Category Archives: family

What I love about Halloween

For one night, 
this country looks different…

Pumpkins deck doorways,
skeletons adorn front yards,
orange lights glow.

Little princesses, ninjas,
sports stars and singers parade 
the sidewalks, parents in tow.

We open our doors,
greet our neighbors’ children,
offer them Twizzlers and Twix,
Snickers and Sour Patch Kids,
pretzels, popcorn, fruit snacks and more.

We say, “Wow, look at that costume!”
“Happy Halloween!”
“Here, have a treat!’

What we mean is,
*I see you.*
*You are welcome here.*
*Take and eat.*

This is a night when 
children are cherished.

And I wonder, 
what would happen if we 
held on to our Halloween spirit?

How would the world change 
if we opened our doors 
— and shared — more often?

The view from here

For a decent view of the sunset, I used to climb stairs to the Metra stop in my old neighborhood. At one end of the railroad tracks, Chicago’s skyline loomed; at the other, the suburbs beckoned. Facing west, I’d watch the sky burst with magenta, orange, lavender.

Today I can drive a few blocks west for a clear view of the horizon. Farmland stretches for miles, bookended by subdivisions. The sun is a shiny coin hovering above golden cornfields, casting light over the playground where my sons are climbing. I glance around, curious if anyone else notices the miracle unfolding before us.

A month has passed since my family moved into our dream home in the western suburbs. Our kitchen and rooms are set up. Artwork needs to be hung; some furniture will have to be purchased. Jay and I are still unpacking and searching for our Halloween decorations. Our kids are riding their bikes to the elementary school. We’re learning new names and faces, new routes and routines. Every day, I wake up incredibly grateful for the life we chose, and the house we live in.

Earlier this summer, when our house search was going poorly, and the dream we’d worked a year to pursue seemed to be slipping from our grasp, I struggled to sleep at night. We walked away from bidding wars, lost one, balked at prices. The question of where we’d live haunted me.

This evening, I stand at the edge of the playground and watch the world turn, watch color flame and fade while my boys run around. Children’s chatter rises and falls like a tide. Fall has arrived, but the air is warm.

Although the question of home has been answered, new questions arise: How will I create a home? What will I do here? Who will I become?

Tangerine, yellow and pink bleed across a vast blue canvas. My body feels settled, and at peace. More than ever, I’m less concerned with the future and more interested in leading a quiet life, being kind to everyone I meet. Living in uncertainty taught me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I can, as Rilke wrote, “live the questions.”

Finally, the sun dips below the horizon and it’s time to collect my children. The view from here is stunning, I think. The view from here is changing me.

Wishes

I wish that I was younger
and I wish I wasn’t so concerned about
the passage of time
seeing lines in my reflection,
aging parents, taller kids

I wish that I was richer
and I wish I wasn’t bothered by
the cost of eggs and our medical bills,
how we’ll afford to send our children
to college, how to pay for a new home

I wish our government was kinder
and I wish there was
a crystal ball I could use to predict
how to preserve freedom, peace
and justice for us all

I can’t wish away the hunger
I can’t wish away the hate
But I can name what’s broken
I call for change
and ask myself what I can give
to ease my neighbors’ pain

I wish that I was braver
And I wish I could give voice
to every injustice
that I witness and have experienced
as a mother
as a woman
as a girl

I wish I was a better Christian
and wife and mom
the kind of person who doesn’t
use sharp words with the ones I love the most
I wish I could sand my rough edges
give them the softest version
of my heart

All of these wishes
I keep them hidden
Will any come true?
All of these wishes
I hope God hears them
God, make me new

// Poem inspired by “Wishes,” a song by Tiny Habits

How our flock is surviving summer

Jack, Adam and I have been watching a group of goslings that live near our apartment. At the start of June, the goslings’ fuzzy yellow feathers began turning light gray. Whenever we’d pass them on the dog walk, their mama would stare menacingly at us, and if anyone got too close, she’d hiss. 

“Why is she hissing, Mom?” eight-year-old Jack asked. 

“Well, the mother wants to make sure her babies are safe,” I said, giving her a knowing nod. “She’s warning us not to mess around with her goslings… or else.”

“Or else what?” he pressed.

“Or else mother goose will fight us,” I chuckled, guiding us forward. We had an afternoon snack and an hour of screentime to look forward to, maybe a trip to the pool afterwards. Now mother goose was in protector mode, but I wondered if she ever felt exhausted by a barrage of snack requests, or even perplexed by how to entertain her brood. And, what did she look like when she was at peace?

Recently, the boys and I were walking our dog and we encountered the goslings again. I think. Honestly, they looked so large, they passed for geese. Closer inspection revealed their shortened tails and beaks, but, my, my, they’d changed. Astonishingly, their mother seemed nonplussed by their growth and our presence.

So it is with my boys, who, in the course of six weeks, have grown longer limbs and extra bumps and bruises and daily look as if they’re about to take flight. Unlike mother goose, I have zero chill about this reality and luckily, several summers before they leave home. Like our gosling friends, we’ve fallen into a summer rhythm with increased independence. Here are ten things that are helping us survive these long, hot weeks of change and growth.

Baseball: This was Jack’s second year of youth baseball, and while it wasn’t my favorite due to a cool, wet spring, I still enjoyed watching him play. Jack’s catching and throwing improved a lot this past season, and three-year-old Adam even made a buddy on the sidelines. Interestingly, my favorite part of this season hasn’t been the formal games at all, it’s been practicing with Jack and our family. We’ll either meet at a park I love or play ball in the yard at my folks’ house, where my sons’ grandparents, uncle and cousins can join in. Some of our sweetest moments happened with a wiffle ball and plastic bat, racing barefoot around imaginary bases. 

My parents: Since school let out, we’ve been traveling to and from Chicago’s western suburbs in search of a new home. As anyone who’s searching for a house knows, the market is moving quickly and if a house comes up that you like, you need to see it ASAP. Bringing kids to showings is… not ideal. Thankfully, my folks have stepped in to watch Jack and Adam while my husband and I visit homes. They are saints for being ready to host the boys, including special treats and trips to the comic store for baseball cards, and I’ve loved seeing their relationships deepen. Grandparents to the rescue!  

Summer skincare: As an aging millennial on the cusp of 40, daily facial sunscreen is a must: I use this SPF 50 tinted one on average days and this glowy version when I’m feeling fancy. I’m all about protecting my sons’ fair skin as well. When I’m out in the sun with the boys, we slather on this Unseen Sunscreen dupe I found at Trader Joe’s in June (sadly, this product is no longer available) or waterproof sunscreen from Target.

Simple breakfast: With warmer weather here, I’ve set aside my usual scrambled eggs for breakfast in favor of cool, creamy yogurt. I recently discovered Ratio yogurt, which is low in sugar, high in protein and my new go-to quick breakfast, paired with homemade peanut butter energy balls or fruit. My favorite flavor is vanilla. The boys enjoy Chobani flips (their favorites include mint chip, key lime pie and cookie dough). We’ve also been stocking up on juicy watermelon, which they both eat nonstop.

Library pick up: Lately, we’ve been on the run so often that we aren’t able to spend time lingering at the library. Enter: library hold pick up. Instead of browsing the shelves, I’ll sit with the boys and ask them what they’d like to read, then request those books using my library app. A few days later, I’ll receive a notification email to visit the library. We’ll breeze inside to drop off old books and collect our holds, then go on our way. This is my new favorite thing and it’s helping my boys conquer their respective literary canons (for Jack, the Captain Underpants series and Adam, the Berenstain Bears). As for me, I’m enjoying plenty of poetry and working my way through the School for Good and Evil (YA fantasy) series.

book

My writing group: I adore the women in my writing group. This year, we leveled up and now have an official Voxer thread in addition to our Slack group and text thread. We swap recipes, drop book recs, celebrate life wins, discuss how we are occupying our kids, ask “Is it just me or… ?” and, oh yes, we also chat about writing. They’ve been my summer lifeline as we all navigate the delight and challenges of parenting in the summer.

Quiet time with screens: Yes, we use screens — with boundaries — as a tool to entertain our children. With a three-year-old who’s fighting his midday nap and a precocious eight-year-old, I need relief. This summer it’s available thanks to Let’s go Pikachu on Switch for Jack and Paw Patrol DVDs for Adam. My rule for the summer is no screens in the morning, so my kids usually spend an hour in their respective universes after lunch or before dinner, giving me an hour to catch up on chores, meal prep or my reading. 

Playdates: Without the regular rhythm of school pickup and drop off plus apartment living, my kiddos and I are missing interactions with our pals. They’re with me nearly all day every day, which is wonderful, but we need variety! Consequently, I’ve been intentional about setting playdates with children and moms we love. We’ll meet at the pool, a park or in someone’s home and let our kids run and play together. These connections are like a deep exhale for everyone.

My summer uniform: I’ve been living in these chino shorts (in army green and pink), paired with a cute tank top. To rest my hair from heat styling, I’ve been wearing it wet with a claw clip. These sandals (in almond) have been my go-to shoes for summer for three years running. They can be dressed up or down, and they’re incredibly comfy. As for my boys, they’re choosing comfy athletic shorts and shirts, paired with blue slide sandals.

Flexibility: At the end of every Orange Theory class, the head coach at my studio says stretching is the “secret sauce” to longevity. What works for the body can also work for the mind. Perhaps the biggest thing that has helped me this summer has been a flexible mindset. I’ve never been great at adjusting plans but since summer started, I’ve had to shift gears to address family obligations, child injuries (everyone is okay, but we did have one urgent care visit) and house hunting. Letting go of plans and expectations is a good exercise in humility for someone like me. Maybe by the end of the summer, I’ll be more chill? Maybe. (Hey coach, I’m certainly stretching!) Anyway, I do not pretend to know what’s in store for our little flock amid life’s many uncertainties, but one day soon, I hope we’ll stretch our wings and soar home. 

To read about more summer favorites, check out Kim’s “What’s Saving My Life” and Jessica’s “What’s Saving My Summer Life.”

Your turn: What’s helping you survive the summer? Leave a comment and let me know.

A blessing for parenting in the summer

God of ice cream cones and sun-kissed cheeks,
God of sticky fingers and pool-soaked bodies,
You made summertime, with its warm breezes
and ample sunshine.

You gave us wispy, white clouds for watching,
Rolling tides for splashing,
Sand for digging and building castles.

Be with me now as I parent
my children through this season,
As we, together, navigate
Longer days and unstructured time.

You know that “School’s out for the summer”
Contains multitudes — stress and sweetness,
dread and relief.
“What can we do?” and “Can I have another snack?”
The answer varies, depending on the hour.

To support our kids through this season means
Pool passes and park playdates,
Sports camps and Vacation Bible School,
Family travel and time unstructured.

Let us see the blank space on the calendar
Not as a challenge to be feared,
But as a gift of rest to be savored
Moments imprinted on our hearts.

Let us revel in the joy of our children
When they witness butterflies soaring
Or dandelions blooming,
When they take off on their bikes for the first time,
And savor that first ripe blueberry.

Let us celebrate their beauty
As they learn to swim and bike,
As they get lost in their favorite book,
As they slide, swing, and run at the park,
As they dig in the dirt and help plant tomatoes.

And when the days grow long and tedious,
And we cannot fathom grappling with
one more tantrum,
Let us draw on the support of our village —
Neighbors, family, church members, friends
Let us hear: “You’re doing great.”

Remind us you are near — in the cool waters
of the creek,
Juicy bites of watermelon,
The surprise rainbow,
The light of fireflies,
A campfire’s glow,
And the joy of watching our children grow.
Amen.

// written with my friend Kimberly Knowle-Zeller as summertime approaches. If you liked this new blessing, you may enjoy our devotional, The Beauty of Motherhood.

The Beauty of Motherhood book cover

To mother

“What would you have liked to know before becoming a mom?” a friend asked recently. 

“Wow, good question,” I laughed. When I was pregnant, the moms in my circle offered all sorts of sage advice, yet, ultimately, I needed to figure out motherhood for myself. 

The first time I held my baby, we were in the NICU. I remember looking into his blue eyes, feeling his weight and experiencing sheer joy — and terror. The nurses had left. Now I was responsible for his well being. Would I be up to the task?

Even today, I wonder what I’d say to an expectant mother. How do you describe the toughest, most beautiful job in the world?

Is it like being a nurse, caring for needy patients? Or more like a teacher, presenting lessons and encouraging budding learners?

At times, a short order cook. A cheerleader. Housekeeper. Zookeeper! Captain of the ship. 

Perhaps motherhood is like being a writer, nurturing wild words into stories that stir the soul. You spend countless, invisible hours putting everything you have into your work — then you revise, leaning into whatever the piece wants to become. And here’s the kicker: You can only steward your stories for so long until they’re ready to be set free, with a life of their own.

Motherhood is as impossible to contain as the weather. It’s sunshine and storms. Clear skies and blizzards. Rainbows, too. 

I don’t think anyone can fully prepare you for the cataclysmic identity shift of motherhood. The call to mother will stretch you beyond your capacity. You will embody love. You will make mistakes. You will know sweetness beyond understanding. You’re bonded forever and compelled to endure a perpetual state of letting go. And when you feel as if you can no longer hold it all, grace will carry you through. 

What did I know of motherhood when I was young? What do I know now? How do you describe a metamorphosis of the heart?

How do you pinpoint growth?

With a measuring stick and a scale? 
Spreadsheets and pie charts?
Photographs from years past? 
Words you wrote last spring?

How do you see growth when brown leaves cling to the forest floor, when snow is forecast, when a new season swirls beneath the surface, seemingly hidden from view?

In hands that can hold their very own umbrella? 

In pony legs that race across the court lickety-split? 

In the new paths you explore — and the sunset’s tangerine glow?

In spiky onion shoots, the first to rise from a barren garden?

All March you’ve been searching for flowers, something like the white ones from the yard you left behind when you moved last year.

Last week orange flames danced in the woods outside your apartment. Smoke billowed and plumed, conjuring memories of bonfires past. A prescribed burn is what the city called it. Prescribed burns are healthy for forests; the devastation makes room for new vegetation. You know what it’s like to be burned though. You figure it will be weeks before you see anything bloom from the ashes.

So, when your first flower of spring arrived at your doorway, in the hands of an old neighbor, you blushed. An overdue housewarming gift, she said. Delicate and purple, it fragrances your kitchen.

How do you pinpoint growth?

In sleeping peacefully through the night? 

In the “big boy swing” perfectly holding his body?

In the way he climbs trees with ease?

By examining your reflection — with new lines and silver strands forming — and simply … accepting it?

In embracing new beginnings. In forgiving yourself.

By celebrating the orchids in your midst.

// For more reflections on spring and growth, read “Hanami” by Melissa Kustche, “A Blessing for the First Warm Days” by Kimberly Knowle-Zeller, “Losing my hair” by Fay Gordon and “Five Stages of Midwest Grief When Exiting Fake Spring and Entering Second Winter” by Jessica Folkema.

What’s saving my life right now (or, some things that make this winter easier): 

{water} On Valentine’s Day, a pipe broke in our suburb causing our apartment complex and many other homes and businesses to lose access to clean water and plumbing.

This is embarrassing, but in my 39 years, I’ve rarely considered my dependence on water. It’s always been available. After using bottled water to brush teeth, wash hands, cook and more, plus coping with toilets that didn’t flush, I felt painfully aware of those privileges.

Cleaning up a particularly messy potty training incident without water made me crack. “That’s it, everyone,” I announced, surveying the damage. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m calling Grandma.” The kids cheered. Jay and I packed up our things and fled to my parents’ place in Chicago’s western suburbs to wait out the issue.

Meanwhile, an area hospital had to rely on bottled water and brought in temporary sinks to serve its patients. Other residents and businesses found ways to survive without running water. Everyone was humbled by this hurdle.

Two days later, the pipe was fixed and water was restored. Jay and I returned home to run faucets, clean toilets, change filters and empty out the icebox. We caught up on chores and laundry and, in the midst of our housework, we counted our blessings. Standing under my apartment showerhead, feeling hot, clean water rush over my shoulders, I practically cooed. The expression is true: Water is life.

{electric blanket} Each Christmas, my mother-in-law’s extended family hosts a white elephant gift exchange, and through a shrewd trade for a Hello Kitty mini fridge, we acquired an electric blanket. Though I’d never thought to buy one myself, this product is one I never knew I needed and this winter,  I can’t live without. My oldest fights me for it, but the biggest fan of the electric blanket, other than yours truly, is our pug, Gus, who at nine-years-old is becoming more and more like a cranky old man. Whether I’m warming my shoulders at my desk or snuggling underneath my electric blanket while watching TV, Gus is nearby, mooching valuable blanket real estate. I don’t mind sharing with him.

{screen boundaries} Recently, Jay and I banned our oldest from using his iPad on weekdays. Weekend use was fine, for an allotted time. But we were done with weekdays. “You guys are no fun,” Jack huffed. “Why are you doing this?”

I could see one of his iPad games having an addictive effect on him because I’d felt that same pull myself, but with checking Instagram and Facebook. This past January, I fasted from social media for a month. I’ve done this before, often in the summer. Though I missed connecting with my friends there, what surprised me most about this fast was how free I felt without these social platforms, which are designed to be addictive. My mind felt clearer, and I wanted that for Jack.

“Too much time playing [addictive game redacted] isn’t great for your brain, the same way too much time on Instagram isn’t great for mine,” I told him. 

Did this go over well? Absolutely not. Nevertheless, he’s accepted our new boundary and it’s helped his mood stabilize. Meanwhile, I’m dipping my toes back into social media, trying to find a boundary that works for me. For now, I’ll try Fridays only to connect with friends and share stories and photos. I hope our new boundaries will disrupt the addictive nature of our screens while allowing some room for fun.

{notebooks everywhere} Though I write a lot on my phone and computer, my preferred method remains by hand. Writing guru Natalie Goldberg instilled in me the virtues of writing by hand as a means to free one’s inner thoughts and it’s my go-to practice for early drafts and late revisions. Something about moving my hand helps quiet my inner critic (after many years working as a magazine editor, this is crucial to my process as a writer). So how do you write by hand when you’re a busy mom on the go? Stash notebooks everywhere. I have one in my car, one in the kitchen, one on my desk and one on my nightstand. Each is filled with journal entries, stories and lists. “Keep your hand moving,” Goldberg instructs in her book, The True Secret of Writing. “If you say you will write for ten minutes, twenty, an hour, keep your hand going. Not frantically, clutching the pen. But don’t stop. This is your chance to break through to the wild mind, to the way you really think, see, and feel, rather than how you think you should think, see, and feel.” There’s just something about writing by hand. A multitude of notebooks makes it possible.

{the children’s museum} After we moved to the suburbs, I left behind our beloved neighborhood filled with friends we’d known for years for a brand new place where we knew absolutely no one. Though we lost proximity to friends, what we gained was closer access to the local children’s museum. After I sprung for the annual pass, my youngest and I found ourselves there often, reveling in pretend play. When we visit, Adam fixes sandwiches at a restaurant, changes tires at an auto shop, paints a house, drives a train and more. It’s where we celebrated his third birthday, and where we meet up with his buddy from our old neighborhood. This is Adam’s happy place and I’m here for it.

{redwoods} Real talk: this winter, I’ve been moving through the anniversary of a traumatic experience. Some days are steady and even hopeful. Others are shaky and especially tender. 

One thing that helped?

In early February, I traveled to San Francisco to spend time with my writing group. Fay, who lives in the Bay area, hosted. As part of our retreat, she drove us to Muir Woods, home of the ancient coast redwoods. I read in my brochure that redwoods have been in California for 150 million years, and those at Muir Woods are between 500 to 800 years old.

Entering the woods was like gaining access to a secret garden. 

Redwoods soared high. Emerald moss decked their reddish brown branches. Spring green ferns burst from the forest floor. Cool mist hovered around the woods, as if we were stepping inside a cloud. 

Fay, who has faced much adversity in the past year, paused on the path and gazed up at the towering trees. 

“You know, sometimes when I get discouraged by the news or my life, I think, whatever is happening out there, these redwoods have withstood it for hundreds of years, and they’ll still be standing afterwards,” she said. 

Spellbound, I nodded. Though we’d talked nonstop until this point, I’d run out of words. My brave and generous friend couldn’t have known how much her words meant to me. Here in this tree cathedral, I felt as if I’d received communion. I had a renewed sense that what had transpired last winter would not define me. Remember this moment, I thought. Remember her. 

I have thought of Fay’s wisdom a dozen times since we visited Muir Woods with our friends. The redwoods are still standing. We are, too.

// I wrote this post in collaboration with my writing group. To read more “What’s saving my life” lists, visit Kim’s post, Melissa’s post and Fay’s post.

On love

Love plays endless games of chase. Love beams at you when you learn something new. Love accompanies you and uses his phone to capture the golden moment. 

Love holds your hand before the surgery, prays for you in the lobby and sits at your bedside after it’s over.

Love offers her coat when she sees you shivering.

Love laughs with you, never at you. Love lets you cry as long as you need to. Love never judges; love builds you up with words of encouragement. Love laments with you, cheers for you and speaks well of you, even when you’re not in the room.

Love asks, Would you like some coffee? and What do you want for dinner? plus How are you doing, really? Love nods his head and listens quietly. 

Love schedules haircuts, orders groceries, plans playdates and volunteers in your school. Love notices when you’ve outgrown your boots and orders new ones so you can go sledding. Love takes out the garbage and does your taxes. Love sits in the stands at your baseball game and in the audience at your orchestra concert. Love watches you shine and applauds wildly. 

Love rises in the dark to feed you until you’re content, love changes your diaper, love rocks you and sets you gently in your crib, love sings you to sleep then collapses in bed only to wake hours later to care for you.

Love picks you a dandelion because “You’re the very best Mommy.” Love requests one more story, one more push on the swing, one more cookie. Love makes a valentine for you. Love showers you with hugs and kisses.

Love waits at the door for you, never rushing or nagging. Love lets you take your time. When you’re ready, love opens the door and walks hand in hand with you into the great unknown.

This is three

You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge. 

You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil. 

You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate. 

You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.

You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker. 

Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories. 

Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.”  Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it. 

At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”

Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.

“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”

You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom.