I don’t know about you, but when I was younger, nothing infuriated me more than hearing, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” Who did they think they were? They didn’t knowme. But oh, how my perspective has changed. Now, I’m older. Now, I understand what they meant. And all I am left to wonder is, what would my future self say to me now?
Slow down. Dance more. Play your piano. Surround yourself with the ones you feel your most authentic self with and let go of those you don’t. Pray child, pray. Find God. He exists, even if you don’t understand it yet- keep searching for Him. He’s real.
Give more. Give, give, give. Give your money, your time, your prayers to those who need it. You will Never. Regret. That.
Express your gratitude profusely. Say it out loud. Shout it from the rooftops because it can all change in the blink of an eye.
Accept responsibility. If you don’t like it, don’t whine about it, just change it.
Travel, even when it is uncomfortable and unfamiliar because you never know what you will find along the journey.
And write. Write so you remember and so you can look back at your naive self, smirk and think- She thought she had it all figured out when truly, she still had so much left to learn.
All of me. That is what you may have. My hair, to softly touch. My eyes, to peer into. My nose to touch yours. My lips, to kiss. The span of my arms to wrap around your little body. My breasts to feed you, my womb to hold you. My legs to run after you. And my heart, oh my heart is all yours.
Most days, I feel like I am drowning, barely keeping afloat. Struggling to provide you the most rewarding childhood while still maintaining some sense of my identity outside of motherhood. I dream of vacations away, of our life before children. In these moments, I revel in those extraordinary moments on the beach right before the sunset, of the fresh, crisp mountain air after a long hike. Oh, what freedom we had. What have we done?
But if I were there, now, I would long for nothing more than your tiny little finger wrapped around mine. Your chest rising and falling with each breath you take after falling asleep on me. Your laugh- your sweet laughter that causes my heart to dance. If I were there, I would ache deeply for you.
I’m lucky enough to have had both. To have the memories of life before you and to now experience life with you.
I’m done looking back and wishing for what we had. I’m focused on what we have yet to live. So take my hand, follow my feet, little girl. I am all yours.
*Special thanks to Danielle Ice Photography (top) and Dee Akright Photography (bottom). And to Vance Joy’s “Georgia” which I listened to on repeat while writing this!
These are the 5 words that got my husband’s attention today. I’ve gone 12 weeks without a single hour away from all three of my children, not including the rare solo grocery trip. I’m working my in-home party business part-time while working full-time as the mother of 3 young children and wife to a husband who had a mid-life crisis a few weeks after the birth of our third child.
Everyone repeatedly asked me howI was feeling after Emma’s birth but how could I tell them it wasn’t me who was having a hard time; it was my husband. “Is there such a thing as father post-partum depression?” I asked. I researched it and found very little but it was the reality in our house.
My husband and I started dating when he was 34 years old and although life moved quickly afterwards, he had more years than most to live an independent life. In some ways, this was beneficial. He was able to explore a variety of National Parks, fish more days than he worked, play gigs with his band and linger on the beach for hours without a care in the world. It was easy to get used to this lifestyle; however, this all abruptly changed once we had 3 children in a four-year time span. Gone are the long hours on the water or beach, gone are the gigs and hiking trips; in its place are diaper changes, piggy back rides, kisses on boo-boos and stories before bedtime. And truly, he loves his time with his girls. He is not a mediocre father. Just like fishing and volleyball, he is all-in. But that comes at a price.
Emmett had just started to feel like he could genuinely connect and play with our two-year-old, Harper, and here we were starting all over again with a newborn. It was more than he could wrap his brain around and he broke. His body hurt from head-to-toe and it wasn’t from a sports injury. One day I found him completely immobilized, lain across our bed. He couldn’t see a way out and didn’t know how to help himself. He had actively chosen this life and yet he felt like he was drowning.
Here I was with a two and three year-old begging for my attention as they felt replaced by the newborn, and now my husband needed me more than ever. So I was strong. I wordlessly woke up every night to nurse the baby, I called my mom over and hired a mother’s helper to support me during the day, and I reached out to Emmett’s friends to touch base with him. I encouraged Emmett to talk about it, to identify that which was bothering him for I knew there was no way to move forward without putting a finger on the source. Little by little he improved. He took runs, he played basketball, he got out of the house to play volleyball or visit a friend and he talked about it.
All the while, I felt it my duty to remain the sturdy backbone. He needed me, they all did. I reached out to my support group: my friends, my family and my therapist! And it worked, for the most part. I knew Emmett had nothing left to give, so on days I felt ignored or under-appreciated, I called upon a friend to encourage me; to remind me that this was just one of the many phases in our life together and that this too shall pass. I constantly counted my blessings. I focused on the miracle that was our three healthy children and the incredibly supportive friends and family we both have.
But here I am. It is Week 12 and I have yet to really do much for myself. So when I spoke those 5 words, Emmett said, “Babe, I got this. You go take time. I’m strong now.” I thought, “What do I even want to do for myself, by myself?” The answer is, I want to write. I want to write new music on my piano. I want to record our memories by finishing last year’s family photo album and starting this year’s. And I want to write about this. To remember what it was like in these early years so that twenty years from now, when one of us is at our breaking point, we can look back and say, “We survived that and we can make it through this.” And we will. When one is weak, the other will be strong and together, we will not only survive this, we will thrive as a result of it.
The dishes are still on the table, the laundry is folded but still on the couch. I’ve had dry cereal in my bowl for 1 hour, anxiously awaiting its milk but I choose you, Emma Jane. You are already 11 weeks and amidst the chaos that is our daily life, I still want time to slow down. You cry, I pick you up and rest my cheek upon yours. You settle, and I absorb the warmth between us. An osmosis of love. An exchange of energy and understanding.
You are our third and, likely, our last child so I cherish these teeny, tiny moments between us. My lips upon your forehead as I inhale your sweet newborn scent. I feel as if I am floating, this simply is too good to be true.
In ten years, the dishes will still be on the table, the laundry on the couch, and the cereal still awaiting its milk in the bowl. But you will be too big to fit inside the cradle of my arm. So I hold on a little longer than necessary, long after you have fallen asleep. I close my eyes and take quiet, deep breaths and in that moment, all time stand still. It is just you and me, Emma Jane, and that is all we need.
Photos by Danielle Ice Photography and Camille Vaughan Photography
New Leaf Parenting 