Glittering from the heavens “Stick out your bubblegum tongue,” I say. “Taste a bit of magic.”
Whole cars are swallowed Gardens and rooftops blanketed Take this messy world and make it cool clean sparkling bright
My son dives in Soon he’s swimming in sugar Sifting it with his mittens Floating on his back, beaming at the sky Leaving behind imprints of angel wings
And when the 6:00 church bells start chiming “Joy to the World” he says, “Mommy, let’s dance!”
So we twirl and twirl and twirl in that fine snow Cool clean sparkling bright.
Wednesday begins with a glimmer. I strike a match and watch it burn away the darkness. Next, I reach for my journal. Thoughts pour out of my pen and fill pages.
While I scribble, the tick tick tick of the dresser clock falls silent. Only sunlight — slanting in through the blinds — breaks the spell.
The clock reads 7 a.m. Suddenly, I’m dashing, dressing, rinsing, running towards my children to rouse them.
Our day unfolds with hot coffee and buttered toast, school drop off and a package pickup.
Once we’re home, Paw Patrol plays on the TV for my youngest, Dishes clink, steam rises, I exhale after my chores are finished.
I drive us to our third place — the library.
My new hold has arrived, plus there are toys and stories to explore. We choose books on potty training and Christmas. Soon Adam needs his nap, so we drive and drive until he gives in to sleep.
Parked safely at a nearby forest preserve, I recline the driver’s seat and dive into my reading. The stories I love most are mirrors; they reflect back blemishes and beauty marks, many of which I would have missed it if not for the author’s insights.
“Mommy!” An hour has passed and Adam’s calling me. I come up for air and announce “We’re going home for lunch, a dog walk and school pickup.”
Ever since I began staying home with my children I relish the rhythm of school pickup — it may be my only chance to connect with another mom all day, to listen and be heard, to linger, to belong.
What’s more, I love being there for Jack, I love that I’m the one who gets to pick up my son.
At home, Adam builds a MagnaTile house for his stuffies and I make Jack’s favorite snack: shredded cheese on tortilla chips warmed for 30 seconds in the microwave. My mom made these for me when I was a child.
Between bites of nachos, Jack copies spelling words. “What are you doing?” Jack asks, looking up from his work. “I’m taking your picture — I might write about this. Is that okay?” I answer, my heart skipping a beat. “Oh sure,” he says, his pale blue eyes twinkling. “I love when you write about me.”
I feel the pinprick of tears behind my eyes. I want to hug him, to let him know how much his words mean to his writer-mother.
All I can muster is, “Thank you, honey.”
Soon, it’s time to cook dinner. I boil water and reach for the pasta. Jack plays on his iPad; Adam watches more Paw Patrol. I used to feel guilty about this screen time, then my mom told me that both she and her mom played television for their kids while they cooked. That made me feel relieved.
My husband comes home. His presence is like lighting a fire — he makes everything more cozy. Over dinner, we tell our boys we have a surprise for them: We’re taking them to the Christmas circus TONIGHT! They squeal. Fed and bursting with jingly excitement, we all scurry out the door into a world of ice and snow.
Traffic is bad, but once we arrive, the boys are bewitched. Acrobats fly high. Performers balance, streeeeeetch and juggle. Wonder washes over Jack and Adam’s faces. I catch my husband’s eye: we took a simple school night and made it sparkle.
Hours later, we’re home. The boys are snug in their beds. My husband and dog doze nearby. Phone in hand, I sit up in bed and scroll my camera roll. Images of our comings and goings fill my screen. They’re simple *and* stunning.
While we rent this apartment and search for a new, affordable house, I view our time here as a hallway between one closing door and another opening. I can’t see the next door yet. Like Mary, I’m filled with longing for the future.
And yet amid a season when wishes and wants abound, these photos urge me to claim contentment. Each image whispering, Do you see it? Do you see the magic disguised as mundane? Aren’t you lucky? Isn’t this life wonderful?
// I wrote this blog post in response to the prompt #ordinarymagic — an invitation to find the sparkle in our typical days using photos and words. My post detailed my day on Wednesday, December 4, 2024. For variations on this prompt, visit the blogs of Jessica Folkema, Melissa Kutsche and KImberly Knowle-Zeller. To write with us, use #ordinarymagic and tag us in your post.
Each October, we take family photos. Anyone who shares this tradition knows it’s an ordeal — choosing outfits, ironing shirts, wrangling silly kids, hoping for *just one picture* where everyone is smiling at the camera with their eyes open. Five minutes posing with wiggly children — and a dog! — may feel like five billion hours.
Still, I adore family photos. We smile, we laugh, we bask in the light from the setting sun. The images come back and, like magic, they freeze our family in time and capture our togetherness. The children are taller and cuter, and as for us adults, well, our eye crinkles have grown deeper. Is that really us? I think, my breath catching.
The truth is, sometimes I take my family’s presence for granted. I wish I didn’t, but I think everyone does this a little with the blessings we’ve been given.
In this season of gratitude, I hope you’re able to connect with and give thanks for the family, friends and/or chosen family you hold dear. You know — the ones who spin hours into gold. Cherish them. Pray for them. Let them know how much they matter.
Because when I look at our photos, it’s evident: These boys are the heartbeat of my life. They’re a sweet symphony. They’re pure sunshine. Their presence is a gift from above. And I’m grateful to love them.
My phone alarm buzzes, jostling me from sleep. I silence it, check my inbox: The Times’ subject line is a gut punch. I want to silence this news, too. Tossing my phone aside, I bury myself under the weighted blanket. If I just stay here I can pretend that, for once, a woman triumphs.
Somewhere else in America someone else woke up, checked her email and smiled. In her eyes, his election is a warm hug. Where I see harm, she sees hope — the promise of prosperity. Why do we see things so differently?
“Mommy?” my two-year-old approaches my bedside, rubbing his eyes. “Come here,” I beckon, wrapping my arms around his soft, warm body, Cocooned beside me, he drifts back to sleep.
How will I teach him to be kind in a world that rewards deceit and greediness? It’s the same question I ask myself daily, yet this morning it feels urgent, I worry this country will become more dangerous for many. Holding my son close, I pray for peace, for our leaders, for our nation.
Finally, I rise and open the blinds, gray clouds envelope the sky. My boy rustles in the bed; soon I’ll serve oatmeal and fold laundry, he’ll build towers and paint pictures, we’ll read stories and find shelter in each other.
No, I can’t pinpoint the Light — not today — still, I trust it’s here, shining within us.
Because school’s out for the summer and my kids are here all.the.time.
Because there’s baseball practice tonight, basketball tomorrow and soccer camp next week.
Because we have swim lessons and playdates and birthday parties on the calendar. Because long luxurious playground visits. Because concerts, nature walks and dining al fresco. Because pool days, beach trips, splash pads and water tables.
Because wet towels and swimsuits are strewn across the floor and need to be hung to dry. Because the dishwasher needs to be loaded, the laundry needs to be changed and the dog taken out. Because my toddler just woke from his nap and needs cuddles.
Because, have you ever felt the grass underneath your bare feet while watching your kids swing in sync, and thought, “This is what I always dreamed of”? Because I want to revel in this tiny slice of peace before the moment passes and these kids start whining again…
Because one wants yogurt, the other watermelon, and they both want ice cream (but need dinner) and it’s hot and I don’t feel like cooking, so I unearth the mint chip from the fridge and the sugar cones from the cabinet and dole out three big cones for us to relish on the patio under the sun and isn’t summer a master class in shirking what’s sensible and savoring all that’s sweet?
Because, when my kids say, “Mom, watch this!” I want to bear witness to their joy — canonballs and somersaults, chasing cicadas and biking down the sidewalk, swishing down the slide and bouncing on a trampoline.
Because, have you ever seen the whole day stretch ahead of you like a giant buffet just waiting to be tasted?
Because the words can always be placed on hold while we live our summer story.
It’s surreal to think that this book will be born so soon, and, to follow the birthing metaphor, the exhaustion of expectation has set in. I’m overjoyed and terrified. I’m still finishing up a few more things that need to be done before the (book) baby arrives. Everything aches, literally and figuratively.
Indeed just yesterday I came down with a dreadful set of chills, undoubtedly passed along by my sweet — but sickly — kindergartener. At bedtime, I shivered in bed under a stack of blankets, sipping tea and ruminating over the many emails I had yet to answer and the title of our book. Why had we decided on The *Beauty* of Motherhood again?
“Beauty” was the last word I’d use to describe motherhood at the moment. Overwhelming, yes. Crushing, yes. But beautiful? Well, I wasn’t feeling it after a day of struggling to care for my kids and barely hanging on to health myself. This led to an angsty journal session from which the following prayer emerged:
Dear God,
There are messes upon messes in this house, the baby and I are playing an epic game of spill or save the dog’s water bowl (for the record, I’m losing 3:1), my oldest is home sick from school and passed his cough onto me… I confess, on days like this, I count the hours until bedtime, I fantasize about being anywhere but here (Hawaii sounds nice, don’t you think?) I need a prayer to snap me out of this funk.
After bedtime, instead of praying, I open my photo app on my phone and see life more clearly how my oldest wrapped his arms around his baby brother in the kiddie cart at the grocery store, how my baby isn’t much of a baby anymore, he’s toddling here – there – everywhere
and, I forgot to take a picture, but a few days ago my oldest lost a tooth and found he could read Go Dog Go on his own and you know I took a picture of that (!),
I took a picture of light cascading through the trees when we visited the playground, I took a picture of my shadow while I held my youngest, his weight pressing against me,
Thank you for this weight, O God, for this humbling, holy call for the privilege to nurture my children
Let me taste it all — their sweetness and sourness Let me embrace it all — our messes and our milestones Let me hear it all — the cacophony and melody of grace in their small voices
Let me feel the beauty of motherhood again.
Amen.
My friend Kim and I wrote The Beauty of Motherhood for every mama searching for spiritual refreshment while raising young children. As moms in the thick of the early years, we’re acutely aware that the messages of grace we crafted for readers’ growth are words we still need to hear — daily.
Because we know motherhood manifests in a variety of ways and thus, our stories are limited, we encouraged our reader to share her story, too. I adore connecting with other mothers through storytelling, and so, to both raise awareness of our book and elevate the stories of other mothers whose backgrounds contrast ours, my coauthor Kim and I organized a Writing Tour for The Beauty of Motherhood. Over the course of this March and April, mothers in our network whose voices we admire will respond to the prompt, What does the beauty of motherhood look like in your life? Our first writers will debut their stories this week.
Kim and I will be sharing these stories on social media, and you can follow along on Instagram with me (@erinstrybis) and Kim (@kknowlezeller) and #thebeautyofmotherhood. All are welcome to join in this writing tour, simply tag us when you write and we’ll share with our networks. At the close of the series we’ll offer a concluding post that links to each story.
Today is Adam’s first birthday. From our couch, I watch him cruise the living room, weaving in and out of midwinter sunbeams. He picks up a blue building block and passes it through the mail slot of our front door. Turning to me, he exclaims “Da-da-da!” while I hover my pen over my notebook.
“Good job, baby!” I reply, setting my pen down. I’m trying to think of a metaphor that encapsulates his spirit, but everything I write sounds stale. I guess love does that to you, doesn’t it? Sometimes love leaves you wide-eyed and bewitched, unable to translate the heft of your feelings into words.
Some call the first years of a child’s life “the wonder years” and for good reason. A year ago Adam was just a tiny babe who wanted nothing more than the comfort of my arms, but now he’s crawling and toddling. He’s hungry for new tastes and faces and experiences. And I’m stuck wondering how he underwent metamorphosis before my very eyes. How did he turn from shy smiles to rich giggles? How did he outgrow those tiny onesies? How did he move from tummy time to banging pots in the kitchen?
If my life was a sonnet, Adam would be the volta, the turning point where the speaker shifts her focus and entertains a new perspective. He burst into my world and gave me the courage to claim a new beginning. He was born the day Kim and I received an offer to write The Beauty of Motherhood. He was by my side as I wrestled words to the page in the midst of feeding and diaper duty. He woke me over and over at night and taught me there’s beauty in the darkness. He’s helped me laugh, slow down and appreciate the person I’ve always been and who I am becoming.
I read today that we’re approaching the halfway mark between winter and summer. Outside snow dresses the ground, trees and homes in our neighborhood. Steam rises and twists in the twenty degree air. Inside Adam abandons his game and scrambles toward me. I gather him up in a bear hug, relishing the warmth of his love. I could call him a wonder. I could call him a turning point. I could call him the midwinter sun.
You are an athlete. You sprint across the soccer field, swing from the monkey bars, scale trees, slides and rocks then leap into your next adventure. Motion is your oxygen.
You were an angel in the Christmas play, and though you wouldn’t wear your wings (“too scratchy”) and you might have ignored a few stage cues, you sang so sweetly to baby Jesus. You have an active, playful faith — and a propensity for mischief.
You want to be a “scientist who mixes chemicals” for work, and like your dad, you have a knack for numbers.
Yet, to me, you bear the soul of an artist: You splash color and doodles outside the lines of your kindergarten assignments, you’re the one who says “First, I have to show you something beautiful,” you’re always building something or in the middle of an epic Lego story. Your imagination is boundless. You have a big heart and a lot of love to give, like your mama.
Much of my work in midlife, I recently realized, is launching you into this stunning, cruel, crazy world, where there are dreams to chase and gorgeous places to explore and stories to discover.
My wish for you at six is that you never forget who and whose you are, beloved child. The world will try to stifle your kindness and your sense of wonder. Don’t let it. Cling to hope. Trust your faithful foundation. Use your gifts to spread peace and healing to everyone you encounter. Make your mark: Keep playing and caring and creating.
Happy sixth birthday to the boy who made me a mama.
Erin Strybis 