Word of the Year: Embrace

 I've wrestled with my role as a mom for a few years now. (I purposely don't say identity, because personally I don't find my identity in motherhood). I've fought with the person I was pre-kids. The Free Me. The Contemplative Me. The Working Me. Trying to fit into those pre-baby sizes and get back to that pre-baby body. The Me that used to sit with a hot coffee and write for hours in the morning. With the grieving and releasing of 2020, this is yet another thing I let go. I am on the journey to embracing who I am as a Mom; yoga pants, minivan, wrinkles, and all.

Next Christmas Eve, I might not feel the subtle rhythm of his tiny inhales and exhales as Ford's full weight of his body leans into mine in the quiet darkness of the night. I might not laugh at his tiny squeals as he bounces on the floor attempting to crawl to his desired object; or delight in the first solids he so confidently holds to his mouth as a wide open smile bursts across his face. I might not dance party with Jack to "Santa Clause is coming to town" every night as he repeatedly (read: a million times over) asks for "Chawlie Bawn Cissmas" or "Polar Efress." I might not hear his favorite sayings then as I do now - "Hold you Mommy," "Guy reading Polar Efress" "Close door wittle bit" "Watch a tiny show... Maybe we can do that?" "I love you, Mommy" "a little twreat?" "Why did I say Poppy Stick?" I might not be physically exhausted by the end of the day from breastfeeding, soccer in the park, chasing a two year-old, coaxing a crying baby back to sleep at night, and holding the baby with one arm while simultaneously helping Jack climb the ladder on the playground. 

Next Christmas we might not wear masks to the Christmas Eve service, or wait in lines around the block for last minute gifts at Target, or talk about the "crazy unprecedented state of the world." Our conversations will change, our daily rhythms will be different, and our boys one whole year older. Christmas sometimes feels like it will be frozen in the time it exists right now; but the truth is that it will look different. When I close my eyes, I can remember the Christmas of my childhood, going to sleep with Raffi's Christmas music circling in my head, the anticipation of Santa the next morning and trying to spy on him bringing gifts down the chimney. I remember the Christmas of my teen years, bringing with it the letdown of expectations, the striving towards making it feel like it used to, and grieving the loss of transitions I didn't choose; the Christmas of college with the nostalgic feeling of Home for the Holidays and the rest that comes with breaks from finals and roommates and sorority life; the Christmas of my 20's with the longing for a partner, the wondering of who I will share this season with and the distraction of swiping on random dating apps following the tears that come with broken relationships; and now - the Christmas of our sweet little family, the wonder a young child brings to the day and the delight in recreating those traditions we once held so dear. Every season holds its differences, its uniqueness, its own memory from the year.

Though traditions will live on and more church services attended, Christmas will remain a marker of "this time last year" - and year to year to year, it will look different than the previous year. I don't know how our family will grow, what ascents and descents we will walk, what transformation lies ahead; I don't know what we face politically, financially, or economically; I don't know the future of cultural topics or what kind of interests will carry into our kids' Christmas lists or if we will ever be the family that gifts our kids a puppy for Christmas (spoiler alert: we will never be that family!) 

But this year, I am more confident than ever that all will be well. I recently finished The Book of Longings and though I devoured every bit of it, one quote in particular stood out:

"When I tell you all shall be well, I don't mean that life won't bring you tragedy. Life will be life. I only mean you will be well in spite of it. All shall be well, no matter what."

If we can survive a year like 2020, surely all will be well in spite of the future circumstances. God came to be with us. That's the beauty of Christmas - God WITH. He came here, entering as a human, choosing to walk among us. He is Emmanuel. He is here with us; all will be well.

Right Now in 2020

Within the obvious feels that have descended upon us this year - loss of control, grief, isolation - there has also come an immense sense of loneliness. Although our "Family Pod" here in San Diego meets up fairly often - perhaps just as often as those "pre-Covid" days - what I am experiencing is the loss of normalcy within social outings. The feeling of options in which I would normally be seeing people - even if strangers - brings a sense of Alone. Last year this time, I was regularly going to the YMCA for a two-hour break from Jack, libraries and Trader Joes, baby storytime, Mom Group, church, and meeting new moms at the park and beach. It felt like everywhere I went, people struck up conversation regarding Jack's red hair or the newest neighborhood gossip. All these things are feel off-limits in a way; an impossible future that I miss as though it will never exist.

2020 has brought about a collective grief we are all managing in our own way - the moments and places, and perhaps people - that 2020 has stolen from us. The trips cancelled, anniversaries and birthdays left uncelebrated, and the New Normal we are forced to live into.

I am taking this moment to acknowledge that of course, I am so richly blessed, so deeply grateful, and so greatly privileged. But I have found that it is not Either-Or; in fact it is Both-And. I can be all these things, and still be lonely. I can be so thankful for days with my boys, but also feel overwhelmed and unfulfilled. If 2020 has taught me anything, it is the co-existence of the feeling of loss dancing with the feeling of thankfulness.

On the heels of a pandemic, confronting a broken racist system, the anxieties that come with an election - it is no surprise that what we are facing right now brings us to a place where we are forced to look inward. Long gone are the sold-out toilet paper, Tiger King, peaceful quarantine days - what we live in now is the the brokenness 2020 has created and how to move forward in our world in a more loving, kind, gracious way. I believe we can, but it will take time.

Park days with my boys

Some photos we got taken for our Christmas Card

Our little musician with Uncle D

Pumpkin Patch in Julian

Little Ford man - this summer

What most of life looks like these days

 I have come to love

the sacred of the days.

That early morning light;

The whispered hum of hours

Not yet begun.

Holding within it a promise

Of wonder within the earth,

My two miracles beside me,

In their innocence, in their joy.

Lives unencumbered by the burdens,

Of this world in which we live.

Wanting to pass down the virtues,

Of all the generations past.

All the goodness and the love,

That I know lies within humanity.

These are the sacred minutes,

To live right now.

This, here, thank you.

Our Home Life

I have been wanting to capture the feel of the rhythm of these days, but I continue to run out of time to gather my thoughts. My days are filled with navigating tantrums of a two-year old and somehow managing to sustain an infant. They are picking up the spilled bag of frozen corn for the tenth time, convincing my toddler he does in fact need a nap, changing spit-up off my clothes once again, while also maintaining a semblance of social life outside this home that we feel so bound to these days. 

We are home - we are all still home - for a time we never thought would last this long. Along with everyone else, I miss the normalcy of life and the activities we used to do. I miss Trader Joe's being our morning activity, where happy people offer samples. I miss the peace of mind to go out and have Jack touch everything without caring. I miss chatting with mom friends at the playground while Jack jumps on the bridge and asks me to sing "Apples and Bananas" in the swing. I miss events and activities and restaurants and leaving the house without a mask. It has been six months of Home, and I miss travel. 

There are also moments I soak in and want to last forever. Ford's tiny squishy waking up face that bursts into a smile when he sees me. After he feeds, he puts his tiny fists in the air as if to say "I did it!" and then when I burp him, he wraps them around my neck and buries his little nose into the crease of my neck. When we say "Hi buddy!" to Jack, he repeats it back without realizing we are referring to him. Some of his favorite phrases are "Hold you, momma," "Jack do it," "Another one book" and any truck name that comes to his mind (we laugh when he says "skid steer" "excavator" and "cherry picker" - it's just too cute). Sometimes I feel that life with these boys requires the kind of energy that only superhumans possess.

On our attempted road trip this past week (another story for another time), after being awake and driving for 17 hours, once Ben and I finally got Jack sleeping in the closet and Ford at the foot of our bed - there was a sigh of relief as we both acknowledged the craziness of these days, and also laughter because who attempts a roadtrip with a newborn and a toddler?! (Ben is definitely a superhuman!)

In this moment, Jack is screaming from his crib, so I must attend to him. This is life these days. Short segments of time to regain the strength to do it all again.

A picture before Ford fell over

This little guy smiles all day long

La Jolla: Realizing we don't need to leave home for a vacation

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.