Frankincense in my skincare routine✨

Frankincense is my favorite essential oil in my skin care routine. It helps soothe and calm your skin naturally🥰

✨ Frankincense essential oil helps maintain youthful-looking skin, reducing the signs of aging for a radiant complexion. Because frankincense has anti-inflammatory properties, it can reduce redness and puffiness, and it’s perfect for sensitive or acne-prone skin.

✨ Frankincense essential oil also works as a natural astringent, minimizing pores and giving your skin a smoother, more even texture.

Dilute a few drops of frankincense essential oil with a carrier oil or your favorite lotion, then massage it into your face and let me know if you love it as much as I do!

You can look through my favorite skin care products in my Wishlist on Young Living’s website. If you’re using my referral number (2537154) to purchase, make sure to hop into our private community on Facebook!



garden dreams🪴🤍

the dreamiest photos ever ever by Kate. best decision I ever made was making her shoot weddings with me all those years. 😂 her skills are behind incredible. I want to be her when I grow up.

(edits by me. working on a new preset and I love it. 🥲💛)

I find those same, painful tears welling up again in my eyes.

My baby boy rested in my arms, relaxed and comforted while I fed him his first bottle. I studied his little face, my own pale & expression unmoving, while inside, I felt like I was thrashing around in my despair. Anguish, honestly. That’s what I felt, in my bones. How is this happening?

My tiny baby, my most important responsibility.

How has he been hungry for weeks, months, and I didn’t know each time he was at my breast yearning for nourishment he was greeted only with disappointment? How did I not know my milk was drying up?

Breastfeeding was difficult in ways I wouldn’t have imagined. Each time I cradled him in my arms to feed him, I found ugly feelings bubbling up: anger, frustration, confusion. Why is this so difficult? Why won’t he stay latched?

Emerson spent 4 months as a tender baby crying. When we realized that his needs weren’t being met, his warm tears stopped falling down his soft cheeks and instead, I was the one constantly crying.

How did I fail you? And so young? And in such an important way? His thinning limbs and face haunted me. The memories of his life shifted suddenly, I had a new lens to look upon on our time together with, and it wasn’t a story I could stomach. I turned over the thoughts, my nausea turning with them.

A mother, unknowingly starving her child, a child she loved desperately. Emerson cried out, literally, each day for help, and I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Instead, I felt lost, disoriented by this experience and these cries I couldn’t decipher.

I’m the oldest sister and second child in a family with eleven children. I know my upbringing affects my worldview, but there are some especially obvious ways having so many younger siblings has affected my life. I’ve noticed it most prominently in my motherhood.

I was 19 years old when my youngest sister was born.  I imagined this gave me an advantage entering motherhood, like I had a little more insight into how to handle life with babies, because I’d seen it up close; because I was an adult when my mom had a newborn. And in some ways, it did make for a more relaxed entrance into mothering.

Well, actually, that first week I did worry — what if I accidentally suffocate him while breastfeeding? Can I get this onesie on without breaking his arm?!

That postpartum anxiety settled down pretty quickly though, and we got into a routine that felt right. It felt… natural, simple. Motherhood had more responsibility than my previous life, but I didn’t feel nervous.

I didn’t realize I had a streak of naivety and arrogance. I had no inkling of how negatively it would impact my first two years as a mom.

I hope you’ll forgive my former self for her judgements, and that you know I share them while still carrying a bit of shame: I assumed when mothers couldn’t breastfeed, it’s because they didn’t try hard enough. They were quitters.

My mom nursed 11 babies into toddlerhood and it was so simple it wasn’t even a conversation we had. It was just natural, expected.

I believed it would be that way for me. Easy, not even worth talking about because it’s just our design. Why are people celebrating with “I made it a year!” breastfeeding posts?

When breastfeeding wasn’t what I expected, I was shocked— mortified even.

Back to back actually, my breastfeeding journeys with my first couple of boys felt like two distinct, tragic stories, filled with a lot of fear, confusion, and a lot of tears.

A year before I had my own children at all, my sister-in-law told me she bought a scale so she could weigh her son before and after feeding sessions; so she could have some peace of mind.

I didn’t even know how to respond to that. After my many years in a home with breastfed babies, without the need for any tools of that sort, it seemed so preposterous— How would you not know if your baby was getting enough to eat?

Pride comes before a fall. Was this why my baby suffered? So I would learn empathy, so in my experience I would drop my own judgements and understand grace?

Emerson is two and half years old now and in church this morning, I found those same, painful tears welling up again in my eyes.

These are the thoughts that comfort me: God sees, has always seen, and will always see, my children’s needs. There will be times I fail, but He loves them even more than I ever could. Emerson is dear to God’s heart, as he is in mine. And I am forgiven for my failures. I never could be the perfect provider for their every need, I just had to experience that painful reality with a younger child than I would’ve expected.

So I’ll keep putting down the guilt I pick up. I’ll keep laying it down, picking up peace again, and trusting in the Ultimate Provider to be here to help me raise these children.

Above: Emerson, 2 months old

Below: Emerson, 4.5 months old.

Love the Home You Have

Matthias and I recently went away for a short staycation, and one of our stops was, of course, to look at books. Specifically at a secondhand bookshop. I picked up this book ($2! Score!) and realized later, I had saved this book on Scribd earlier in the week to listen to! I’ve started it and am enjoying it. All things home are just so interesting to me right now.

Just wanted to share in case you want an easy weekend book.

Exploring the infinite from home

In our little home of only about 1200 square feet, we've managed to accumulate a collection of books that makes me really happy. I lovingly call our small place the forest loft, because it's cozy, and I’m a sucker for a good name. But it’s not that romantic of a home, and with five people sharing it, there's not a lot of room for stuff. We've had to be really selective and get rid of anything we don't need. That process has helped me grow as a person as I’ve had to get to the root of things: what do we love, what do we find beautiful, and what truly serves our family?

We’ve found books, good books, are something we’re not willing to easily part with. They are so much more than the little space they take up, they are portals into other worlds, opportunities to see the past and the future differently; they serve as windows to knowledge, imagination, and personal growth.

To make space for the many that we’ve held on to, Matthias designed floating shelves in the boys' room, and we had a custom bookshelf made for our main living area. We also have baskets of books in every room and a very happy collection on our fireplace hearth.

It seems the first time anyone sees that specifically they ask me if the boys mess them up or move them around all the time. Yeah, sometimes they do, especially Auden. But the boys are used to my collection of books and don’t think they’re that interesting compared to the many cool books that we have just for them.

Most of the time, when the hearth collection is shuffled about, it's me, Kate, and our friends who end up moving them around. I love how the collection on the fireplace never looks the same from one day to the next.

I love that you never know what you'll find in that basket under our train table that we use as a coffee table, because the books are being taken out, read, and moved around our home every day.

I want my boys to grow up with freedom and ease around books. I’d love for their memories of our home to include many moments of sitting alone or together, digging in, getting lost in story. I desire for them to have a childhood rich in storytelling.

What’s that quote? “If you want someone to know the truth, tell them. If you want someone to love the truth, tell them a story.”

I grew up in a home with a large library. I remember taking the organized books off their shelves and looking at them on the floor. I wouldn’t take a book off and return it. I’d take more, and more, and more, until the shelves were empty and the floor disappeared beneath the piles.

If my mom was ever upset about this, she didn’t express it. I do remember spending time re-shelving, but I don’t remember feeling like I was in trouble for using our books, even if I was disorganized and greedy in the way I went through them.

I never felt restrained around the books. They were ours, to adventure into, to enjoy, to learn from, to care for.

I felt some ownership of them. I believe this is where my love of books was born. And that love of physical books has never left me, even though I’ve gone through seasons where I listen to many more books than I hold in my hands and read.

If I could read and do dishes, I would. But I can’t.

I can listen though. I can listen and enter into the authors world. I can build visions of my future when I read inspirational and encouraging author-mentors. Or I can leave my forest loft and enter someone else’s reality in fiction.

I can leave here, without leaving. And I always come back a little bit better, a little bit changed. That’s the thing about reading good writing and prioritizing living books. You don’t get to the end of them the same person. The right words or story leave a little mark, a little touch on the inside of you, and you’re changed, even so subtly.

some photos including our hearth book collection. the books are moved in the winter into our windowsills so we can use the fireplace.

I don’t have to be productive just because my kids are occupied

I have fought a toxic pattern of thinking my entire life. The thoughts go something like…

I  am as valuable as the work I produce, so I always need to be working, so I am always of worth.

It’s this pattern of thinking that has always made sitting still a struggle for me. If I am to sit, at peace, and truly rest, then I am not producing anything. And if I’m not producing anything… well, you can see where this is going.

So I’m up, I’m a flurry of movement, productivity, and decisions. A dear friend once publicly identified me as “the hurricane” and, unfortunately, the name really fit.

These last few years, specifically my years in motherhood, have been transformative for me in this area. All of sudden, with the birth of my first tiny baby, my flurry affected more than just me. I realized my inability to sit at peace was threatening to keep me from the most precious, quiet, and unseen moments in mothering.

I find it so much easier to extend grace to a friend than myself. Looking at their life from my vantage point, I feel like I have enough space to see the truth of a situation. Like… obviously you’re not a failure for having dishes in your sink from two days ago. Give your sleep deprived self a break for a minute, and soak up snuggles with that sniffly baby.

But I get so close to my own life, so close to the repetitive chores and endless work that is parenting, and I forget to zoom out and look at the picture as a whole. I can forget to how incredible this season is and that I spent many years looking forward to it.

Right now at this exact time, I’m a 28-year-old mother with three little boys. My oldest is only three. We got pregnant for a second time when he was four months old and then pregnant when that brother was 11 months old. We had spent 4 years alone in our marriage and then it felt like went from a family of 2 to 5 overnight. When Auden was born, I kept saying in disbelief

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

we have a one-year old, a two-year-old, AND a newborn.

Who in their right mind has that many children that close together?! (Well, we do, I guess, since none of the pregnancies were actually a surprise.)

Some days I feel like a failure, for no good reason other than I just woke up feeling that way. Other days I feel like a queen, managing all her tasks with incredible efficiency. But that’s pretty rare and when it does happen, that voice pops up. So I’m zooming out, I’m choosing to see the bigger perspective of my life and remember just how fast the season is going to pass.

Our routines aren’t perfect, but we put in the effort. Our house isn’t perfect, but it is home, and it’s a place we truly love to be.

I choose to remember that I’m never going to be a mom with just three boys, three and under again.

Things will change but the only place I can be right now… is in right now… so I need to choose to be okay with it.

I choose to love all of its beauty and accept all of its imperfections. I will accept that every surface in my house gets sticky within 3 hours of the boys waking, and I will lean into sitting still sometimes anyway.

✨Mirah✨

I get why everyone goes on and on about Young Living’s essential oils: they work, it’s amazing, truly. BUT these unsung heroes deserve some space.

The Mirah Hair Oil is my favorite for adding back moisture into dry hair, and for helping split ends (I’m bleach blonde right now so my hair needs it more than ever) and the Mirah Luminous Cleansing Oil is the best(!) for taking off makeup. Why isn’t everyone talking about this?! Even on my laziest nights, if I can’t wash my face (can’t meaning: I don’t want to😂💀), I’ll at least wipe off my makeup with this so I don’t feel so gross.

If you haven’t gotten your hands on both of these products yet, I highly recommend them.

And if you’re using my referral number (2537154) make sure to hop into our private community on Facebook!

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.

In the middle: the PODCAST 😱

I can’t believe this is happening, but… here it is!

In The Middle is my new podcast, where I’m sharing bits of my heart and writing.

I’m sharing from the inside of my story, while I’m still in the middle of my own messes, in middle of being a wife and mother, in the middle of figuring out how to be both creative and ambitious, and the present mom I desire to be.

I am seeking out beauty and truth and hope my weekly episodes bring you along with me.

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.

The dinner bar, a small thing that makes me Happy

It’s the littlest details in a home that really makes it feel all yours; that’s what I’ve been figuring out the last few years. One of the small changes I made for us this year was adding a dinner bar. It’s a dinner-time size collection for my family - four plates, four bowls, silverware, cloth napkins, and the two candles we use for dinner time.

Having it all here in one place, near the table, makes putting together our dinner table easy, and means I get to enjoy looking at our pretty things. And I find that extends my looking forward to another shared meal.

It’s a small thing, but it’s made a difference and added to my daily joys.

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.

Oily babies

I often use essential oils on my boys and I love that Young Living has a line for kids. Pre-diluted and easy to roll right on ✨

Sometimes, if I’m using an oil that isn’t in the kids line, I’ll dilute the oil myself. Young Living’s recommended ratio is 7 drops of carrier oil (like olive or coconut or jojoba) to 1 drop of essential oil.

If your little one ever experiences tummy aches, or needs some sleep support, or sometimes gets scrapes & bruises, it’s likely you’d love the oils as much as I do.

Here is my Little Ones Wishlist if you want recommendations.

The roll-on oils are perfect for your diaper bag and the regular oil bottles are nice at home so you can use them in the diffuser.

Our most used oils are:

Tummygize, on their belly or feet for any upset tummies

Sleepyize, in the diffuser or rolled on, a part of their nap and nighttime routine

Owie, rolled on any bruises or diffused after some trauma (like slipping & falling)

You can purchase through my Little Ones Wishlist or choose your own products use my referral number #2537154 and then join our private oily support community here.

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.