Tag Archives: motherhood

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

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.

Reasons to wake early

To witness fuschia streak across the sky
and tangerine clouds outlined in gold
To notice sparrows singing
To savor hot coffee without interruption
To breathe
To untangle a thicket of thoughts on paper
before the day unfolds
To thank God for another spin
around the sun
To remember that, as the sky evolves,
I can too
To dwell in light — and possibility

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. 

Chapter 38

Today she turns 39.

Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.

Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.

Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.

She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.

After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.

At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.

It’s a wonderful, magical life 

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.

The heartbeat of my life

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.

Photos by Rachel Liv Photography

The morning after the election

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.