Too-small pajama pants clog my sons’ dresser, atop which a blue sabertooth tiger crouches in a jungle of Pokemon cards that may never be organized, banked by my oldest’s treasure box whose key is mysteriously missing (I suspect his little brother), and that is just one spot!
Plastic boxes, once organized with toys, spill out of twin beds’ underbellies, library books litter the floor, dirty laundry clutters unmade beds, picture books are uneven teeth hanging off the edge of the bookshelf. God knows what lurks in their closet — the sheer volume of stuff might bury me.
“We have to figure this out,” I sigh, squeezing freshly folded pajamas in a sliver of one drawer. My husband just chuckles. Doesn’t he feel the trappings of our children’s junk?
Sometimes my life feels like this messy room, no matter how hard I try to maintain a tidy exterior, clutter always finds me — I have ideas that no longer fit hidden in old shopping bags, regrets overflowing from the hamper, insecurities stacked beneath the bed. I’m afraid of what you’ll think when you see me. You ask if I’ve heard of The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up? I have a hard time letting go.
Someday soon I’ll brave their room to edit and sort, edit and sort, but I must remember spring cleaning has its limits tidiness always comes undone there’s no easy way to hide your humanity.
As a baby, you stuck to me like glue, nursing ‘round the clock and snoozing on my chest. Throughout your first year, we broke all the “sleep rules” with you, and we didn’t care. You were our long-awaited second child, our rainbow baby after miscarriage, and our last child, given my age. Your dad and I were going to savor you.
Adam, you arrived five years and two days after your brother Jack was born, and you haven’t stopped chasing him since. Milestone after milestone, you’d leap frog past our expectations, determined to be just like Jack.
No one told me that younger siblings tend to age faster than their older siblings, and the ache to keep you little is one I’ve felt acutely in your third year. You started preschool this past fall, and each week, you share new revelations with me — singing songs, scribbling your name and chatting about your new pals. After we get home from school, you want to sit on my lap when we eat lunch together; you like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or chicken nuggets and cucumbers.
You also like free building with Legos or Magna-tiles, playing your brother’s Switch, playing with and/or annoying your brother and drinking root beer as a special treat. You are bold, bright and brave, barreling into new experiences and connecting with new playmates. “Watch me, Mom!” is a common refrain. Your zest for life inspires me.
You’re my little buddy, helping load laundry and wipe the kitchen table clean. You accompany me to the library, Trader Joe’s and Target often. Sometimes, we’ll do coffee and pastry dates. And when it’s warm enough, we’ll walk our dog to the playground and play pirates there.
Even though you’re so big, you still like to be close to me when you sleep. After storytime and lights out, I’ll snuggle next to you in your bed for five minutes. When I say, “It’s time for me to get ready for bed,” you protest, begging for “One more minute!” repeatedly. Finally, I say goodnight, and you hold my face in your hands and kiss me on the forehead with relish, an echo of how I kissed your forehead as a babe.
Happy fourth birthday, Adam. It’s a gift to love and be loved by you.
There are years that test us, and years that embrace us. I’m grateful that my 39th year has been the latter. In lots of little ways I’ve felt held —
in the abundance of cherry tomatoes from our new garden; my first glimpse of stars from our backyard in the suburbs; each time Jay and I drop our boys off with my parents; through “Hellos” and connections with new neighbors; sweet messages and meetups with old friends from Chicago; a perfect latte from a local coffee shop; by the words of writers and musicians who move me; walking Miami beach in deep talks with my college girlfriends; date nights with Jay, especially to see theater or live music; prayers sent out by family and friends; when my boys ask for lullabies or games of catch; and capturing it all on the page, writing. Always writing.
In my calls to write and mother, I spent the bulk of the year planting seeds and nurturing unseen growth. From potty training to helping the boys acclimate to new schools, we’ve conquered several transitions. Freelance projects have come and gone, I managed to keep my Substack alive in the midst of our move. I set aside one manuscript (for now) and started writing another. The work of raising kind humans and putting warm words into the world feels more urgent than ever.
Selling our Chicago home in 2024 was a real trust fall with God. I’m grateful our family landed in such a beautiful house and community this past August. Starting over socially hasn’t been easy. Once a week, I remind myself of a dear friend’s advice to be “the very best version of myself,” trusting that, with time, I’ll cultivate great relationships here.
Today, on my 40th birthday, I’m more at home in myself than I’ve ever felt before. This confidence was hard won; at 38, I experienced a dark night of the soul from which I’m still healing. A commitment to caring for my physical and mental health, plus gaining a greater understanding of how my mind works, has been transformative. God’s grace was evident in the ones whose love carried me when I most needed it.
If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d hug her and whisper, “You are stronger than you think you are. Trust yourself. Believe in your goodness.”
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.
“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?
Immersed in the world of Dogman, our dog curled against your chest, your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow, one leg dangling off the leather couch, and laughter bubbling out of your mouth. What I like most about you now is that when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.
photo credit: Rachel Liv Photography
I want to remember you like this, too: Handsome in your chambray shirt, standing tall with a genuine grin, your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders. Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo — you are his nemesis and his idol — still, you keep answering the call to lead and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love). I am awed by your nurturing spirit.
I need to remember you like this: Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon, pointing to something unknown. Was it the waves breaking? The impossibly blue sky? All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea you asked us all summer when we could go, and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy, but you got your wish.
After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan, your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining, you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby (a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild), you even came back to me the first time I called.
One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight — so ebullient, so bright.
This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.
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.
God, you sculpted the heavens and the earth, you painted the sea and the stars. You made everything and said it was good. Still, I have to ask… Why did you make hurricanes? And tornadoes? Why cancer? Why weapons? Why war?
Perhaps the question I should be praying is, Why do humans hurt each other — and our planet? How do we fix what’s broken? How do we care for raging waters and hearts? How do we engender peace? How do we stay afloat amid such heavy issues? What will this world become?
And God, I have other, albeit lesser, queries: Why does my two-year-old always resist sleep? When will the bedtime battles and tantrums end? Also, why are groceries so dang expensive? And houses? Why wrinkles? Why neurodiversity? Why depression?
How come I’m still in pain, even months after that trauma? Will these scars ever disappear?
O God, despite the sin and muck in my life and in creation, why do you keep blessing us with sunsets? Why is autumn so stunning? Why does the Lakeshore never fail to settle my soul? Why honeycrisp apples? Why porcupines? Why snow? How is it that, whenever I watch my children sleep, I get a lump in my throat? When did I get so lucky and how come I’m often blind to this grace when they’re awake? How do I keep them safe? How will I ever let them go?
How do I carry all these fears, worries, joys, hopes?
That’s the wrong question again, isn’t it? How do I stop grasping for control and start clinging to you, God? Will you make me an instrument of your peace? Will you grant me eyes to see your glory?
May your backpack be light and your friend circle widened,
May your mind be opened and your mouth shut when the teacher is speaking!
May you multiply joy and create beauty, keep wondering “Why?” and discovering answers,
May your lunch be nourishing and may you actually eat it!
May you recess, leap, laugh, race and be a good sport, no matter the outcome,
May you dwell less on competing and more on doing your very best,
May you stay safe at school and be a safehaven for others,
May you walk tall and stay humble, be slow to anger and quick to apologize,
And when you stumble or cry, may you feel comfort and care, and remember you’re deeply loved by your family and your Creator,
As you enter a new grade, hold onto that “fresh minty feeling,” and even when it wanes, know that the work will eventually end, the bell will ring and free time is coming,
Remember another school year — with its highs, lows, laughter and tears — is part of your becoming.
In the summer, she’d set up a makeshift baseball field in our cul-de-sac. Mom dug out the bats, gloves and tennis balls from our garage and plopped them down near our mailbox. The driveway held home base. My brother and I must have been in elementary or middle school back then, and she, in her forties.
She roped in our next-door neighbors – the freckled Maher boys – and the handsome bachelor who lived across the street from us for a few years. I don’t remember his name. I do remember his dog, a white and orange mut named Boomer who caught fly balls in his teeth, and the way Mom’s eyes lit up when she’d assembled up a team for pickup baseball.
She pitched. Standing in the center of the cul-de-sac, Mom threw straight, steady pitches, encouraging us to swing with a gentle, “Hey batta-batta, swing batta-batta.” When it was her turn to bat, she smacked line drives and fly balls into the outfield, which was the handsome neighbor’s front yard. Boomer sprinted and strained to snag them.
Looking back today, I get the sense she held back some of her power when we played ball in the street together. A gym teacher by calling, she was a natural athlete and our first coach at everything. Her skilled hands showed our novice ones how to hit, how to catch and how to throw hard. She taught my brother and me that playing with all your heart was more important than winning or losing.
Her love of the game was palpable.
Mom’s the reason I played shortstop in summer league softball. My softball coach said I had a good arm – honed from endless games of catch out with my mother. I could field well, too, but my hitting was unreliable.
This became a problem when I moved on to high school softball. I made the A team, but I ended up benched more often than not. We lost the majority of our games. What I hated more than losing was not getting to play at all.
Mom didn’t come to all my games – school was in session, and she had several after school commitments of her own – but when she showed up in the stands, my confidence blossomed.
After another game lost, I sat in the car with my mother, head in my hands. She put her hand on my arm and said to me, “You should be out there, too, Erin. You’re just as good as the other girls are. You deserve a chance to play.”
She was right; after all, we’d gotten destroyed. It would have been nice if the coaches cut me a break and put me in in the eighth inning. Unlike my mother, I was a mediocre softball player.
The next year, I tried out for the school musical instead. Everyone who could sing made the school musical — it was my chance to get in the game. Mom came to my performance and cheered me on, same as always. She brought me a bouquet. Her love for me was palpable.
Erin Strybis 