34 is

-learning from this time of pause. Learning presence, appreciation of the simple things, and finding rest.

- spit up on the shoulder, breastmilk everywhere, and endless loads of laundry.

- figuring out how to discipline a two-year old while attending to a infant while battling my eyes wanting to close over and over again.

- facemasks, global uncertainty, sometimes fear, but trying to trust.

- recognizing the gifts of the everyday. Remembering that what I have now is all I have ever wished for.

- growing with Ben. Learning how to be parents to two. Finding time together on the patio for an after-dinner-post-bedtime drink, playing cards, and watching videos of our talkative little Jack.

- noticing wrinkles around the face and getting on a new skincare regimen.

- coffee in the morning, iced latte in the afternoon,  always an extra shot when I get the chance.

- community. Leading a community group and doing life together with neighbors in Clairemont. Raising littles, digging into our marriage, and googling everything in-between.

- gathering around our new table Ben recently made and finding a new flow in our home.

- trying to stay off social media. Nothing very good comes from it.

- a confidence and identity in my role as Mother. Feeling deeply grateful for this calling and my two little guys.

- embracing the body that has done the miracle work of birthing two children and carried me for 34 years. It has changed and evolved. It is magic. 

- overwhelming and chaotic. Finding new ways to get alone time and recharge. Solo mornings with Ben sometimes happen and sometimes don't - but when they do, I feel more connected and alive.

- singing Police Car on repeat and going to sleep with Blippi songs cycling through my head.

- making goals to accept the Today. Not wish it different or change it any way, but acknowledge that this is Life Right Now and it is challenging, but transformative. The story I write now is the story I will write someday. It is all connected and it is all part of growing up. It is a continual journey of growth.

I will always remember you swaddled in my arms, with those heavy breaths slowly and silently along my neck. My body craves more sleep and my eyes give-up on their squinty tired days, but these moments are sacred. I yearn to know the days ahead - who you will be, who you will become - what life will look like with brothers running around in the yard together. What family vacations will be when you are trying to keep up with your older brother on his two-wheeler or trying to out-run him or be just like him in every way. But for now, it's you and me, in these wee morning hours; your ultimate trust in the safety of my arms, wholly surrendered to the familiar comfort of my embrace. This is what we have right now. It won't always be this way, but this is our Right Now.

In so many ways, it seems natural - this rhythm we have fallen into. Ben up with Jack in the morning as I scrounge together another few minutes, or even an hour, of sleep. I'm feeding Ford, Jack is sitting at the table with "soop-up time" and wanting to eat everything Ben eats, exactly how he does it. Ben on a morning call, or making his way down the hall to the nursery-converted-office. Our morning adventures together - Mom and Her Boys - the 30 minutes it takes to get loaded in the car with bribes of snacks and "water with lemon and ice cubes" and every other request for Jack. The hustle towards lunchtime and naptime - balancing brother in the swing, Jack with naptime needs (aka: every truck book and song he can think of...). Napping Jack, feeding Ford, Jack wakes up, Ford falls asleep. Is it 5 o'clock yet?! Ben comes out from work, dinnertime - balancing the feeding/rocking/napping with a glass of rose in hand - then brother baths, tagteaming - Jack's lights are out, Ford is possibly on his way to sleep. Ben's making a cocktail, I'm on the foot of the bed rocking the bassinet until I either join Ben or we eventually both fall asleep. Then again tomorrow. And on and on.

I wonder if I'm being a good mom to these boys - with attention divided and body exhausted. I want to give them all of me - to foster the growth and love of this little two-year-old heart; offer the sensory stimulation and language development for this 7-week old infant. Between daily tasks of cleaning and dishes and laundry and - have I even eaten today?! - it seems hard to offer them the presence I so desire to give. I remember that my presence is what they will take with them - Being with them is enough. Holding Jack, dancing to The Police Car song for the 100th time, this is how we grow. Meeting them where they are at - joining them in what makes their passions come alive. It is these everyday moments that the relationship is built, trust is formed, and learning happens. Will life slow down so I can Be with them? Deep breath. This season offers a pace I sometimes feel I can't keep up with - with always Time pressing up against my spirit - will my boys be in college tomorrow? The Missing Out thoughts haunt the mother in me... So here I am. Offering my best to them today. That's all I can be required to give - even when tantrums lead me to tears or lack of sleep leads me to shortened patience. Grace upon grace, [Jesus be near]. Two under two for 4 more days. Trying to not simply persist and persevere, but to take breaths of gratitude and find the Divine in and through and with it all. He is here, He sees. I find comfort in that truth.

Am I willing to say - this is hard, but I am learning? These moments are challenging, and I surely will not forget. They are equally difficult as they are sweet. They are equally chaotic as they are memorable. Equally tiring as they are fulfilling. It is Both And right now, and I am living the fullness of it. 

I read a quote the other day "We get 18 delicious summers with our children, this is one of them." I started to think about that - 18 doesn't seem like a lot, and it already feels like a generous number. (Let's be honest - by the time our children are teenagers they will be doing their own summer without their super uncool parents!) COVID or not, this summer we have together. I want to remember our Togetherness above all. Through the exhaustion, through the tantrums, through the newborn emotional strain... I want to remember that we are a family and this is what life looks like right now.

Moonlight Beach - Lofty Coffee, Sand, and Walks

Double Stroller walks - Ford swaddled on one side and Jack singing the Excavator Song, Police Car Song, and Bulldozer song on the other

Jack and Juj - strawberry picking. The best of friends.

Pancake Saturdays. Especially on the 4th of July!

That Work-From-Home (/Nursery) during a global pandemic life

Masks everywhere you go. Will it always be like this?!

Tired eyes and a baby in the wrap

Jack with a babysitter and working in a coffeeshop looks like this

So many trips to the Fire Station / "wee-oh" truck

These boys have my HEART!

Jack wants to be just like Daddy - he loves to eat cereal with him

The new centerpiece of our home - the table Ben built!

Ford // 7 weeks old

Coffee is Life

Ben - Superdad as always! My better half, teammate, and love of my life.
Couldn't do any of it without him beside me! Thankful BEYOND.

It is all so beautiful, so challenging, so chaotic, yet so fulfilling. I remember these blurry-eyed days... days running into night into days again... Confused to the time and the day of the week and the season. It all runs together like an unending circle... only remembering it is morning by the beep of the coffeemaker and the sunlight streaming through the curtains. We live on caffeine, but it seems there is never enough.

And yet, the body can be physically exhausted and the heart can be so full. There are moments: Jack's sweet voice and sounds - his repeating of everything we say, singing to himself all day - Ford sleeping on my chest with the quiet rhythm of his breath, his safe and favorite place to snuggle. And I remember - This. Now, here, this. This is it. Not to live into a distant future of non-sleep-deprived days, but to be present here with my boys right now, in this season. It's challenging, tear-filled, frustrating, infuriating at times... but it fulfills a piece of my heart that couldn't have been filled any other way. The road to transformation is always initiated with challenge.

I recently read (then watched) Little Fires Everywhere, and I'm reminded of the brevity of this place in time. My children cuddled close, the vulnerability in their full weight pressed against mine, the absolute trust and admiration of a small child as he looks up at his Mom. The desire for affirmation and the need to be celebrated. The love and the nurture and the sweet exchange of toddler kisses so innocent. It won't always be like this. This time will pass and I will long for it like a distant nostalgic dream. To be here now is all I can do. To remember that spit-up and burping and crying every few hours at night and swaddling and cooing and pacifier-holding... it is all a phase that passes. What remains is the sweet little life that is growing up beside me, looking to me for guidance, and becoming more and more independent each day until eventually they won't need me anymore. Or at least in these ways.

“To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all at the same time. You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she'd been and the child she'd become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin. It was a place you could take refuge, if you knew how to get in. And each time you left it, each time your child passed out of your sight, you feared you might never be able to return to that place again.” - Celeste Ng

Our first night home, I buried him close in my arms for three hours that night - something I never would’ve done with Jack. I smelled his baby hair and clasped each of his baby fingers. The tiny pit pat rhythm of his breath on my skin awakening my consciousness to the reality of this life I held. Completely surrendered, his heartbeat against mine. I now have the perspective I didn’t have with Jack — it goes so fast. Everyone tells you that, and they're right. Even in the challenge, this isn’t forever. Everything is a phase and everything passes. The seemingly long sleepless nights and the crying and the frustrating nap protests... they all pass. What I have here is a newborn, who will grow into a toddler, who will continue to grow into a little boy, who will become a man. In only a few short months, holding him all night won’t be possible. So here I am, bleary-eyed, tired, straining to make it to morning, but with a heart so full of gratitude it brings me to tears. I will forever remember these nights; him and me, snuggled close, and that full beautiful trust of a baby with his Momma. 

"I'm always here for you," I whisper. And I mean it. I always will.

Ford: A Birth Story

There is a journey of inner transformation that happens when we embark upon difficulty, challenge, and pain. It's why people return to places like the Camino, or choose to run marathons, summit mountains, cycle across the country. Innately, human instinct tells us that when we choose the thing that feels impossible, and enter into it with courage, there is a process we are taken through that breeds growth. Ultimately, life is about this kind of work - the kind that sees the mountain, climbs the mountain, and summits the mountain saying: "I can do hard things!"

Monday, May 18th was a pivotal day for me in this way. After my 40-hour laborious birth with Jack that ultimately led to a c-section, there was little hope instilled in me for attaining the birth dream I have always wanted. I had equated a lot of fear with birth due to my previous experience, and an overall feeling of failure and the mantra: "I don't have what it takes." In my third trimester with Baby Bro, I was encouraged to seek God and allow Him to do a work in me of letting go of fear. Each morning, I awoke with the prayer of my heart, choosing to believe God saw this desire and was going to give it to me. In the recesses of my imagination, I relived my birth with Jack and chose to write a different memory. I told myself that I will not believe the lies, I will not listen to the fear, I will not choose to feel that I failed... I will enter into this birth with courage and confidence. I felt God tangibly lift my heart and remind me that I am not alone. He prompted me to rely on my teammate and partner Ben to help carry me through labor. He physically brought me into a place of hope, healing, and redemption that I have desired to experience through my pregnancy and birth journey.

When my Dr told me on the Thursday before my planned c-section that I did not have a chance at a VBAC, I began to doubt the things I had heard from God. I settled into the reality that a repeat c-section was necessary and I had peace moving into that, alongside grieving the unmet desire of my heart. When we showed up at 5:30am that morning, something felt different. They put me on an IV and began to prep me for surgery, when the still voice of God was working in my heart. As they monitored my contractions, something stirred inside of me to ask about the possibility of a VBAC once again. A nurse encouraged me to advocate for myself. She checked me and found that I was 3.5cm dilated and the hope of a VBAC came rushing back. As the Dr listed all the possible ramifications and drawbacks, I had total peace in moving forward into this birth without focusing on what could go wrong, and instead visualizing my baby coming out into my arms.

The next 6.5 hours were a whirlwind. It started slow and calm. Ben and I listened to worship music, played cards, and prayed over our son. Between hopeful tears of excitement, we swayed and held hands and Ben spoke truth over me, telling me I was going to do it. From that moment forward - I entered in and accepted the contractions as they came. I learned not to fight them, but welcome them. The Dr broke my water, put me on pitocin, and helped me go from a 4cm to a 10cm in 30 minutes... at which point I turned into a side of myself I didn't know existed. After peeing on Ben (and the surrounding nurses), I scream cried for an epidural, then almost kissed the anesthesiologist on the mouth.

The room was filled with a thick layer of peace that only comes from the presence of God. Every contraction, Ben was beside me pulling me through it. He knew exactly what to say that allowed my heart to feel at ease - he told me they were prepping the baby warmer, bringing in the diapers... that the doctors and nurses believed I would be having the baby in that room -- and not be wheeled into an emergency c-section. With every push, I felt that I was partnering with the baby to come out. I told him I wanted to see his face, hear his cry, feel him on my chest. With the first push, the nurse told me he had dark hair and I visualized holding him in my arms. She even placed my hand so that I could feel his head - and I was shocked to know he was right there! An hour and 40 minutes later, the doctor came in and it was in that instant I finally knew it was happening. I couldn't stop saying: "I did it, I did it!" I did the thing I didn't think I had a chance at; I underwent the pain I never knew I could handle. I broke into a pile of thankful tears. He was coming out -- and there was no stopping now.

Holding my crying little baby on my chest was one of the most empowering and intimate experiences of my life. I will never forget seeing his face for the first time and kissing him and the overwhelming feeling of relief that he had arrived.

Our little Ford Noah. 

He will always remind me that God fulfills His Promises for us. He gives us the desires of our heart and guides us in unexpected ways.

Happy Due Date

May 15th... Happy due date little man! You and I, we did it. We made it to 40 weeks. There was a point in this pregnancy we didn't know if that would be possible, but we did it. My momma heart beats with pride already.

We found out 33 weeks ago you would be coming into the world. We didn't know you would be a boy and we can't wait for you to have a brother. Will you have red hair? Will you look like Jack? Will you be a sleeper??!

These are our last moments together like this. I am ready to meet you, but I also cherish this time.

Please remember.

I'll always be your first Home.

This Last Week

This morning while walking on the beach, feeling the kicks and rolls of our second son, I considered the truth of these last moments of knowing our little guy in this way. 

This is my last week of being his one true Home. I will always be his first Home, but in this life he will discover so many more.

These are the last hours of fully protecting him, providing for him, and sustaining him. The last week of my body fitting snug around his, enveloping his tiny little frame, and cuddling him tightly within the womb. 

These are the last few days of wondering in curiosity what he will look like, sound like, be like... before he becomes so much a part of our lives, it's as if I have already known these things all along.

The last time his little eyes are closed to the wonder of the universe before he is brought out of this cozy space created just for him and immersed into all the Unknown that lay ahead. Soon he will open his eyes for the first time to real light, he will breathe real air, and he will be grasped by real human touch. These are his first moments of awe with the simplicity of life, and surely will not be his last.

Birth is such a mystery in this way. A fully formed human curled one moment inside with all the lingering curiosities of the mother... already so familiar with the tiny movements and gestures, so aware of who he is becoming and intimately connected to him while growing him for 9 months; and yet we do not know each other.

There are so many things I don't know. As I birth my child, how will a new mother be birthed within me? In what ways will my identity change? What will it be like to give my heart fully to another human? Can I possibly love as much as I love now?

These things I know. We will always do our best to invite him into this universe of wonder. To help him know adventure. To guide him, shepherd him, and never assume we fully know him. We were designed to be this child's parents, and that is simply enough. In all my weaknesses and shortcomings, I am enough for you, little one. Come, come. We can't wait to meet you.

I want to remember these days - these days walking around (and around) the block with Jack, playing in the yard, building forts in the garage. Ben working from home, happy hour rose on the patio, and frequently doing a "knock knock" on his door to deliver coffee.

There have been stages in this process. I fought it in the beginning - I didn't want to accept a reality I knew I eventually would have to face. Prior to quarantine, I could count on one hand the amount of days we stayed at home in the totality of Jack's life. I love home, but I am not a homebody (or at least not with a toddler!). I thrive on being out with him, exploring the world, hanging with friends, and experiencing new places through his eyes. Home feels monotonous and less exciting.

But last week, I had a perspective change. It's not what we do or the adventures that we create that make our identity - it's what I choose to see in each moment and how I remain present with it. I have become so in tune with Jack - the language he is constructing, the connections happening in his brain, the sense he is drawing from life. Because the backdrop of our life seems mostly the same, my focus has shifted to who he is growing into, and I love who he is becoming. He is filled with a contagious joy, a sensitive spirit, and a desire to receive affirmation. Lately, he loves to dance and see trucks of any sort, and make "cack-ee" (coffee) in the morning with us. These are such sweet moments to soak in - the innocence of our little Jack, the wonder and anticipation of "baby Foop" on the way, and this new identity we are finding as a family.

"The crucible of our formation is in the monotony of our daily routines." 

(Liturgy of the Ordinary, 34)

If I cannot live my daily routines with intention and care, then I will miss it. I will miss what the majority of life consists of - these small acts of worship throughout the day, these daily habits that feel meaningless, yet become the liturgy of our life.

So, here we are... still at home. Still unable to go anywhere. Still unsure how long this will last. But still living fully (or at least trying)... and still in awe of how much Jack has changed in the last few weeks and how independent he is becoming. Soon to be a Big Bro - but in a way, always my baby.

"Daily life, dishes in the sink, children that ask the same questions and want the same stories again and again and again, the doldrums of the afternoon - these things are filled with repitions. And much of the Christian life is returning over and over to the same work and same habits of worship, We must content with the same spiritual struggles again and again. The work of repentance and faith is daily and repetitive. Again and again, we repent and believe."

(Liturgy of the Ordinary, 35)

Such a Time As This

It is in these moments that the tension of life is lived and the collective experience of being human is seen. We are surrounded by both beauty and challenge; grief and joy. The dance of this tension is being lived and we are tasked with the figuring out how to live into this reality on a global level. The soul of humanity comes out in a shared union of sadness in the unknown and creativity in the hardship.

Being quarantined at home with a 20 month old is an experience unique to this time. In the past, if Jack and I had spent a day fully at home it was enough to drive me wild. It has been 17 days now that we have been self-isolating; 17 days in which I have ridden the wave of high's and low's, breakdowns and triumphs.

One thing I am learning: our life is already so full without the things we usually fill our lives with... (except the people, of course. We need them!). In the process of being stripped of freedoms I have previously taken for granted, I am noticing a joy for life that nothing can steal away. An acknowledgment in this tough time that God is still Sovereign, He Reigns, and He is Good. Though social gatherings feels like an immense privilege and gathering at beaches to celebrate with friends seems like a distant dream, I am tuning into this present moment choosing to be thankful.

I am hopeful, I am sorrowful, I am finding the beautiful, I am seeing the ugly. There's no way around it - this.is.hard.

And yet, I enter into times of the day when I feel exhausted from the enormous burden of "trying." Trying to make each day purposeful, striving to see the beauty in the mundane, and forcing myself to enjoy these simple moments is tiring. In the past, the discipline to enjoy the simple routines of life felt more spread out, it seemed manageable. It felt like a reality I could handle on a sporadic basis. But the day-to-day mystery in the future Unknown and the sense that there are an infinite number of days left in which I am battling toddler manipulations and forcing Jack to stay in our driveway, is upending. Let's be honest, it could make even the most normal human slightly crazy. It is here I find myself, it is here I wonder how to not just "make it through the day" but seek out what the day has to offer in its ways of wonderful.

Practically speaking, it means lots of driving, stroller-walking (around the block), and slowing down. It means we stop at every flower, branch, twig, bug, fence, truck, trash can, tree, bird... Jack inspects it and tries to pronounce it and then asks for more snacks. It means being present and attentive to how he is learning, instead of staring at the soul-draining scrolls of the phone. It means I learn about Jack at a whole new level because I choose to study how he works and understand what makes him come alive. It means lots of oat milk lattes, carbs, and ice-cream. Because it's the little delights of life that bring meaning to our days, right?!

On a deeper level, it means gratitude. It means a perspective shift. A thankful heart. We are so lucky to have our space - our home, our garage, our backyard, our driveway - thank you Jesus for this space that we really love to be in together. I know that my reality is my reality, so I can't compare to others - but I also know it could be so much worse. Choosing this day to have a thankful heart.

I'm not sure what I will say when I look back on this time. I wonder about the long-term changes that will press upon our society - in education, in the workforce, in the daily functions of our existence. I wonder how God will use something so terrible for good, as He always does. I wonder what our future will bring after a unified experience of grief, and how we will transform and change because of it. Will we move on from this and fall back into the regularity of our own habits? Or will these new ways of living actually change the way we live?

The one thing I know is that the day we can come together with our friends and family with shared hugs and high-fives without thinking about sanitizing our hands every 10 minutes or wearing germ-containing masks will be a day to rejoice. And one I pray we forever hold close to our hearts as a true privilege and joy that brings real purpose to our lives.

As I read in Henri Nouwen, Life of the Beloved, yesterday: "As I grow older, I discover more and more that the greatest gift I have to offer is my own joy of living, my own inner peace, my own silence and solitude, my own sense of well-being. When I ask myself, "Who helps me most?" I must answer, "The one who is willing to share his or her life with me."

In all, this is my prayer.