daughters

Next Chapter

Posted on by Lauren

Lately, I’ve experienced a growing sense of dissatisfaction. 

In time, I’ve come to realize it’s directly related to the challenges associated with raising children.

I’ve spent the past 15 years pouring into my daughters. 

Emmett and I filled out that initial diaper/feeding chart with such detail, left breast/right breast xx number of minutes, our pediatrician laughed out loud when we proudly handed it over at Aurora’s first office visit. 

We attended over 70 hours of parenting and childbirth classes. We weren’t just going to be parents. We were going to be amazing parents. 

Fast forward fifteen years and four children. I feel like, somehow, in my intention to get it all right, I’ve gotten it all wrong. 

My mom worked and traveled, missing a lot of my childhood along the way. I vowed to do it differently so I quit my job and stayed home- signing up for every library, music and mommy-and-me art class available. I had memberships to the zoo, aquarium and museum and took our girls regularly. I faithfully joined a stroller strides exercise class so that not only could I remain healthy, but I could do it with my children, modeling for them what it means to take care of yourself, while still mothering. 

I created “The Gift of Time” for my girls. Handwriting 48 envelopes, one for each month for each girl with an activity they could choose to do with just mom or dad, no sisters to ensure they felt seen and appreciated as an individual. 

I didn’t just throw birthday parties- I threw over-the-top themed birthday parties with creative games and decor. I took them on special trips out of town- just one-on-one with mom to spend quality time and create lasting memories. 

And I LOVED it. I loved planning those parties and trips and spending time in class with them. I shared with them my love of reading and writing, nature and adventure, reveling in the wonder of it all. 

And yet, here I am. They are 8, 10, 12 and 14 and the magic of parenting is dissipating. 

I’ve come to the awful realization that in my attempt to heal myself, I poured into my children. 

And guess what? 

Spoiler alert: they are human. 

They are not just some extension of me and Emmett but a whole new individual with their own strengths, weaknesses, and ideas. 

When they talk back to me, I’m so hurt and offended. All I see is the little girl whose hand I held as we browsed books along the library shelves. Meanwhile, they are just testing boundaries and setting their own.

They don’t remember the mommy-and-me art classes or hours spent in the swing as my arm nearly fell off from pushing. They are fully living in the here and now with very minimal ability to reflect on and appreciate the idyllic childhood Emmett and I have provided them.

I now recognize that although it’s still my responsibility to nurture and care for these beautiful children, it’s essential that I not neglect nurture and care for myself. 

I do believe that each and every human is blessed with unique, God-given gifts. It’s our job to tap into those gifts and share them with the world. 

And while I think each of my daughters is spectacular in their own, amazing way, I know that is not my only contribution to the greater world (nor would they ever want the weight of that expectation!). 

My girls are growing. 

The reality is, they don’t need me like they used to. 

And before our nest empties, I need to take the time to figure out what’s next for me and for us, as a couple. 

Of course, that takes thought and time that I do not readily have available (going on 27 interruptions as I write this article). 

But perhaps the simple act of awareness is a start. 

It’s the knowing that there’s more to this story. 

New Leaf Parenting. 

Every day is a fresh start. 

Here’s to the next chapter. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Audacity

Posted on by Lauren

It’s finally sinking in. 

My first born is off to high school tomorrow. 

It seemed so far away until it was just around the corner. 

I recognize that Emmett and I are approaching the phase of parenting where everything suddenly speeds up. She’s home and then she’s gone. 

And we’re left wondering, did we treasure it enough?

Did we pause and let it soak through our soul?

Is she going to be ok? Is she ready? Did we parent her well?

I’m overcome with emotion because I know the answers are YES. 

She, nor any of us, may ever feel ready but she’s going to be ok (come what may) because Aurora is a child of great faith. 

I’m the public school teacher but my first born has taught me more than I may have ever taught my students. 

She has humbled me and delighted me. She has made me laugh and cry. But more than anything she has blown me away with her audacity. 

As the first born, she’s had the unfortunate task of paving the way for her sisters. First to grapple with social norms, bus rides and mature friendships. First for us to parent through cell phones, sleepovers and curfews. Onward she trudged through middle school, despite longing for the comfort of her teachers in elementary. And when her three sisters had gymnastics in common, Aurora found her place in volleyball. 

Last year, she picked up the acoustic guitar and taught herself dozens of popular songs, spending hours playing and singing. She joined chorus at school and when the track music suddenly stopped during her first solo on stage in front of hundreds, she laughed and carried on, finishing strong. 

Most impressively, Aurora has brought our family to faith. 

For years, Aurora went to church with neighbors who picked her up on their way. Alone, she showed up, joining the youth group, slowly but surely finding her footing. Emmett and I witnessed this beautiful child blossom into a confident young teen. Her joy was infectious. Her songs became worship.

After a while, we started to wonder what this church was all about. How had it taken such a hold of our child?

So we started to attend. Cautiously, skeptically toes in the water we’re finding our way back to church with our first born to thank. 

Her fearlessness. Her boldness. Her audacity to pave the way is how I know she will be ok. 

My talented, intelligent, gorgeous first born is off to high school tomorrow and while it feels monumental, I have nothing but great faith in her.

Camille Vaughan Photography 2016

Tough Love

Posted on by Lauren

“This is MY school. Let ME handle it.” My fourteen year-old screamed.

And hey, she isn’t wrong. It is HER education. And there’s nothing more that I want than to let her take the wheel. But that doesn’t mean that when the train starts to veer off the tracks, I’m not going to hop in and remind her of the course ahead. 

It’s the end of the school year- the end of middle school for our oldest. She’s drained and done. Unfortunately for her, there’s still a solid week of school left, so even though she’s mentally checked out, the reality is, she’s still on the clock. 

We are not a Straight A household. Some might argue we are selling our kids short by not setting the bar extremely high but Emmett and I highly value quality of life. We do not want our kids stressing over getting a 97. Instead, we expect a strong work ethic, core values of honesty and kindness and an adventurous spirit that loves to have fun. 

When assignments are missing for no good reason other than “I didn’t feel like it” or “It’s stupid”, privileges like cell phones magically start going missing, too. This is not fun. It’s not fun for us and it’s surely not fun for our daughter. But I feel it’s the most important lesson we can teach our kids. 

Here’s the bar. If you miss it, try again. If you still miss it, give it another go- your privileges will be waiting. 

As a teacher, I see an epidemic of kids who do not know how to handle disappointment or failure. Today’s parents want to spare their children the tough love they were given. As a result, our kids are coddled. They fail to launch because what’s the incentive when they’ve got food, shelter and electronics for free?

I’m saying: “Not in my house.” Here’s the bar. It’s not set to an impossible level. But it’s there and I do expect you to meet it, if you want to retain your privileges (which, by the way, our lives are already privileged compared to the masses). 

Call me mean. Call me strict. I call it Love. I love you so much, I’m not going to let you give up. 

It’s tough, but so are you, my darling. 

Tough love. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Untethered

Posted on by Lauren

I walked out of the house with two different earrings in today. 

And it wasn’t because I was rushing or frazzled trying to get kids out of the door to activities. 

Instead, it is telling evidence of my current, untethered existence. 

This unfamiliar place of a grieving daughter and yet, still a mother. 

How am I expected to grieve when there’s cheer and gymnastics practice at 5 and 6? Horse riding and volleyball at 5:30?

How does one grieve between doctor’s appointments and physical therapy? 

How does one keep house and prepare for the Easter Bunny’s arrival?

By absentmindedly fitting mismatched earrings. 

By crying at stop lights or whenever someone looks me in the eye and asks, “How are you?”

By comforting my children and carrying on like mothers do. 

Cheer

Posted on by Lauren

This image is worth a thousand words to me. 

I volunteered to take a video of Harper’s teammate, for her mom so that she could focus on watching her daughter rather than recording.

I also snapped some photographs during the video and captured this image of my daughter positively beaming at her friend. 

They aren’t just teammates, but also competitors in the same age bracket. 

Both of these girls are new to Excalibur gym this year and moved from the Xcel program to Level 6. It’s a massive jump. They were both extremely behind the rest of their practice group when they joined last summer and have pushed themselves for 16 hours a week to catch up. 

It’s not easy. On top of the grueling practice, Harper is going from winning Gold medals at every meet last year to feeling thankful, this year, to leave with any medal hanging around her neck. 

But just look at her. Look at my girl. 

Look at my girl radiating sunshine to her top competitor, who would go on to beat Harper in every event at this meet. 

Look at my girl supporting her friend, despite likely hurting inside to know she’s been bested, yet again.

As a mom and a teacher and former coach myself, I could not be prouder to call her my daughter. 

Not only does she push herself for a sport she positively adores, but she also finds it within herself to support even her fiercest competitors. 

Harper, you may not win every event or any event this year, but you have won my enduring respect and awe. 

And believe me when I say, I will cheer for you, always. Whether you are up or down, I will cheer for you, my darling girl. 

Protect Your Peace

Posted on by Lauren

Protect Your Peace. 

I found myself texting this to a friend recently, offering the same advice I repeat to myself. 

2026 is all about Protecting My Peace. 

Toxic people and their drama? Distanced from. 

Friends and relationships who are bright lights and encourage my own light to shine brighter? Coveted. 

Books I’m not enjoying? Discard pile. There’s no consequence for not finishing other than protecting my precious time and peace of mind. 

2026 is about diving into activities and events I enjoy with the people that bring out the best in me. 

Full stop. 

Our time is not promised. 

So protect your peace.

See

Posted on by Lauren

“Want me to come in with you?” I asked, reassuringly. 

A small smile crept into the corner of her mouth. 

“No, mom. I got it.”

I watched from the driver’s seat as she walked into the store, turning one last time to look at me.

I settled into my seat, head against the headrest and smiled. 

This was it. My first baby is growing up, reassuring me along the way that I’ve done my job. I’ve walked beside her, leading by example, showing her the ropes of life. 

And now, she’s confident enough to take a stab at it on her own, knowing full-well I’m nearby if needed. 

There’s no one at the counter.

There never is. Just find someone who works there and ask them.

I can’t find anyone. Can you come in? . . .wait, nvm. 

She walked back through those double doors, holding the bag up to prove her mission had been successful. 

“See?” She said, climbing back into the passenger’s seat. 

Yes, my darling. 

I see you. 

And I couldn’t be prouder. 

Anchor

Posted on by Lauren

When I tell you I’m having a real time with one of my daughters, I mean I am having a real time. 

I liken the reward of raising her to pouring water into a sieve. No matter how much you give, it feels as if nothing is retained. 

And thanks to the file I retrieved when cleaning out my dad’s condo, containing every one of my report cards and conference sheets, I discovered just how very similar this daughter is to me, when I was her age. 

Now I truly understand just how hard I was to parent (sorry, mom). 

There are so many days I feel as if I have nothing left to give while simultaneously feeling guilty for feeling this way about my own child. 

Therapy helps (for both of us). So do frequent breaks to refuel my empty tank.

But what to tell myself when I feel hopeless? When it seems nothing is changed, nothing learned? 

What is my role?

My steadfast presence. 

That I stay. Even when it is hard. Especially when it’s ugly. 

That although I seemingly get very little from this current relationship, I remain an anchor for her to hold onto. 

That’s it. 

I may not see great change now or ever but I remain. 

And that’s enough. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

BOB

Posted on by Lauren

Lost amidst the busyness of our everyday lives, it came and went as suddenly and normally as weekly groceries, this event I had so built-up in my mind. 

For over 13 years, our BOB stroller occupied precious space in our garage. It’s role and value not to be underestimated. 

It carried our first, second, third and last-born. 

To the park, across the beach, along rugged, rocky trails in Maine, Costa Rica and the Carolinas. This stroller has rolled through airports, water parks and Disney World. Her wheels have traversed through rain, mud, snow and sand and although one daughter, along the way, bucked through the straps breaking them for good, our stroller safely contained each child.

From an infant in Stroller Strides for eight incredible years to an 8 year old’s backpack hitching a ride to-and-from the walking zone of our elementary school, our stroller has never failed us. 

And just like that, she was claimed by a new family and gone, yesterday. 

She honorably and dutifully served us and now, she rolls on with new rear ends to hold and sidewalks to explore. 

We thank her for her loyalty and service and wish her light loads and a gentle retirement. 

BOB, you will forever have our hearts. 

Cry for Help

Posted on by Lauren

She’s been snowballing. 

It started small, with occasional snide, snarky remarks made towards her sister; but, it’s grown into a self-proclaimed hatred. 

As a parent, it’s devastating to witness. 

With eyes full of loathing, she finds any tiny infraction to criticize.

Advice encouraging her to focus on her own circle of control and to “let it go” fall upon deaf ears. 

She’s angry.

But it wasn’t until her meltdown this past week that we realized it’s not her sister she’s angry with. 

It’s us. 

“YOU LOVE HER MORE THAN ME.”

“SHE NEVER GETS IN TROUBLE.”

“YOU SPEND MORE TIME WITH HER.”

She screamed and sobbed and tore the room apart, seething in anger and despair. 

I spent the next couple of days researching sibling conflict and was reminded of what I had forgotten: the answer is time. 

Over the past several months, I’ve tried in vain to help the sisters get along- I’ve been focusing on the surface issue. 

What I failed to do was pour into my hurting daughter. 

I don’t need to help resolve their conflict. It’s just a facade. 

Instead, I embraced my angry child and asked her out to dinner. I explained dad would take her out one night, too. 

She lifted her face and genuinely smiled. 

No more problem solving. No more solutions on how to help fix “the problem”. 

Just more love. 

Camille Vaughan Photography