“It’s ok to feel your feelings.” I whispered into her ear as she sobbed.
She’s been so angry lately.
But I knew better.
This had nothing to do with who she is
And everything to do with what she felt.
She was lost and anger was the easiest path.
Let’s be real.
It’s easier to be angry than it is to admit you’re vulnerable and wounded.
The Great Facade.
At first, a thread.
Then, the seam.
Piece by piece,
My unraveling.
Not the sort you might think:
My pretty dress, favorite shirt.
Instead, my knots.
My tension, stress, anxiety.
Bit-by-bit,
Loosening.
Letting go.
They are all off to school.
I said no to volunteering.
And here I am.
Unraveling the last dozen years.
There was a moment when I considered adding to the size of this knot.
More money, more things, more praise.
Instead,
Less.
Unraveling.
Piece to Peace.
Camille Vaughan Photography
“If there’s one thing we can always count on,” I explain to my daughter, “it’s change.”
No matter how much we wish we could freeze time or return to the way things were before, change is inevitable.
We may not be able to force the way things change, but we are able to control how we respond to it.
Entering her first year of middle school, my eldest daughter is enduring a lot of change that frankly, she’s not a huge fan of.
Riding the school bus for the first time, switching classes that are much larger than elementary and the loss of the familiarity of her previous school.
Change is hard, for better or worse.
In these beginning moments of great change, her emotions are running hot and cold. The smallest of problems are monumental. It reminds me of a conversation I had with her when she was just four years old.
I had just given birth to our third daughter, resulting in me leaving my two and four year old to play on their own while I nursed their baby sister to sleep.
They would barge in with battles over a toy or to ask if they could have some pretzels, waking the baby from her near slumber.
It was time for an intervention.
I sat them both down and discussed the difference between “Big Problems” and “Little Problems”. I actually recorded it so that I could share it with my friends and I’m so glad I did because there’s a precious moment when the lightbulb goes off in my four year-old’s head. She got it.
Big problems are when you are bleeding, someone is at the door or there’s a bonafide emergency. Little problems are snack requests or arguments over toys.
The same still holds true. Sometimes in moments of stress and vulnerability, even the smallest problems seem overwhelming. But if we take a moment to stop and really think, we realize they aren’t so life-threatening after all.
Recognizing the difference is the first step.
Adapting is the next.
Forgotten materials and missed assignments are challenging, but fixable.
Changing schools is hard but not insurmountable.
The sooner we anticipate and roll with change, the less anxious we will feel.
“There’s another thing you can count on.”I whisper to her as I tuck her into bed.
“Me.”
The crowd gathered round.
Electricity.
You could feel it in the air and we all wanted to witness.
Most didn’t know what for but I knew.
These were my parents.
Illicit lovers so long ago.
Not meant to be forever.
But meant to make and love me.
Years passed but their magnetism never did.
If only we could all be so lucky to love, at least once
Just like that.
They were my island.
My safe haven from the rushing waters.
In time, the shoreline shrank, leaving me grasping for olive branches.
I had a choice to make.
Do I stay, hoping and praying for the island to return?
Instead, I let go.
Allowing the current to take me.
I built my own boat from the surrounding pieces of my life.
And found myself stronger than ever.
The Captain.
He said, “I wasn’t sure you still had it in you. You’ve been inside so much.”
I laughed.
Oh, you think?
You think I’ve been inside a lot the last 12 years of raising our children?
Yes.
I’ve been inside cooking meals and folding laundry.
I’ve been inside doctor’s offices and school buildings.
I’ve been inside the heart of our family.
But please don’t lose sight of me.
My soul has always lived outdoors.
I’m still here.
I’ve been here all along.
I spent the better part of my first forty years desperate for others to understand how far I’ve come from where I started.
Surely, they’d respect and understand me more?
But now I know, we all have stories, untold.
And it’s best to approach all with the grace we’ve always wished upon ourselves.
Hold my hand.
Lean in.
We’ve come so far.
I just experienced the Barbie movie.
And I’m shook.
It moved me to tears.
This movie was masterfully made.
Funny, thought-provoking and meaningful.
The set design was epic.
The cast, impeccable.
The humanity- relatable.
A mother and her “tween” daughter at odds who ultimately work together to help Barbie and her land find their purpose.
America Ferrera’s speech to “wake up” the barbies: “I’m just so tired of watching myself, and every single other woman, tie herself into knots so that people will like us.”
Me too, Barbie.
Me too.
I had been in labor for 37 hours when my mom entered the room and walked straight to my husband, with a breakfast sandwich, exclaiming, “You must be so tired.”
My husband was so confused.
She had not acknowledged me or the baby.
And I guess that’s what I want people to know.
Privilege comes in many forms.
Imagine sand.
Some of us build from a deeper hole.
And yet, we’re on the same team.
My daughter almost drowned today.
She’s a strong swimmer and had spent the past 7.5 hours in and out of the ocean.
It was the last ten minutes of our day on the beach, when she swam out to retrieve her sister.
Her daddy was walking towards the trash cans.
I was 100 yards away, in my chair, recognizing that she was no longer on the sand bar but being pulled by the current.
Only her head was visible when I started to run.
She climbed onto me as I swam parallel to the shore, out of the current and into safety.
Adrenaline coursed through my body as a lifeguard pulled up on his four wheeler.
“Nice rescue.” He offered.
Apparently, as he tossed our trash into the can, my husband heard the guards talking on the stand about a mom running to her child
He turned and saw Emma in my arms.
“My God.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Thank God you were watching. I turned my back for just a second.”
And that’s how long it takes for someone to drown.
It’s only been a few hours, but I can tell my relationship with my third-born has changed.
She looks at me differently.
She has struggled with feeling overshadowed by her big sisters and replaced by her health-demanding youngest.
Today, she felt seen.
She’d been rescued.
And it was by me.
New Leaf Parenting 