family – Page 6 – Erin Strybis

Gets better with age

In my early twenties, I worked for a large, progressive Presbyterian church on Chicago’s Gold Coast. I’d graduated in 2008 with dreams of working for a magazine or newspaper, but this was the year of the financial crisis and although unpaid internships beckoned, I could not afford to take them. I needed a paying job. That’s how I ended up at the church.

Unsurprisingly, working for the Lord wasn’t lucrative (still isn’t) but what my church communications job lacked in $$$ it made up for in other benefits—a chic location, colleagues and congregants with plenty of character and a relaxed workplace in which I could cut my teeth. Somewhere around my third week on the job, I stared out the antique window of the old parsonage-turned-office, at the bustling city street below and wondered: Is this it? Is this my life now?

I was privileged to have a secure, stable job but I couldn’t shake the feeling as though I’d abandoned a dream. Should I have moved to New York and maxed out my credit card on a fancy, insanely expensive publishing boot camp for recent grads? Should I have gone after that unpaid cub reporter internship in Louisiana? Or that unpaid magazine internship in Indianapolis?

Instead I was in a church, copyediting bulletins. And while I was grateful for the work, honestly, the thought of it didn’t exhilarate me. On the other hand, I had a two-bedroom apartment with my college girlfriend, health insurance and funds in my bank account. I was lucky. Though I pined for the freedom and flexibility of college life, I slowly assimilated to my 9 to 5 — meeting deadlines, taking lunch breaks to explore the city or chat with new friends, and navigating workplace politics and conflicts.

My first real job out of college exposed my inner demons, in particular, my penchant for perfectionism and people-pleasing. I struggled with confidence in my body, my work, my voice. I struggled with contentment in my relationship (long distance with no end in sight, everyone else seemed to be engaged) and my career path (describing my job often resulted in the response: So, you’re a church secretary?). In a way, I lived small. I read others’ blogs with delight and envy. I didn’t think I had the talent to write my own. I half-heartedly applied to grad school because it seemed like a good idea at the time (???). (It was not a good idea; I am grateful I did not get in.)

For five years I worked for this church, watching colleagues and friends come and go on to more exciting adventures. I replaced my old dream with a new one—advancing my career. I took on new projects, eventually landing a promotion. With new responsibilities and pressure, I agonized over my work, sometimes overextending myself. I secretly agonized over my slowing metabolism and weight gain, overanalyzing everything I ate and feeling irrationally guilty when I missed workouts. My third boss there, an amazing mentor and wise sage, once told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to see a therapist. (She was right.) She also gave me some advice about aging I’ll never forget.

“Your twenties are hard,” she told me. “But your thirties? That’s when it starts getting better. You’ll feel so much more confident in your own skin. And wait until you get to your forties–you’ll love yourself in your forties.”

Today I turn 33.

So much has changed for me since I was naive, young lass in the city. I’m married to my college sweetheart, we have a car, a dog, a mortgage and toddler (#adulting). I managed to land a job at a magazine I love and still pinch myself everyday because jobs like this are rare. And while I’m proud of my beautiful family and the trajectory of my career, what brings me the most happiness can’t be layered in a resume or posted on Instagram.

Here it is: I’m much more comfortable in my own skin now than I was at 23.

Aging well isn’t about looks–it’s about what’s on going on inside us. The inner work I finally did with a therapist acquainted me with my flaws, bad habits, negative self-talk and uncomfortable emotions. Because of her, I’ve recovered from crippling perfectionism and people-pleasing. I make mistakes all the time. I disappoint people regularly. I still feel bad about both. But it doesn’t derail me the way it once did.

After leaving my first job, I discovered yoga. Nearly two years ago, after my son was born, I ditched dieting for good and began practicing yoga regularly, which transformed my mind and body.

Today I’m so much more self-aware, confident, wise, grateful and compassionate because I’m older. I’m living bigger than before. When I get it wrong, I’m grounded by grace.

My boss was right. Like a fine wine, we get better with age.

Looks like surrender, feels like home

erin and jack I open the door and see him dead center in a sea of toddlers, tears streaming down his tiny, flushed face. “Mommy!” he sobs. “Oh poor buddy,” I say, rushing forward, folding him in my arms.

His teacher tried to reach me earlier, but I missed her calls. That Tuesday, while I sat in meetings, my son developed a fever — slight at first, but escalating to over 100. She reports she comforted him all afternoon, but he’s still in a lot of pain. My heart lurches. She, not me, held him. I feel like a horrible mama.

At home I treat his fever with fire engine red Tylenol, saving Motrin for bedtime. Even with painkiller, however, Jack is up every three hours that night, crying out in pain. I hold him; I rock him; I lie on my side next to his crib, rubbing his back, willing him to sleep while he writhes in discomfort.

Curled up on the cold hardwood floor, I feel angry. Angry because my son gets sick all the time, because my husband is away on business, because I know I’ll have to take yet another sick day tomorrow, because I’m selfish — all I want is to retreat to my warm, cozy bed. I will myself to stay.

I’m tired. I’m tired of juggling parenting and providing, feeling like I don’t do either well at all. At 32, I’m envious of 25-year-old me, who can go to bed early or stay out late — her choice; who can sleep in or get up early for a run — her choice; who doesn’t worry about interruptions — leaving work early or getting up in the middle of the night for her son. I used to be single — and free. My thoughts are interrupted by light breathing. Jack’s finally asleep.

The next morning, mercifully, Jack’s fever breaks. He still can’t go to daycare, though, so I call in sick, and we snuggle up in my bed — he watching Team Umizoomie on my laptop, me dozing in and out. I dream about my son’s first year of life, 3 a.m. nursing sessions, pumping, babywearing, washing bottles, complete and utter dependence, complete and utter exhaustion. I wake up grateful.

Eventually Jack’s hungry. “Waffle?” he asks. “Sure sweetheart,” I reply, peeling myself out from under the covers to shuffle toward the kitchen. I place an Eggo waffle in the toaster. I gaze toward my bedroom door. I know this in my heart: Motherhood is a place that looks like total surrender, with independence tugging at its corners. It’s also a place that feels like home.

What I mean when I talk about living gratefully

It’s been a difficult year for our family. So difficult some of our stories have been too painful to share here. My husband is healthy again, but inside we’re still healing from the trauma.

Reflecting back on it all, however, my heart remains full. I’m deeply grateful for the blessings God has placed in my life — my family, my friends, my work, my home. I’m deeply grateful for this space, for the opportunity to connect with you. I’m deeply grateful for everything our family experienced this year — our joys and hardships.

I know giving thanks isn’t always easy.

We might be in a season of life where the lows outnumber the highs. We carry a heavy burden, we’re not sure how much longer we can lift it.

We might be looking at the world around us, seeing all the pain and suffering and hate, and feel utter despair. We might be watching our loved ones fight illness and feel utter helplessness.

We might be battling mental illness, addiction, depression, crippling anxiety or seasonal affective disorder. Happy pictures on social media make us envious or melancholy.

We might be feeling the weight of waiting. We’ve been waiting so long for the one, the promotion, the baby, the big break, the move, you name it — and we are tired.

We might be broke. We might be grieving. We might be barely holding it together. We are wrung out.

But.

We are breathing.

Let me tell you something about gratitude: I think living gratefully is an act of resistance.

In a world that tells us we are not enough, that what we have is not enough, gratitude pushes back and says the opposite. Gratitude says we are more blessed than we could ever imagine. When we live gratefully, we look beyond ourselves, rediscovering the invisible threads that stitch our lives together and calling them good.

You know what helps me cultivate gratitude? Yoga. When I practice yoga, I am reminded of everything within me I often take for granted:

My heart, beating strong and true as I execute a chaturanga jump back on my yoga mat.
My breath, heavy but comfortable as I flow in and out of shapes.
My mind, clear and sharp, listening to the instructor’s voice, tuning out to-dos and deadlines. Tuning in to my body, this space, this moment.

Gratitude, like yoga, is a practice. It’s the practice of tuning in, opening our eyes to the gifts around and inside of us.

Sometimes we become most thankful for blessings that were ripped away. We got sick. We got hurt. Someone else did. We moved. Someone else moved. We started a new thing; we miss the old one. Our car broke down. We broke up.

Through loss and hardship, we often develop a new perspective that helps us better appreciate all we have.

The lows I experienced this year gave me a deeper appreciation for my loved ones and my good health. I have a renewed sense of contentment with the life God’s given me. And I’m trying to use my blessings to bless others with love and kindness. I don’t always get it right. I mess up a lot. But I’m aiming to live gratefully.

This Thanksgiving and every day, my prayer is this: May God grant me the attention to pause and give thanks for all my blessings, big and small. May I live my life as an act of gratitude.

I think G.K. Chesterton sums it up quite nicely here:

You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.

Amen.

Keep watch

“I see cars!” my son says, his face pressed against the window.

“Good. Jack, what else do you see?” I ask.

“It’s sunny! It’s sunny!” he declares with a grin.

We discuss the clouds and the wing and the plane’s descent; he’s testing his growing vocabulary, a tiny reporter riveted by the world around us. Eventually Jack sighs and settles back in my lap. I kiss his head.

While our plane dips toward Orlando, I’m so focused on landing with minimal crying/disruption/noise, I don’t appreciate the sweetness of this exchange until later. Looking back, it’s my most poignant memory from this vacation.

If we let it, parenthood imparts us a second chance to see the world anew, to witness its startling beauty through the eyes of our children. It wakes us up to the wonder of an ordinary moment, looking out an airplane window.

Although I’m the one that started our game of observation, on the way home, closing in on Chicago, Jack initiates it.

“I see planes! I see lights!” he says, turning to me, eyes dancing.

“That’s great, buddy,” I reply. “What else do you see?”

Lately I’m realizing I too need to keep watch for goodness in the world. To look for the light. It is the only way to seize hope when all looks grim.

Keep watch. Seize hope. Our children are leading the way.

How I coped with weaning my son

About a month ago in August, after a three-day work trip to Boston, I stopped breastfeeding my son. He was 17 months old, and my husband and I thought this trip was a good opportunity to wean him. Prior to the trip, he comfort nursed twice a day, in the mornings and evenings. I dropped to these two sessions when Jack turned one–I’d planned to stop when he simply lost interest.

Jack loved nursing, and I did too. Yet over time, it became clear those two feedings were affecting Jack’s sleep. Bedtime wasn’t so bad, but I knew Jack needed me to fall asleep. Mornings, on the other hand, were a challenge. Jack rose every morning at 5 a.m. crying out for me to feed him, a call I loved and hated. I loved starting the day with him. I hated the 5 a.m. part.

On one particularly exhausting morning last spring, I took Jack to back to our bed, positioned him the crook of my arm and elevated his his head, then fed him, blissfully, until we both fell asleep. This became our new routine, and it was something I savored. Early mornings became much easier, until Jack’s wake-up time started creeping from 5 to 4:45 to 4:30 to 4 a.m. By summer it was clear something had to change to remedy the situation.

For months I was so afraid of what was on the other side of weaning. Weaning marked the end of Jack’s babyhood, even though he’d dived into his toddler phase in February, when he took his first steps. Once Jack was weaned our relationship would inevitably shift. In August, it was time for that shift.

A difficult transition

Weaning, like breastfeeding, was surprisingly painful. Unlike breastfeeding, where the pain is raw and physical, the effects of weaning hit me squarely in my heart.

The night after I returned from Boston, I led Jack through his usual bedtime routine, skipping his feeding. He’d already experienced three nights like this; I hoped it would seem normal. Standing at the foot of the crib, I cradled Jack and sang him a lullaby, the final step in his routine. He wrestled and craned his neck toward my breasts. “Milk? Milk?” he asked sweetly. My heart dropped.

“Mommy doesn’t have any milk now,” I answered gently.

“Milk? Milk?” Jack asked again, and I shook my head no. He screamed violently. I tried to stay calm, but I could feel the panic rising inside my chest. I put Jack down in his crib; he went ballistic. I picked him up again, he tried to nurse, then cried, so I put him down again. He cried harder. I hated that I couldn’t soothe him with nursing. I worried: Did I wean him too soon? Soon I was crying too–big, heavy tears.

The noise woke my husband, who was asleep in the other room. “Erin, Erin, are you OK?” he called out sleepily. Jack cried. I cried. Jack cried some more.

“No,” I finally blurched. “Help me.” I was so overwhelmed, I wasn’t sure I could last any longer. I wanted to run far away from this baby, this choice, this heartache. I tried to hold Jack and rock him, but he continued to wrestle. On the verge of collapse, I felt my husband’s loving arms encircle my waist. He stood behind me and rocked me–and our son–in his arms. “Shhh” he whispered, urging both of us to relax.

Jack finally fell asleep that night, but I couldn’t. I tossed and turned, plagued with anxiety. I couldn’t stop turning over this choice in my head. Had I made a mistake?

I loved everything about breastfeeding my son: the soothing effect it had on him, the bond it created between us, the feel-good chemicals it created in my body, and heck, the calorie burn was a nice treat. Most of all, I loved that it was a way for Jack and me to start the day together, and to reconnect after a long day, usually spent apart at work and daycare. Now our special time together had ended, and I was full of sorrow and doubt.

Morning came. Some time between 4 and 5 a.m., Jack called “Mommy! Mommy!” I felt so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. I roused Jay and asked him to take over. I couldn’t do this, it felt too damn painful. Jay helped my son with his morning routine that day. For Jack, that morning and the one that followed weren’t as painful. Morning nursing sessions were easily replaced with breakfast. He had some moments of frustration about the change, but they paled in comparison to what we saw at bedtime.

Bedtime, which was once so easy, became a war. Jack didn’t want to be rocked to sleep. He didn’t want to be patted to sleep. He didn’t understand why we were skipping his favorite part of bedtime, when he reconnected with his Mommy. He was frustrated–he longed for his old routine. I did too, but I knew it was too late to go back.

Some nights I cried, but other nights I got angry. Once I got so angry at Jack for refusing to lay down in his crib I stalked out of his room and slammed the door loudly. “I can’t go back in there,” I fumed. My husband roused himself from bed and finishing putting Jack down.

My whole body, especially my breasts, ached for Jack. My hormones were out of control. I was irritable and grouchy, and also weepy and sentimental. I mourned the change in my relationship with Jack. Would we ever be close again? I kept googling “weaning and depression” and only came up with a few helpful results. I read all of them. I texted my mom friends for advice. I called my mom. I wrote in my journal. I went to yoga. I allowed myself to feel sad.

A week passed and one day, Jack slept until 6 a.m. When I looked at my phone I could barely believe it. Finally the early rising we’d grappled with for 17 months was righting itself. We had made the right decision after all, I thought, and my heart felt a little lighter.

A silver lining: Reclaiming my time

Jack’s sleep continued to improve, and so did our moods. We were getting along better, learning to connect in new ways. The breastfeeding hormones were leaving my body, and after about two weeks of sadness, anxiety and frustration, I began feeling like myself again. The only thing that hadn’t changed? My body kept rousing itself around 5 a.m. each morning.

I’ve always been a morning person, but after giving birth to my son that shifted due to his schedule and my sleep deprivation. Honestly my whole world shifted when Jack arrived and I never thought I’d be able to reclaim my mornings–until now. I used to get up early to workout, but I had a pretty established evening workout habit these days. What to do with this time?

One of my dear friends is a full-time working mama and prolific, accomplished writer. I’ve always admired how she prioritizes her writing amid her many responsibilities as a manager at work and mother at home. She told me her secret: getting up early a few times a week to fit in writing. When she shared this with me, Jack wasn’t yet one, and I knew it would be a long time until I could try this for myself. At August’s end, I had an epiphany: the time was now.

Thus I began reclaiming my mornings and rising early to write. Replacing something I loved so much–nursing Jack in the morning–with something I love that’s just for me–writing–has been amazing. It helped me let go of the final dregs of sadness about nursing Jack, and it’s helped me move forward in my writing goals. It’s been about a month since I started, and I’ve worked on a handful of writing projects–some to pitch to publications, some to share in this space and on Instagram, others just for me.

I worried I’d lose steam but I haven’t. It feels amazing setting aside this time for myself to do something I love most mornings during the workweek. It’s only an hour or so, but writing in the mornings before Jack’s awake, making time for myself first thing, sets the tone for my entire day. As many mothers know, feeding a child takes a lot of your time an energy, especially when your child is young and you’re on call about every two hours. Now that I’m finally on the other side of breastfeeding, I’m so grateful Jack and I were able to share that special time together and I’m also delighted to finally reclaim my time for myself. This is a new beginning for me; these writing sessions are my silver lining.

Children grow so quickly–from exclusive breastfeeding to fruit and veggie purees to table foods to weaning, from crawling to toddling to walking to full-out running, from cooing to babbling to words to phrases–and each time Jack grows I continue to be amazed and surprised. Sometimes, like with weaning, the change is especially hard. Other times, like when Jack started talking, I was thrilled.

What I’ve learned from this is that it’s OK to mourn change even while you celebrate a new beginning. Looking back, I can barely believe I breastfed Jack for 17 months. I’m grateful was able to and I’m grateful we had that time together. Although weaning Jack was painful, he is sleeping better, is more independent and we’ve grown to connect in other ways.

Here’s to difficult goodbyes and new beginnings. May you find your silver lining.

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Are you an early riser? Have you had a similar experience with reclaiming your time after a major life transition? I’d love to hear from you–message me or comment below.

Adventures in toddlerhood

Hilarious. Frustrating. Joyous. Alarming. Welcome to our adventures in toddlerhood.

Ever since our son Jack turned one it seems time–and Jack himself–is in overdrive, slowing only for the occasional skinned knees, tantrums and snuggle sessions with mama or daddy. At 17 months, Jack’s scaling furniture, testing boundaries, chasing the dog and uttering words (“No!” and “Daddy” are current favorites).

Each day he’s becoming more independent and fleet-footed. Although I can’t really call myself a new mama, I continue to be newly amazed by all the changes Jack’s experiencing on a weekly and even daily basis. After returning from a recent five-day work trip, I couldn’t believe how tall our son looked. (Did he grow an inch while I was away?!)

More and more I’m realizing that if I don’t stop to capture these moments here, I might not remember them as well. So I’m writing a snapshot of this moment in time for our family, and also for everyone interested in what’s new in our world. Some observations…

Jack’s motor development has grown leaps and bounds.

Whenever we’re at home, he’s constantly trotting back and forth from the dining room to the living room to the playroom and back. He’s so fast, if we’re not careful, we can lose track of him in our house and once discovered him standing on the couch, which was funny/frightening.

The playground near our home is one of Jack’s favorite spots. Running to and from various platforms, sliding, playing in the nearby dirt and grass, and sitting on the firetruck are his go-to activities. He also enjoys interacting with neighborhood children who play there. Seeing him smile at and play with others melts my heart and makes me glad Jack’s building valuable socialization skills at daycare.

We had one injury scare–Jack konked his head on the sidewalk a month ago (we iced it; he was fine)–but I know given his age we’ll likely see more. I dread this, but I’m trying to accept this is just a part of parenthood that makes me very uncomfortable. The lack of control, the knowledge I can’t protect Jack from everything, it’s … terrifying.

Toddler communication is fun! (And it can also drive me crazy.)

Though our precocious, willful toddler quickly mastered and loves the word “No,” one day after daycare we discovered Jack can shake his head “Yes!” Awesome! The occasional affirmative head nod from him is a fun treat and balances out his endless (frustrating) refrain of “No.” More and more it seems like we’re understanding each other better and I just love that.

Other words and phrases we hear on a regular basis: “Bubbles!,” “Shoe,” “Mama!/Mommy!,” “More?,” “Woof-Woof,” “Where’d you go?” or just “Go?” He recently learned our dog’s name, “Gus,” though his pronunciation sounds a little more like “Gu-uh.” I’m looking forward to later this summer, when Jack turns 18 months, as our pediatrician said we could look forward to a “language explosion” at this age.

Also on the communication front, I was fascinated to discover Memorial Day weekend that Jack will respond to requests from his dear great-grandma. At her house, she’d suggest Jack pick up a toy and bring it to her or to me. Most of the time, he actually listened to her and followed directions! I was beside myself in surprise and delight.

Sleeping through the night and other pipe dreams.

I covet the day our son finally naps and sleeps consistently. Parents of older kids, is this dream unrealistic? Jack was sleeping through the night around 11 months but because he’s been so sickly we’ve struggled with consistency for the past half year, having relapses in sleep health whenever his poor little body was unhealthy. Sickness would come, we would adjust our nighttime response and routines to care for Jack as best as we knew how, then he would get better. In that time night-waking would become the new normal and getting back to our old normal was always a struggle.

I never know what to write about handling sleep because I feel very conflicted about it. We’ve tried a variety of techniques–cry it out, rock it out, “no cry” sleep solution, etc. and to be honest, I’m not convinced there is one “sleep solution” even though books and expensive sleep coaches say otherwise.

Ever since Jack came down with the dreaded hand-foot-and-mouth virus, which took a toll on his little body, his sleep regressed. That was over two weeks ago and although Jack is healthy again, his sleep continues to be inconsistent. We continue to deal with this in the most gentle way we can manage. Poor buddy (and poor us!). We will get there… until the next sickness strikes. In the meantime, prayers appreciated.

Behavior highs and lows.

High – I love how complex Jack’s play and make-believe is becoming! He’ll sit by himself and play with his pretend kitchen, stirring toy car “soup” and popping fabric vegetables and blocks in the oven. He also loves rearranging his toy furniture across the house. Yesterday I found his “Jack” arm chair from Pottery Barn propped up against our master bed and paused. I wonder what’s going on our little interior designer’s head!

Low – One of the big things I’m dealing with right now is Jack testing his boundaries. He is sweet as sugar one moment, then angry the next when he doesn’t get his way. Jay and I sometimes joke that our willful little boy is a little ~~tyrant~~ prince. Just today we were clearing dishes after dinner and I grabbed Jack’s milk cup from his high chair. Instantly he became furious we took it away (mind you, it was empty). Cue: Screaming, laying on the floor, and shouting “Noooo! Mine!”

Friends, is this normal? The twos are supposed to be terrible and three-nagers are a thing, but I thought we had some time before things got this hairy. Or perhaps you’ll say that’s tame compared to what’s next…

High – Jack is finally showing more of an interest in reading! Praise be! He will actually fit into this family of bookworms… 😉 Current favorites are Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed and Little Blue Truck. There’s always so much joy and laughter during story time. I can’t wait to continue to share the fun of storytime with him and he grows older and understands more.

Low – Sometimes when we’re walking Jack doesn’t want to hold my hand anymore. I guess this is a good thing because it’s a sign he’s developing independence, but it makes my heart hurt. Watching him grow up is bittersweet.

My no. 1 lesson

All in all, I’ve really enjoyed being a toddler mama, and I’m so grateful to have Jack in my life. Working motherhood is tough, but it makes the moments I have together with my family all the more sweeter. I want to savor every part of motherhood–laughter, tears, hugs and kisses–this is what it feels like to be fully present in this life.

I’ve noticed past six months have been so different from the first six months of Jack’s life. Last year, before and after he was first born I read parenting books and called on friends and family for parenting advice. Of course I called the pediatrician a lot too. This year, I’m doing less asking and more trusting my gut instincts related to parenting. I may be calling the pediatrician just as often but I’m definitely calling on myself more to make tough decisions based on information available and importantly, what is congruent with our family values.

The more I lean into love, grace and kindness as a parent, the more I see it reflected in the little person I’m helping raise. The no.1 lesson I’ve learned parenting a toddler is to be present and to trust myself.

Summer mom

“I wanna be one of those summer moms who makes bucket lists and pool trips and spoils dinner with ice cream,” I lament to Jay while putting groceries away on Saturday.

I envy the summer moms. I see them strolling the neighborhood in their top knots and tank tops, babies in tow, seemingly schedule- and care-free.

Our weekends, in contrast, are a whirlwind of laundry, weeding and tidying up toddler messes—always prepping for the workweek ahead. “It’s hard when we both work full-time,” he says, rinsing dishes in the sink. I sigh.

My mom was a summer mom. She had summers off from teaching, and we went to our community pool often. My brother and I spent hours racing up and down the waterslides. We’d come home—soggy, spent and smelling of chlorine—then change into warm, dry clothes and collapse on the couch with cool, fruity popsicles. The memory is delicious.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m packing for a business trip while our son is napping. I spy my swimsuit in the closet and pause. In one swift motion I grab it and announce, “We’re going to the pool!” “Which one?” my husband asks. “I’m not sure yet…”

45 minutes later we’re at the neighborhood pool. I breathe in the smell of sunscreen, wiggle my toes in the cool pool water and revel in this perfect, 80-degree day. Our son is giggling at the mini geysers in the kiddie pool, and I can’t stop smiling. I’m deliriously happy.

I am a summer mom; I just had to believe it.

P.S. That night we totally had ice cream for dinner.

Counting the joy

full moon illustration — Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

It’s 2:21 a.m. and I’m wide awake, snug in my bed. My toddler son, who is fighting a cough, finally nodded off an hour ago after a never-ending interlude of cuddling, shushing and patting.

Eyes squeezed shut, I try and will myself to join him in peaceful slumber. But half a dozen worries crowd my mind: Is this a sleep regression or is my son’s cough serious? I forgot to call the pediatrician yesterday. Am I a bad mother? Am I working too much? We are facing a serious family issue this summer. How will we survive this painful chapter? Will it break us?

I am mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted, yet sleep evades me.

So I count breaths. I count sheep. I count to-dos. Nothing works.

I think back to a year ago, when my son was just a baby who battled sleep. Some nights, when he was overtired, no amount of shushing or patting would soothe him. I used to rock him and sing Bing Crosby, “When I’m worried and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sleep, and I go to sleep counting my blessings.”

It didn’t always help him, but it helped me come back to a place of calm when all I wanted to do was break down and cry myself.

OK, Bing. Back to counting.

1. My son relaxed on our couch in the crook of my arm, his tiny fist stuffed with graham crackers, gaze fixed on the TV screen, head bobbing to the music of Moana. Blessing.
2. How he gobbled up green beans, carrots and ravioli for dinner—from my plate and his—and smiled with contentment. Blessing.
3. His squeals of laughter when I tickle his belly. Blessing.
4. New words and phrases: “bubble, Cheerio, thank you, where’d you go?” Blessing.
5. Generous hugs for dada and mama before bedtime. Blessing.

6, 7, 8, 9 … Dozens upon dozens of ways my son lights up our lives and shines light on the extraordinary gift of each moment on earth. His very existence the most joyful blessing.

Some point during all this counting I fall asleep.

At last, rest for this weary mama. Blessing.

Sometimes when we are overwhelmed and overloaded, taking a step back to give thanks for all that brings us joy can usher peace into our lives.

If you are having trouble with sleep too, try this: Breathe. Notice joy. Give thanks. Rest.

The boy who lived

For so many—myself included—Mother’s Day is complicated. The day I became a mother was … complicated.

After hours of labor and an emergency C-section, I almost lost my son.

He wasn’t breathing when the doctor delivered him. I kept waiting to hear his cries, but all I heard was silence. Then nurses calling for backup. Then the medical team, trying to revive him.

I sobbed heavy tears, afraid I’d never meet my son.

Then he joined in, softly at first but gradually stronger. Relief, joy, awe — the sweet, sweet sound of my baby crying.

10 hours later – Cradling my son in my arms for the first time in the NICU took my breath away. Looking at his wrinkly, pink face and tiny hands, I nearly forgot I was sitting in a wheelchair, body aching from labor and surgery. Heart aching from the trauma, I held him close and thanked God for him.

This is motherhood: a forgetting of self, an outpouring of love, tremendous sacrifice punctuated by bursts of happiness. It is magical and terrifying. It is bittersweet.

Today I’m grateful for my mother and mother-in-law, for mom friends and family, for others who mother. I’m thinking of friends who grieve and suffer on this day. And I’m giving thanks for the boy who lived and made me a mother.

A change of forecast

Usually when we come home from work and daycare it’s straight indoors for dinner, bath, stories, bedtime. But tonight the May showers broke, the air was warm and it smelled like daffodils and sweet, wet grass. Tonight we lingered outdoors.

You toddled around the sidewalk, marveled at the growing plants and dug in the garden, unearthing a hidden bottle cap. Eyes shining, you held it out to me and smiled. How does a simple object bring you so much joy?

I want to bottle up all the goodness in this moment and carry it with me everywhere. For days I’ve been carrying something heavy, holding my breath, praying, waiting, hoping for life’s storms to break. I am pleading for a change of forecast.

It’s getting late so I scoop you up and we greet your daddy at the door. Your clutch your treasure in your mud-stained palm and show it to him, giggling with delight.

Seeing the world anew through your eyes is breathtaking. You stop me in my tracks and startle me with sunshine, even on a cloudy day. Growing boy, you give your mama hope.

Category Archives: family