle of the mess.

I don’t like being inside a mess. 😅

(Oh, and I hate the idea of somebody dropping over while I’m in the middle of a literal one.)

So while I love the idea of an intentional creative life, I find that I live out that I value cleanliness over creative pursuit. And now that I’ve recognized that in myself, I hate it.

I don’t want to choose a clean dining room table over one full of stories and memories of trying and failing, learning and growing, making, together. I don’t want to choose a clean home over my boys outrageous imaginations and a world of possibilities. I’m working on that this year. Letting the mess happen, knowing I value other things more than just tidy.

Ps. Someone tell me why I paid $50 for Emerson to look like Tipo from Emperor’s New Groove. I should’ve cut his hair myself.

The gap between who I am and who I want to be

It’s unlikely anyone would ever describe me as gentle.

Persuasive. Thoughtful. Up for a challenge. Consistent. Yes.

But gentle? Hasn’t really ever been on my radar.

It’s not that I’ve never acted with gentleness, and it is a character quality I admire in others.

I guess a part of me felt has always felt like it is for other women... women who were created with gentler demeanors. (I’m laughing about this right now.)

I’m recognizing in my motherhood the huge gap between who I am and who I want to be. The woman I am on the inside -- the grateful, exuberant, joyful human I feel like -- doesn’t translate well to the outside of me.

While my insides feel like an easily bruised piece of fruit, I generally have a harsh look and presence.

But I don’t want that to be true of me.

I am recognizing that I can change and truly want to. I want to be a gentle person, mostly because I want to be a gentle mother.

I want my children to look up from where they’re playing and feel adoration when they meet my eyes. From across a room I want them to feel with my glances that they are treasured, desired, seen, unconditionally loved. It sounds like a lot to expect from a silent expression, but I’ve felt that look before. I’ve had it, from my mom, a sister, my husband. Even my toddler.

The softness a gentle person adds to a room is hard to describe. I only know it because I’ve been around these rare and beautifully soft people. I want to be one of them.

I have words for 2023. I haven’t done that in years. But the words knocked on the door of my heart and let themselves in before I even had a chance to consider whether or not they could stay.  (I’ve been reading a lot of children’s books and in my minds eye I’m seeing Pooh Bear, making himself at home in Rabbit’s hole, helping himself to a pot of honey.)

Gentle.

Laughter.

Those are my words (intentions, focus, prayers) in 2023.

This year I want to be a soft light in the rooms I walk in to. I want my boys and husband to receive all the benefits of my surrendering daily. Letting down my guard, letting out more light, trusting God to fill me to overflowing with the fruits of His spirit.

alcohol free

one year sober! 🎉

what I said:

I am so thankful you’re here to celebrate this milestone with me. Some of you may be confused why we’re celebrating, I’m sorry I haven’t let you in to my story before.

I want to let you in tonight, so I hope you’ll give me just a few minutes of your attention.

For several years, in the quiet of the nights, there was a calling on my heart, and I heard it, and ignored it, for a long time.

I want to tell you about that calling, and share with you the joy of obedience. This is a story about truth telling and becoming aligned in my desires and actions.

But first, I want to read you some excerpts from the poem Little Gidding, by TS Eliot. The poet our Eliot got his name from.

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well

This story is an end, and a beginning for me. Today is actually exactly one year sober for me. Dec 17th 2021 I put down my glass of wine and decided I was never going to pick it back up again.

You might not ever have ever recognized me as a problem drinker, but I was definitely the boozy friend. I didn’t hide my love of wine and didn’t have or see a problem with my relationship with it.

Until I did. And once I saw it, I could not unsee it.

My drinking began with friends at 20. No biggie, and nothing wrong there. I had some fun and reckless times, thankfully not full of too much regret.  somewhere along the way though, my drinking changed. It changed and became dysfunctional, and a habit.

I became a promise breaker, not to others, but myself. I found I’d set moderate goals, like two glasses of wine at dinner with friends, but four hours later, I’d had double what I planned. And this didn’t occur just once. I made rules for myself around alcohol and broke them constantly. It happened enough times that I really struggled with how little I could trust myself in this area.

Stephen Covey has said  “… private victories precede public victories,  making and keeping promises to ourselves precedes making and keeping promises to others.”

I desire to be a reliable and trustworthy woman and knew I needed to be accountable, reliable, and trustworthy, for myself.

I don’t want to get stuck here on details of my drinking, it’s not that I’m opposed to discussing them, but I did spend a lot of time comparing my journey to others and I used that as reasoning to stay where I was for longer than I should have.

Just know it was dysfunctional, in a way that made me uncomfortable at times, and feeling like I was in hell at others.

You wouldn’t look at my life at a year sober and see a big difference outwardly, but I am changed. In the last year I have received a deep, sound peace. A peace I never had when I was wanting one thing and living another. I feel sparkly and alive, I am aligned and at peace.

The man who gets credit for shedding light on my misalignment is Jordan Peterson.

If you aren’t familiar with him, I recommend his book 12 Rules For Life.

Rule #8 is Tell the truth, or at least don’t lie.

That one has stuck with me since the first time I heard it, driving through the mountains of Colorado by myself in 2018. In my minds eye, I can see where I was when he said it, and the thought that came to mind for me was: I’m living a lie.

March 10th, 2021 I wrote in my journal: Hardest thing you can ever do is tell the truth. But truth is the language of heaven. And by truth we shall be set free. I did a hard thing today and I’m better for it. One good decision, one right, one hard decision at a time. It’s how beautiful lives worth living are created.

It took me three years to get the truth from inside of me, to the outside of me.

Jordan writes it like that, tell the truth or at least don’t lie, because maybe you don’t know or understand really what the whole truth is, but man, you better not be living out a lie. Don’t have a divided mind, unstable in all your ways.

“If you act out a lie, you weaken your character.  If you have a weak character, then adversity will mow you down when it appears, as it will inevitably.  You will hide, but there will be no place left to hide.”

I’m not in the habit of lying to others, but I had a creeping and dark notion I wasn’t living in the light and in the truth.

The woman I saw myself as, and the future I pictured for myself, didn’t align with my wine habit.

In the quiet hours of the nights, the Holy Spirit’s whisper to “follow me” repeated. Over, and over, for years.

But I buried it. Ignored it.

I had a lot of thoughts like:

I’m not THAT person, Lord. I am not an alcoholic. Why me?

This is unfair. No!

And… what will people think?

And… why me??

And… how will I ring in the new year?

And… why me??

And… what about dinner parties?

And… why me??

I held on so tightly, white knuckling my right to make this decision for myself.

Because I know alcohol isn’t a sin. I know Jesus enjoyed wine.

But I knew I wasn’t living in obedience. My future was a fantasy and my vision of myself a delusion. I wanted to be the person I could be without alcohol, but with alcohol.

If you’re confused, just know I obviously was too.

I was boozing to feel hazy, romantic, full of inspiration and happiness. I drank to feel sparkly and alive, I drank because I felt like it made sounds a bit sweeter, colors a bit brighter, food tastier, conversation more interesting.

I had about 7 years of being boozy before I decided on a sober life, but in that near decade, I really let myself forget how incredible life is when you just commit to being entirely present for it.

I’m thankful to report it’s being fully present that makes life more sparkly, savory, brighter, and beautiful, not booze. I was just too distracted all the time, and too busy at war with myself to be present.

If for some reason you are still waiting to hear about a big moment, a thunderous Voice of God, or a terrible disaster, like waking up in Mexico with a stranger, you’re going to be disappointed. I don’t have DUIs or lost jobs or any big interesting stories I’m keeping secret from you.

There wasn’t THE moment for me, much like my salvation story, there were a lot of quiet moments, alone, me and God, where He called me by name and called me to walk in obedience.

That obedience was so hard. I fought Him. I’m thankful he kept coming back to battle me, I’m thankful I didn’t go numb to the calling before He won.

I have looked into my future and thought about the kind of mom I want to be. Not just the right now mom of a baby and toddlers, but the mom of little elementary school boys, and high school boys, a mom of adult children and I know: nothing is more important to me than living with integrity and doing the right thing, even when it is hard. Especially when it’s hard. So my children know they can.

I want my children to know they can do hard things. I want them know, hell, their mama sure did. She fought hard, went to war with God, with herself, and in the end, surrendered. And found that in surrender was actually the victory.

I am so proud to be the person that I am today. I used to live in shame. I used to shrink into despair at my own double mindedness. Not any more.

I am so thankful that I get to pass down this legacy of obedience. My family’s history of addiction will not be passed down to my children through me.

And I am thankful that the boys have an example of a father who can enjoy a glass of whiskey wisely and a pipe on the porch, because if that’s who they end up being, I want them to be able to enjoy that with their dad.

But if, like me, they struggle to find balance, if any of my children have trouble enjoying just one drink, I want to be their example. You can live a vibrant life, without alcohol.

And I share all of this because I want the people I love to start listening, closely, if they have a little voice.

If you have a tug at your conscience, or a calling in the wee hours of the night, whether or not that voice is talking about addiction, I want you to listen. Don’t bury it. Don’t go numb to the voice. You will find victory in surrender. That is the complex and beautiful truth I am living and had to share.

Tonight has been dubbed the Light Party because I want to start celebrating annually, deciding to live in the light. Not just my story. I want this to be the Light party so every year, people I love are given the opportunity to share, if they want to, the stories they have of living in the Light, whatever that means to them. I want to raise our kids in a community of people who don’t shrink back in shame over past decisions but rise up and proclaim the Glory of God and our shared victories and stories of obedience.

Thank you for coming tonight.

I can enjoy...

journal, 12/16/22

I work hard for a tidy home

And it’s important, and it matters

But some days, instead of “picking up as a I go”(which is genius, and, also, torture) I find need to leave the mess and follow the mess makers

To the blocks

To the table

To the couch, with a basket of books

Maybe instead of the clean house ideal,

I can be a little more well-rounded in my desire

I can enjoy...

A joyful home, joining in their play

A creative home, letting them make worlds for themselves in our little space

A prayerful home, not just a tidy one

One where we value play, togetherness, and creativity, as much as we value being picked up

It’s not one or the other, but I find I have to give myself more grace these days

Constantly reminding myself: it will get cleaned, it always does

Maybe it’s just not as a fast, and maybe that’s ok, because everything else around here is way too fast

Like Eliot... nearly three? When did that happen?