March has a tendency to speed right along, almost as if it’s anticipating spring as much as the rest of us are. It’s been a super fun-filled month so far. Exactly three weeks until race day, the trail has seen a lot of my old sneakers. Between miles there has been much chocolate, a medieval feast with friends (we are studying that period of history together), an Ikea trip with my sister and nieces, furniture painting, cute kids, field trips and birthday celebrations with friends. There is much between the lines, many memories and blessings. Lots of words are flying about in my brain, unsettled as of yet; waiting for the unseen breeze to stop their spinning. 
But right now, today, thirty-four is shaping up to be fabulous.
love
Making More Than Babies & Lunches
There’s a secret between us. Yet it’s no secret at all. It is loudly spoken by the way he looks at me, the notes he leaves me, and most definitely by the five children who grace our lives.
Our love was strong from the start. Yet its strength was like that of a seed: its full potential unknown until put into the right environment. After four years of waiting, we were given perfect freedom, wrapped in holiness, that first night so long ago. What was once forbidden was now ours to hold. Each, the other’s, to have and to hold, til death do us part.
Nine months later, a sweet darling baby blessed us. I struggled with the holding on part, and slowly he grew farther from me. He no longer had all of me. I felt needed and needy, exhilarated by new life and exhausted by it too. I was leaking tears and breast milk, of practically equal amounts. And as I held this child, I didn’t realize he was drifting farther from my arms. Fear gripped my body, mind, and soul and I closed out the very thought of ever experiencing pleasure again. I was forgetting: he was my husband first.
A few months later, the distance was breached. Our secret, though dangerously close to ruin, was restored and renewed. Trust replaced fear. We had become as blue and yellow, independent of each other. Now our bed melded back into a beautiful shade of green. Our discordant solos became one unified symphony again. It took me awhile to truly grasp: children should never replace the love, care and attention we give to our husband. I’m told one day our children grow up, and am starting to believe it. They are not given to make strangers of us or dull us, but rather to sharpen and enhance what has already begun.
Exhaustion is real, I know. It is not an eternal excuse, however. We miss sleep for football games, favorite television shows, another chapter of our book, and an extra cup of coffee. Can we not sacrifice sleep for love?
Often I forget to make our bed. The past couple of days, a little small fairy, with one missing tooth, has secretly been making our bed and tidying our room. I think of her humming little self, smoothing back the covers and fluffing the pillows. Deep in her heart she knows how much we love each other. This messy bed speaks of love and togetherness. Its crumpled sheets hold a secret. I’m never ashamed they should know. The time one of them barged in, because sometimes love has no schedule and can’t wait for candlelight and quiet, I was embarrassed but not ashamed. He declared he was NEVER getting married, and we laughed to ourselves and held on to our secret.
Tired mamas, hold on to your man. Don’t replace him with your baby, your phone, your mother, or your wallet. Nurture him, because he’s hungry too. He’s hungering for you. When you become unavailable until an undisclosed date, he may eventually feed his soul, mind and body at some other source. I know you feel needed every. single. moment. of. every. day. I know you feel about as undesirable as a week-old hoagie. I know you sometimes feel like you don’t belong in your skin. I know you bear the marks of motherhood in so many places and in so many ways. I really get how a hoodie and stretchy pants are the outfit of choice these days. I understand how the thought of making sandwiches crosses your mind much more frequently than the thought of making love. I totally understand.
Yet I implore you to safeguard this secret with your life. Never share it with another. Always, always, whisper it frequently to each other.
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm,
for love is strong as death,
jealousy is fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
the very flame of the Lord.
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it.
If a man offered for love
all the wealth of his house,
he would be utterly despised.
-Song of Solomon 8:6-7
Thoughts From Mt Everest
We have windows facing the north, east, and south of our house. Every morning for about five minutes, I get to see part of the sunshine as it creeps up past our neighbor’s brick wall and sneaks into my window before it rises higher, becoming indirect light for the rest of the day. There is another small slice of time when it shines full force into the laundry room downstairs and bathroom upstairs. During those times, if I’m able, I practically paste myself to the glass pane while it shines its bright happiness on my white and wintry face. Growing up with access to full sunshine every day it didn’t rain, makes its absence more intense some days. Yesterday, I even climbed the Himalayas for it.
Ok, so it wasn’t the actual Himalayas. It happened to be this ginormous seven-foot snow-pile in our front yard, with a tiny corner of sunshine right at the top calling my name. For a few minutes I disappeared into a world dripping with vitamin D and vast expanses.
My fellow arctic sojourner.
Practically the North Pole.
Then Betty started crying because she couldn’t get up from the deep snow where she had fallen.
Yesterday was Valentine’s day. We generally don’t make a huge fuss about it. If it truly is commemorating an amazing man who was martyred because of his faith in Christ, and who helped to secretly marry Christians who were being persecuted for their faith, because he believed so strongly in the institution of marriage before God, then I think we’ve cheapened it immensely. Passing out messily-written notes out of obligation isn’t exactly how I imagine we should memorialize love. Not to say I dislike Valentines Day, or I didn’t immensely enjoy seeing so many fun and creative ideas floating around yesterday. I mostly dislike the mandatory feeling placed upon so many, when love should never be forced. We have fallen prey to this just as much as anyone else. I MADE my children create valentines for their classmates. It was an assignment, though, not a freewill offering on their part. There is something beautiful about love given when you don’t ask for it, and love received when you know it wasn’t coerced.
When Matthew was on his way home from work, I asked him to stop at the store for a couple of items we needed for supper that night. I ended with, “Don’t buy me flowers!” He replied, “I wasn’t going to!” Then we both laughed. That’s how we work. Don’t buy me flowers when they’ll be jacked up in price to more than is ethically possible. Don’t buy me flowers out of obligation because every other guy is doing it. Buy me flowers (better yet, pick them for me when they’re free and fresh from the garden!) when I least expect it and because YOUR heart told you to do so, not some looming expectation from society is practically forcing it upon you.
Giving out of guilt is one of my biggest pet peeves. It was one of Paul’s too, in the Bible. This is in the context of money, not valentines:
Each of you must make up your own mind about how much to give. But don’t feel sorry that you must give and don’t feel that you are forced to give. God loves people who love to give.
(2 Corinthians 9:7) God loves a cheerful giver: one whose heart is in the giving.
We can not force people to give. Actually, sadly, we can, but we most certainly can not make people’s hearts love to give. Nothing feels less loving than conditional love. Nothing feels less generous than compulsory giving. Nothing produces less blessing than forced and guilt-driven gifts. This goes way beyond Valentines day. The joy of giving is actually stolen when it becomes no longer voluntary but because someone is begging for it. Don’t steal my joy or reward by forcing upon me a dollar amount, a percentage, or a suggested amount. Giving should not be packaged like a vitamin, with its Recommended Daily Allowance to go along with it. It is incredibly personal and no one’s business.
The only consistent amount of money, time or services we are instructed to give can be summed up in a few words. Give secretly. Give willingly. Give until it hurts. Give your best. Give your all.
As I look outside, it appears as if a few more inches are being added to our Mount Everest. We may have a few more climbs before the weekend is over.
Five Little Minions
We have woken up to snow so many mornings this winter! Today’s snow dumped another six to eight inches on top of what was already there. A couple of weeks ago, the kids made a fabulous three-door hobbit home in the front yard. Hours upon hours were spent carving it out of the snow with my garden trowel. I love their creativity!
After hours in the snow, hot tea or hot chocolate are a welcome treat. Elsie is my usual tea-girl and loves it just like her mama.
Last weekend we finally were able to meet the newest cousin on the Weldon side of our family! Taylor Grace fought her way out of Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and is home and smiling! What a treat to snuggle and love her in person.
We celebrated Christmas Part III, since she was admitted to the hospital Christmas Eve. It was simply delightful.
One of our favorite gifts: five little minion hats, crocheted by Aunt Heidi! They are a scream.
A collection of life through the lens of my phone:
What My Husband Did Behind My Back
Some days hit you like a blast of cold water being unexpectedly tossed over your head during a hot shower. Usually motherhood is a series of such moments, as startling as a scattering of sharp legos all over a bedroom floor: you know they’re there, but you can never be quite prepared for their sting. Such was Friday. Actually, ever since Tuesday my brain had been thinking it was Friday. When Friday at last arrived for real, I was ready for it to finish its comic series of events. At the time, they were not-so-funny events. 
During nap time, Betty came wandering downstairs to where I stood in the kitchen. She sidled up next to me, smoothed her hair and said with a coy look on her face, Is it perfect, mama? I looked a bit closer, thinking she had wet her hair in the bathroom. Nope. There was no hair to wet. She had given herself a generous haircut, right in front. Perfect wasn’t the first word that came to mind.
A teeny tiny part of her bangs remain after her perfect haircut.
My day just kept getting better. While making dinner, which involved mixing up a batch of pizza dough, I grabbed the garlic powder to put a shake of it into the batter. Obviously, I flipped open the wrong side of the cap, as a huge pile of garlic powder dumped like an avalanche into the wet dough. I quickly scooped out as much garlic powder as I could, muttering under my breath. The next best thing to do: double the batch and enjoy the garlic.
As the evening wore on, small things started to get to me. There was mud where I didn’t want mud. There wasn’t hair where I wanted hair. There was arguing. There were interruptions. I have a spot where I like to hide in my room. If I sink down low enough, no one knows I’m there. Friday they seemed to instinctively find me. Especially the nap-less one. I felt like the mama elephant in the book Five Minutes Peace. Eventually it became clear: There is no avoiding the masses, I thought. It’s time to jump back in the boat. So I stopped hiding and plugged on through the evening, mustering up as much strength as I could.
Despite my resolve to be happy when Matthew got home, he was met with a more wiped-out-than-usual countenance. With much grace, he just hugged me. I started going over the difficulties of my day. He took my head in his hands and said something which really caught my attention. It was as startling as a blinding light shining in my eyes: Aim, the kids have never complained to me about you. I needed to stop doing what they never do to me. After looking at Betty’s hair, he let her know it’s not okay for her to cut her own hair, then he turned to me and said simply, She’s three! Yes, indeed. This will pass. It will grow. She learned. Move on.
My emotions were stabling, but not quite steady. I had one last complaint to offer my unwavering husband. I was feeling a bit vengeful towards the bathroom scale, and did a little “Woe is me” routine. Yes, I have been exercising about twice a month. Yes, I am no longer in my twenties, so that matters now. Still, I wish that scale showed me a little slack. I was going to go to the downstairs bathroom to make sure the toilet was flushed and there was no pee all over the seat before our company arrived. Surely my day was on the upswing.
Matthew went upstairs to get cleaned up from work and I decided to check our email before checking the cleanliness status of the powder room. I was a little shocked at what I saw. Next I checked facebook, and the top news in my feed was this:
Surprise anniversary gift for my wife: registering her for the Philly love run half marathon!!! She doesn’t know yet!! Wait till she checks FB or email! Let the training begin! Giddy with excitement!
Let’s just say, I had to go into the downstairs bathroom to compose myself. I spotted a lime on the laundry room floor before walking back into the kitchen. I picked it up and thought pretty seriously about beaning Matthew with it when I saw him. I’m glad some of our company had just arrived and was standing in the kitchen with my sneaky husband, when I emerged. Otherwise, that lime would have made swift contact with his head. He grinned and rubbed the goosebumps off his arms. Risky, risky move, buster.
Since Friday, I’ve thought a lot about difficulties and training. Running this morning in 30-degree weather would not have happened if I had not been presented with this challenge. (My husband knows me pretty well.) Plain and simple, we tend to shy away from difficulties. We want to go from point A to point C without passing through point B. This is impossible. We want to learn a piece of music without ever practicing. We want our kitchen to be spotless without lifting a finger. We want to lose weight without the sacrifice of watching our diet and putting in any effort to exercise. I so desperately want to run 13.1 miles without having to go out there every single day and run one mile or two. It just isn’t going to happen, no matter how much my desire is for it to happen that way. The richness of any accomplishment is deeply rooted in the amount of time it required to succeed.
In the same way, our Heavenly Father knows what’s best for us. He sees that finish line, so very distant from our earthly eyes. He tells us things very similar to what Matthew has been telling me: “You’re stronger than you think, Aim.” My grace is sufficient in weakness, Jesus tells us. Like any good trainer, He pushes us outside our comfort zone. That is where we see results. When you walk the same path over and over, never stretching yourself to go a bit further, you may miss the incredible view just up ahead. When we run the same mile and never push our lungs and our legs past that initial burn, we never discover we have the ability to do a bit more. Jesus totally knows how hard it is. He never once said life would be burden-free, but He invites us to lay our burdens on His capable shoulders. He never said He would only give us as much as WE think we can handle. But He said “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” He will give you just a bit more than you think you can handle, so you’re stronger to go the next mile. It’s cold, it’s nasty sometimes, but He always sticks with us.
So I start my thirteen-mile journey… one step at a time.
An Eagle Scout and Singlets
Life is a constant heart-beat, which drums all around me. Sometimes in the thundering noises of many little elephants coming down the stairs, and sometimes in the aftermath of many mouths having been filled and satisfied. Tonight, I have two hours of quiet. The heartbeat of life still hums in the background, even though there is silence. There is a crudely drawn circle on the mirror in the kitchen. It appears to be etched in maple syrup. The stairs have more dust bunnies making themselves at home on each step. Paper airplanes have crash landed under pieces of furniture. A small pretzel has been stepped on more than once, looking like a little mountain which has been leveled to a mess of crumbs in the middle of the floor. The once-caught up laundry smirks at me from a huge pile, now ready to go through the cycle again. Our fridge is still in self-emptying mode, as dozens of eggs and bushels of apples and clementines disappear into thin air… or hungry bellies. The clock is ticking, and life is still drumming. There have been a few poignant moments in the past week.
It was an honor to attend Matthew’s little brother’s Eagle Scout Court of Honors. I have known Jacob since he was Betty’s age, and am so proud of the young man he has become!
The other night I came across Nadine trying to give Jack a shoulder massage. He was backing away from her and exclaiming: I’m not a woman! I laughed, so thankful he isn’t! Then Friday night he was peeling potatoes for me. The aftermath of his help was a scattering of sweet potato skins all over the kitchen floor. He gazed at the mess, shook his head and said, If I was a woman, none of this would have happened. I guess his impression of women is as follows: They are neat potato peelers who love shoulder massages. I think I qualify.
The boys are both in the middle of wrestling season. I finally got to watch them on Saturday, and it brought back many memories of watching their daddy, donned in his singlet, oh so long ago!
I’m so proud of the boys in my life. Whether they’re wearing singlets, an Eagle Scout uniform, or a wrestling coach’s shirt… they all make me so very proud. Their hearts all march to the beat of their own drum, and make my heart beat a little faster.
You’ve Gotta Take Care of Those Kids
This was the other day in Target:
I was pushing that train of a cart, gently bumping into the corners of aisles as it turned its wide arch. I smiled brightly at the mom with one baby in her cart, sitting quietly on a clean cart-cover. Betty held a receipt, which doubles as a “tag” in a pinch, so she can suck her fingers. Elijah likes to hide under the cart. Sometimes even the extra nearly hundred pounds I’m trying to push doesn’t clue me in on where he’s gone, so I start calling his name and he laughs from his hiding spot. Switching seats, spotting sparkly boots, and constant chatter makes our trip the usual exhausting but profitable excursion.
Last night, armed with four very large containers of popcorn and Christmas jammies, we drove to nearby neighborhood to watch a local light show. The lights were choreographed to a radio station, and it was pretty impressive.
Tonight little miss Betty must have gotten bit by the giggle bug. When the boys got home from grocery shopping with Matthew, it was close to 10 o’clock. The little girls were still giggling up in their beds. Jack looked at Matthew and said very seriously: You’ve gotta go take care of those kids. I’m not joking.
Betty keeps us laughing. The other day she was playing with her little baby. She had been tucked into bed for about five seconds before Betty leaned gently over her ear and made a soft rooster sound. Time to wake up, baby! She would say, after cock-a-doodle-doo-ing into her ear.
Once when Betty was trying to get out of the kitchen, Elsie asked, What’s the magic word? Right away she replied: Betty!
Today, Matthew and I were trying to have a little bit of snuggle time on the couch. We literally had five pairs of eyes glued on our every move. There is a small sensor that goes off when we start talking or kissing. Immediately, all bodies are within touching distance of ours, or there is some urgent sentence that must be uttered. In the middle of our hug, Jack came over, put his arms around us and said, Group hug! Which in turn led Betty to pile on some more love. As Elsie would say: There’s room for more in this hug! Once we started to kiss, however, Betty squealed, Let’s get out of here! They’re kissing!
The other day, Elsie was discussing age order. Apparently, Elijah was of a “medium” age. She then told Nadine: I remember you sucking your fingers! When, in actuality, she wasn’t even born yet.
This is the face I get when it’s time for bed.
It is also the face I am giving, because I am not one who loves going to bed. I’ve been enjoying the sewing machine and crochet hooks this month. Super secretive things have been in the works. There is much more on my mind to write… but it will have to wait. Right now I’ve gotta take care of this mama, who needs some serious rest.
Giving Thanks for Twenty-Seven, Road Trips and Scavenger Hunts
Thanksgiving weekend began with our Weldon family gathering. Turkey vegetable tray, dangly earrings, a crackling fire, and games highlighted our time together. We even managed to pull off a paleo thanksgiving breakfast, complete with monkey bread!
Next, we took off for New York. With new tires on the van and every inch packed to the gills, sipping joy tea, we listened to a Thanksgiving history audio book from my dad and enjoyed an almost completely argument-free drive up North. It was delightful!
We were welcomed by a happy sign:
The highlight of our time together was the Mall Scavenger Hunt we did one day. We divided into four teams, according to birth. Various items on the list to find were: “something that smells good, the largest bug, and someone doing the best karate move.” We also had to “plank” as a team and find Grandma and Grandpa who were wandering around the mall. The team who found them first got… the honor of finding them first. As leader of the 3rd-borns, I’d like to acknowledge we found them first. We had one hour to scavenge the mall. The creativity started flowing.
There were the firstborns:
The second-borns:
The third-borns:
The fourth-borns (and Betty):
Besides the fun of the scavenger hunt, the daddies took almost all the kids ice-skating, and we enjoyed snow, games, and many delicious meals together.
Our entire family:
At the beginning of November, my dad reminded us of the news we received as a family twenty-two years ago: Get one small bag packed with all that you treasure the most. Get ready to evacuate Nyankunde tomorrow! As a girl of almost twelve, this was an exciting adventure. It didn’t turn out how I imagined, however. Our “quick” trip back to the United States turned into permanent. It’s hard to imagine how twenty-two years later, our family of six has grown into a family of twenty-seven, with another on the way! (My sister, not me!) God has richly blessed us with a family who loves each other, drives great distances to be with each other, and children who think their other cousins are the absolute bomb-diggity! I couldn’t be more thankful.
Oscopy, Ontology, Bananafanafofology
Today was a great day to be in the city. I ran back and forth from the medical building to the parking lot to add more money to the meter, as the doctor’s appointment got longer and longer. A “quick” consult with the ENT surgeon led to seeing yet another specialist at Jefferson hospital in Philly. The first doctor didn’t like what he saw in the subglottic region of Matthew’s windpipe. The second doctor videotaped his way down Matthew’s throat and explained what we were looking at:
See here and here? Those are your vocal chords. They are supposed to be white, not bright red like that. Down beyond this area is where you are having swelling, and which makes it hard for you to breathe. It was fascinating. Like our friend (who is a speech-language pathologist) described his vocal chords, they looked like a butterfly flapping its wings… except this butterfly shouldn’t be red. The real problem lies just under the voice box, and we discussed what our next step needs to be. As the Wegener’s runs its course, it acts somewhat like a roller-coaster: flaring up and then getting back under control. We are hopeful to be on the downward slope right now.
As long as things don’t flare way back up, he is scheduled for a bronchoscopy in four weeks in order to closely examine the extent of the subglottic stenosis and to perform a balloon dilation of his stenotic area. Basically, opening up his airway ever so little and hoping this small dilation will remain open… then doing it again a few weeks later if his body handles it well. He explained it as a two steps forward and one step back operation. He will also be seeing an otologist about his ears… which have some problems again.
As crazy as it is to keep all the doctors in order, we are so incredibly thankful to have access to these remarkable specialists. We are thankful his eye tubes have still held up and look good a couple of years after that surgery. We are thankful for people who have joyfully watched our children so we can go to all these appointments and for kids who come home and report having “the best day ever!” We are thankful for being forced to slow down and recognize what is truly important. It isn’t our car, our house, our clothes, or our status. It is our breath, our relationships, our time and how we use it. We know we belong to the God of the universe, the God who sees. We don’t know when our last breath will be, but we know when it ends on this earth, our life truly begins. Until that day, we want every moment to count.
Flapper girl with my motorcycle man last night.
A Whole Lot of Simple
This is a guest post I wrote for my friend, Jessica, and was featured on her blog today. Check out her creative ideas and beautiful photography!
Dear New Mama,
I used to think I knew what being a mom was all about. Eleven years ago, we held our firstborn baby: a beautiful girl who weighed a mere 6lbs 3oz, but whose spirit more than made up for her size. Deep within her heart there has always been a spark. It lights up when she sees you, and her heart wraps around life like a hug. More experienced mamas always told me to “enjoy every moment” because they pass so quickly. I believe them now, as I stand eye-to-eye with my curly-haired beauty of a daughter and discuss things like marriage, boys, friendships, and other adult-like topics. I’m reminded of it when I root around in her drawer to borrow one of her shirts, or when she grabs my sneakers as we head out the door. I’m reminded of how fast time flies, but I’ll also never forget those first few months.
She was about a week old when God gave my husband an epiphany. This revelation truly changed how I have viewed motherhood the past eleven years. We were visiting my sister and brother-in-law, and the first night there our little peanut of a daughter just wouldn’t stop crying. She wore little grey footie pajamas with a trapdoor covering its bottom. She was beyond cute. But she wouldn’t stop crying. I nursed her, rocked her, and the tears fell from my exhausted eyes. Eventually, I handed her off to Matthew and told him how I couldn’t do it anymore. This mom stuff just was beyond my ability. I was angry, confused, and tired. That night God spoke to him.
He said, She’s not trying to upset you. Just love her. Here I was, thinking this one-week-old little baby was on a mission: Upset Mom. She had no more of an agenda to make me angry than I had to give birth again. Yet I viewed her wailing as a personal vendetta against me for something I had done. Frustrated, I expected her to know how much I needed to sleep and stop crying.
It wasn’t until a few years ago that my second epiphany came. It was more like a bullet shot straight at me, knocking me over with its force. We were driving home from somewhere and my husband told me flat-out how he didn’t think I liked being a mom. My attitude and actions showed a shoving away, a pushing aside of what I was called to be and do. I couldn’t have verbalized it as succinctly as he did. Most likely I would have labeled my behavior as “exhausted mommy syndrome”. When I let myself in on my own secret, however, I knew he was right. I didn’t like being a mom. I wanted to be just ME again. No strings attached at my hips, my tummy, my breasts, my hands, my shoulders. I was so tired of being needed every minute of every day. I had bought into the lie that children are inconvenient and draining me of my very life.
There are many chapters to be written from that moment to today, but I want you to know how raw and real motherhood is. It’s way more than a baby registry, leggings, and wall decals. It’s more complicated than a birth plan or a nursery theme. Yet it’s as simple as a bedtime story, a back-rub and knowing your child’s favorite color. It’s not about the jogging stroller you use, it’s about the time you spend with your children. It’s not about whether or not your tummy goes back to its original shape and size. It’s more about tickle fights and soothing scary dreams. Motherhood isn’t about you as much as it’s about who needs you. Your worth isn’t found in how you measure up to anyone else, it’s in how much you love. You will be depleted and exhausted to your very core, and then you will be filled up again and again with a love as strong as death. All the tough answers won’t be found in textbooks or parenting seminars, but rather in your child’s heart as you get to know them.
By the time our fifth baby bettered this world by her arrival, I was given yet another epiphany. It was almost too simple of a thing not to have realized yet. It dawned on me that the best possible way to enjoy the fleeting months of babyhood was to actually hold onto my baby. Not put her in something across from me, next to me, or in a different room than me. I held that sweet baby girl more than I ever held anyone. Not to say she never went to her bed or into a highchair, but I wasn’t so quick to use those things when I “got tired” of being needed. Heaven knows I get tired of being needed. But it’s not about me as much as it is about embracing how much they need me.
There is no such thing as a Supermom. There aren’t any secret capes to pin onto your exhausted shoulders. There aren’t any magic pills to swallow or programs to complete. Supermoms have everything together, and I’ve never met one yet. But there are moms whose kids hug them just because they know they won’t be pushed away. There are moms whose quality of life isn’t reflected in how pristine and organized her home is, but rather in how obviously used and loved her home is. There are moms who are secretly awesome. If your biggest fans are the faces who sit at the dinner table with you each day, then you are a super mom. If you love your children unconditionally, then you are a super mom. If who you are isn’t defined by how well you do things, then you are a super mom. If you allow yourself the grace of being imperfect, then you are a super mom. If you know how to say I’m sorry, then you are a super mom.
On the days when it’s hard, remember they are not out to get you. On the days you just want out of this job, hold them a little closer. On the days you’re running on empty, give just a little bit more. Children weren’t made to drain us of our life, but rather to enrich our life. I challenge you to be present more than perfect. I encourage you to love them right where they are today and not to wish away each and every stage of life for the next. It’s time to bury our selfish sleep-loving selves and give it everything we’ve got.
I used to think being a mom meant having a baby. Now I know it means a whole lot of simple, blended with the Divine, making the mundane beautiful. Welcoming your child into your family is what gives you the title, but it’s the everyday inglorious things which really shape you into a mother.
Grow Old With Me 