Numbering the days

We have a chalkboard decal in our kitchen. I bought it and put it up with the intention of changing it out weekly with Bible verses, notes of encouragement and silly sayings. Turns out, I’m not very good at keeping up with that kind of thing though. We mainly use it for countdowns: 12 days until Christmas, 10 days until Ellie’s birthday, and so on.

Right now, it’s counting down the days until Nathan starts kindergarten.

Six. That’s how many days are left. Nathan, per usual, is playing it all very cool. Oh, he shopped with enthusiasm (and a mind-numbing level of deliberation) for his new backpack and lunchbox. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told him we cannot yet open the new boxes of crayons or glue sticks that have been purchased. He gets a little quieter, though, when we talk about his new class, new teacher, new routine: all unknowns. The uncertainty of the unfamiliar balances the exhilarating newness, until he is neither excited nor nervous.

His 2 year old sister does not share his ambivalence. As we walked through the halls of his new school today to finish registration, I noticed her wide eyes taking in the bright posters and boisterous kids.

“This is Nathan’s new school,” I explained, trying to help her make sense of it all. “This is where he will go to kindergarten next week.”

“Yes, me too,” said Ellie, nodding confidently. All summer, she has been his shadow. Of course she would come too; she knew no other way. I tried to break the reality of the situation to her gently.

“No baby, this is just Nathan’s school. You won’t go here yet.”

“Ellie too?” A question, this time. Uncertain. She looked at me, brow furrowed. Like she was trying out this idea of a place where her big brother would go and she couldn’t follow, and it didn’t quite fit.

“No baby, not yet. You still need to stay home with mama for a little longer,” I said softly, squeezing her hand.

She didn’t answer, but her eyes studied her feet instead of the walls. Her eagerness was replaced with resignation. She understood; he was leaving her behind.

And me? I tell everyone who asks that I feel conflicted; excited for Nathan, but a little sad and nervous about such a big change. But that’s not entirely true. Or, at least, it’s not the entire truth. The reality is, I’m shell-shocked. How is it possible that we have only six days left? 

It’s as though we are perched at the top of a very tall roller coaster. We’ve been climbing and climbing for ages, like we’d never get here. Now we’re paused at the peak for the briefest of moments. In a split second, we’ll pitch forward and, with a speed I didn’t think possible, careen down the rails. Kindergarten changes everything. Our years will soon fall into a familiar pattern; dictated, even, by the district schedule. School starts in August, then there’s fall break and Christmas break. We’ll blink and it’ll be spring break, then summer, then the cycle starts all over again. Each year will flow seamlessly into the next.

There’s something about predictability that makes the days go by faster, it seems. Those early years, the ones with little ones, are so scattered and unsettled. I remember it was the days when the routines were off that seemed the longest. The baby didn’t nap or wanted to eat more often or the toddler wanted five snacks instead of three meals. The hands on the clock seemed unmoving on those days; the sun constant in its position in the sky. Maybe chaos eats up less time than order does. Now, our days will have rhythm and routine, and I know what that means.

They’ll blur by before I can scarcely catch my breath.

 ***

Tonight, after the dishes had been cleared, the baths had been taken and the books read, I lay in bed next to Nathan until he fell asleep. I don’t usually do that; our typical routine is a few minutes of snuggling, then hugs and kisses and I’m out the door. But tonight, when I went to pull my hand away, he grabbed it and clutched it to his chest. With eyes closed, he sleepily whispered, “Just one more minute, Mom?”

I don’t need a countdown in the kitchen to know these days are numbered now. Before long there won’t be a bedtime routine, and it won’t be too many years after that when I’m telling him goodnight and shuffling off to bed while he stays up. So tonight, I left my hand on his chest until the rise and fall became steady and even. I leaned my face into the top of his head and breathed in his still-little-boy smell. I even let a tear fall. Not because I’m grieving the passage of time, though. Children are meant to grow up, after all.

No, I think it was just the fullness of the moment. I stopped and savored, and my worn mama heart was filled right to the brim. A little spilled out, I suppose, and slipped down my cheek.

Perhaps that’s the secret, really. Wrapping my arms around the present, and holding still for what is happening, instead of planning for what is coming.

For the space of a few heartbeats anyway, I managed to stop time.

permission to be

My son isn’t a very graceful swimmer. Oh, he gets from point A to point B, but there are lots of flailing limbs and splashing water. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drowning every time he pauses for a breath.

For awhile, his swimming embarrassed me. We’d paid good money for five rounds of swimming lessons, and I watched with my brow furrowed as the other children glided smoothly through the water, passing him with ease. I studied his form, comparing it to the others in his class, and figured out the problem – he doesn’t get his legs out behind him. He essentially swims vertically in the water, which means he uses up a whole lot of energy to not go very far.

There’s nothing I love more than a problem with a simple solution. I could fix this. I could fix him. After the lesson, I approached the teacher, airing my concerns. The teacher nodded and explained it was due to Nathan’s head position – if he looked down in the water, his legs would automatically raise up. Nathan swims looking forward, so his legs drop down, hanging perpendicular to the ground.

I nodded to show my understanding, already visualizing the drills we could do in the water to correct the problem: holding toys in my hands and making him look down and tell me what I’m holding; reminding him to look at my toes and not my nose. He’d be swimming just like the other kids in no time.

With my answer in hand,  I turned to go. I was ready to make my son faster, better, more like the others. But the teacher read the determination on my face, and gave a parting set of instructions that stopped me in my tracks.

“Keep in mind that you can’t rush him. His body is doing what feels natural right now. It’ll self-correct, and he may well be the fastest kid out there. But you’re just going to frustrate him if you try to push him along before he’s ready. Give it time. He’ll get there.”

Don’t rush him. Stop comparing. Let him be. 

***

I read an article the other day that I shouldn’t have. It talked about the economic impact of leaving the workplace to stay at home with children. When taking into account lost wages, retirement savings and future raises lost, the figure was something like half of a million dollars for staying home for three years — and that was only for a pre-kids salary of $50,000.

$500,000. I’m not a true SAHM, but my 12 hours a week for a non-profit and a little erratic freelancing don’t exactly bring home the bacon, either. Don’t mistake me – I know how fortunate I am that I was able to opt out in the first place. But now that I’m in my 30s, I’m watching my friends who are still leaning in climb the career ladder with great success. They’re landing heady titles and incomes to match; traveling the world, leading teams and steering projects.

My biggest accomplishment today was getting my 2 year old to correctly identify the color blue; a feat that was immediately undone when she called that blue block “yewwow” two minutes later. The only rhythm to our days in this season of life is the complete absence of one. There is no five year plan or strategic goal setting – at least, not beyond the basic “keep everyone alive while raising decent human beings.”

When Ellie was a baby, and I was in the throes of the madness that is spending your days with an infant and a toddler, it was easier. It took all of me to focus inwardly on my own little self and my own little family, and ignorance became bliss – or at least tolerance. Most of my days looked the same, so I didn’t always notice the pace of them.

Now the kids are 5 and 2, and a little less needy. It’s not exactly all cocktail hours and relaxing over here, but I do get to pause and catch my breath every once in awhile. Except sometimes I use my free time to glance in the other lanes. I see how smoothly everyone else seems to be moving — and how much more they seem to fit into each day. They are faster. Better. When I look back down at this one, precious life I’m holding, it suddenly seems like it’s not enough. Like I’m not enough. I’m doing it wrong, and if I could just do life like they’re doing it (whoever “they” are), then everything would be okay.

I need to be more.

Thankfully, Nathan is there to cut through the lies the world is feeding me and offer up his truth.

“Mom, how come you don’t go to work anymore? How come all your work is at home on the computer now?”

This isn’t an uncommon question, and once more I explain to him that Dad and I decided that I would spend more time with him and Ellie for awhile, so I found a job that takes less time and lets me work from home. Usually the conversation ends with Nathan, my social butterfly, musing about how much he misses daycare and how we could get him back there. But not today. Today he hands me a gift.

“I’m glad, Mom. I like that you’re always here for me.”

Just like that, my focus is shifted back where it belongs. It’s a sweet sentiment from my thoughtful boy, but it’s more than that. It’s permission to move more slowly, to be a little poorer and a little less-accomplished for this season of life. It’s permission to be, whatever that looks like (and believe me, it doesn’t look like much most days).

Don’t rush. Stop comparing. Let it be. 

All in the name of being here.

Sink or Swim

My daughter just started swimming lessons.

She’s not yet 2 and the smallest in her class, so you might think it seems a tad early. Or rather, you might think that until you watched her near a body of water. Like a moth to a flame, she can’t resist its siren call. She marches straight toward the water’s edge, determination and purpose in every step. She’s going in. I don’t know if she is simply oblivious to the danger or over-confident in my abilities to keep her safe, but her antics mean that I spent most of last summer in a state of equal parts hyper-awareness and panic anytime we were near a pool.

With summer beckoning once more and her love of the water undiminished, it’s time for Ellie to learn how to swim. I chose the type of lessons carefully. I didn’t want it to be all fun and games; the last thing I needed was for her to be even more enticed by the water. I settled on a place that emphasizes survival skills first. From the youngest ages, they teach two things before anything else: how to flip yourself onto your back and float, and how to get to the side of the pool and hoist yourself out.

It was the latter skill we were working on during that second lesson. A row of four mamas, lined up in the chest-deep water. Each of us facing the wall, we were supposed to count to 10 while our toddlers clung to the lip of the pool. It had taken a couple of tries to show Ellie what she was supposed to do – at first, each time I removed my hands from hers, she had let go. Only my knee beneath her bottom had kept her from going underwater. At last, she seemed to understand what was expected, and I moved my hands beneath her, so that she was resting against them like an underwater ledge.

The instructor moved toward us, and I expected him to be pleased at how well Ellie was holding the wall on her own – especially since she’s so small. But with the experience that comes from teaching dozens of babies to swim over the years, he spotted a cautious mama who was having a hard time letting go. Knowing that even the best of intentions can still interfere with learning a life-saving skill, he challenged me.

“Remove your hands,” he said. “Let her struggle, just a little bit. She needs to feel the pull of her own weight; she needs to understand the strength that it takes to hold on.”

I looked at Ellie, at her tiny hands gripping the concrete side of the pool. They looked so small, so inadequate. Surely, she couldn’t support her weight on her own. She needed my help.

The instructor wasn’t moving on to the next child like I expected, though; he waited behind me, watching, for me to do as I’d been told. I gritted my teeth, but slowly I pulled my hands back from Ellie. I kept them less than a hair’s breadth away from her, ready to catch her if she should start to slip. I wouldn’t let her go under.

She dropped slightly the moment I removed my support, but then she caught herself. Grasping tightly with her hands, she swung her feet forward until they too braced the side of the wall. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she grunted with me as I counted. Her arms and legs rigid, they held her above the water for the full set.

Ten. She knew by then that ten meant rest, and she immediately released the wall and wrapped herself around me, burrowing her face into the side of my neck. I grinned as I rubbed her back and told her how proud I was.

“See?” said the instructor, as he moved on to the next pair. “She’s stronger than you think.”

***

This letting go is the part of mothering that keeps me up at night. It’s the piece that plays right into my weaknesses; the whisper from deep within that I’m not fit to parent. Control. Or, more precisely, giving it up.

I thought it was exhausting, those first few months and years. The demands of infancy – the sleeplessness, the constant feeding, the constant worry. Feeling woefully inadequate as you muddle through until, months in, you realize you’re kind of starting to get the hang of things. There’s no time to rest as that phase comes to a close though, because you’re immediately shunted off into toddlerhood. Now you can sleep, but you don’t dare. You didn’t realize how much toddlers lack a sense of self-preservation until you tried to keep one alive. Your exhaustion becomes equally mental and physical, as you fight to keep a step ahead of your whirling dervish.

And for all of that, I fared better operating in depletion and desperation than I do now. It used to be all about controlling the environment. The right hold, to get them to fall asleep. The right bottle temperature and angle, to get them to eat. A baby proofed house and constant vigilance, to keep them safe.

Not anymore. Now they’re moving beyond me, to a world I can’t orchestrate. I can’t bumper the sharpness of life, and the time is coming when the reassuring comfort of my arms isn’t enough to make it all better. I want nothing more than to hover on the periphery of their lives, ready to jump in before the hurt comes. I want to spare them from the burn of a harsh word or the sting of a cruel joke. Life is hard. I want theirs to come with soft edges.

If I do though, I’ll rob of their chance to test their own strength. Without the opportunity to flex their muscles of resiliency and forgiveness, they’ll atrophy. God has instilled within them a determination and steadfastness; I cannot deny them the opportunity to fully become the persons He has designed them to be.

Knowing this, I place my hands over theirs in instruction instead, for what I know will be all too brief a season. I show them how to find a strong grip; how to choose their holds with care. I encourage them, when they grow weary. I spot the finish line ahead while they’re busy focusing on the hard work at hand; I whisper in their ear that the time is coming soon when they can let go and rest. I practice with them, while the stakes are low. Again and again, so that someday, when they find themselves in the deep end alone, they know how to find something solid to cling to.

I want them to trust they’re strong enough to hold on.

Season of Should

 

Should. It’s such a shitty word. “Should” ignores accomplishments in favor of a towering to-do list of impossible tasks and unforgiving criticism. I should spend more time playing with the children. I should stop playing and get that proposal completed. I should shave my legs. I should call my mom. I should work on math with Nathan. I should read more books with Ellie. I should be able to pee alone. I should cook dinner. I should be a better wife.

I didn’t used to be such a should-er. There was a time, B.K. (before kids), when I moved confidently. I worked, I wifed and I friended, without giving much thought to the paths I wasn’t taking. Even when Jon and I made the decision to get pregnant, there wasn’t any waffling. But one quick (and fun!) month and a positive pregnancy test later, the season of should began.

Should I be worried about those three, okay four, beers I had at the cookout last Saturday before I knew I was pregnant? Should I scale back at work? Should we increase our life insurance policies? The first time I walked into Babies R Us, the shoulds hit me with such force that I nearly hyperventilated. When week 36 rolled around and we found out that Nathan had stopped growing, requiring a c-section for his safety and mine, the shoulds were shouting.

I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve drunk less coffee. I shouldn’t have eaten that piece of sushi.

Five pounds of dark-headed perfection couldn’t shake the should monster. He was fine; I was fine – and yet the shoulds still haunted me. It’s as though I failed at my first task of being a mother, at bringing him safely into the world. He made it, but it should’ve been better.

Here I sit, five years and another child later, and the shoulds still linger. But on a good day, I can feel the tease of a shift in seasons close by.

It started 15 months ago, when I was down to my last few days of maternity leave following the birth of our daughter. Instead of going back to work, I quit a job I didn’t enjoy, the one I dreaded returning to. This also meant that we cut our income nearly in half. I fully expected panic and self-doubt to set in, but the shoulds were surprisingly silent. We scrimped and penny-pinched and ate way more spaghetti than I cared for, but within months I’d lined up a part-time job that let me work from home as much (or as little) as I could manage.

The dynamic in our marriage shifted dramatically; no longer were we equals in the workforce and on the home front. Suddenly, Jon was the breadwinner, and I was doing the lion’s share of the cooking, cleaning, laundry and childrearing. For someone as fiercely independent as me, that should have chafed. It should’ve led to arguments and resentments, but instead it just felt … right. While it’s not always an easy choice and some days are downright awful, there’s still an overriding peace that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment of my life.

In this role, I’m realizing my own strength battling the shoulds when it comes to my children. Take my daughter, Ellie, for example. She should be able to fall asleep on her own every night. We probably ought to bite the bullet and cry it out or ferberize or babywise or some such. But when I hold her close and rock her gently, she falls asleep within minutes. The whirlwind toddler is gone and my baby is back in my arms for a few brief moments. For once, I’m not telling her no and redirecting; I’m giving her exactly what she wants, and gladly. On the heels of the hard days, she and I both need those minutes to fall in love with each other again.

As for Nathan, I learned the other day that he should be able to draw a recognizable stick figure – head, body, limbs, facial features. What he draws most closely resembles a potato with toothpicks jutting out of it (he’s mostly his daddy, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take credit for his art skills, or lack thereof). While he may be lousy at drawing them though, he sees people more clearly than anyone I know. Our conversations at bedtime frequently turn to who was alone on the playground that day at school and why and always end with Nathan’s resolve to invite that child to be his friend the next day. His gentle heart can’t bear another’s loneliness. Being empathetic and kind is effortless to him, and my heart comes near to bursting when I see how well he loves others. A perfectly-rendered stick man could never bring that joy.

That’s the thing about children, though– milestones and shoulds and checklists don’t mean much to them. They revel in what is, without a thought to what could be. They’re perfectly content with who they are. For all that I’m trying to teach them, about letters, numbers and how to treat others, my children are handing out lessons of their own in the school of motherhood.

Perhaps that’s the reason for my newfound confidence, for my release of how things should be and my embrace of how things are. When you spend your days with two little people who are constantly saying new words and learning new skills, you realize how quickly it’s all slipping by. There’s not enough time to both celebrate what is and mourn what isn’t. You’re forced to make a choice … although there was really never a choice at all.

These days are too brief and filled with too much joy, too much love and far too much grace to be held captive to the shoulds. I’ll embrace today and pray for tomorrow, but as for yesterday – I’ll hold tight to the good and let the rest fall away.

When your heart is filled with the light of what is, there’s no room for the darkness of should.

Roots and Wings

It’s coming; I can feel it.

We’ve already said goodbye to the bottle, boppy and baby-wearing. My breast pump is gathering dust at the top of the closet (although the steady whomp- whomp of its motor still haunts my dreams). The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t just faint and flickering; it’s beaming in like the coming of the dawn. We’re almost there; it’s tantalizingly close – the space beyond life with littles.

Oh, if you saw us you’d probably argue that we still have time. You’d say Ellie is no more than a baby, really, and Nathan doesn’t start school until next fall. But I can feel it in my mama bones. She’s already demanding to pick out her own clothes; she’s learned to “help” with the laundry and what fun it is to color on the walls instead of paper. Toddlerhood is here in full force, with all the charm and challenges that presents. And when I’m doing our laundry, I have to pause when I’m matching up socks, to make sure I can tell the difference between mine and Nathan’s. When did his feet get so big?

Yes, the next phase is looming on the horizon. And it should be a sigh of relief, shouldn’t it? To know that we’re about to shift gears. In the pantheon of mom life, special reverence is paid to those with little ones at home, after all. “Ohhhh, I remember well those days,” they nod understandingly at the bags under our eyes, our disheveled clothes and our tenuous grip on sanity. Because they know. They remember. They remember the sleepless nights. The runny noses and coughs that start in October and run clear through April. The feeding and the diapering and the keeping everyone alive, and how some days it feels like the weight of it all will very well bury you alive.

“Hang in there, it gets better,” they console, with a pat on the shoulders.

But here I stand, on the precipice of “better” and all the promise it holds – the promise of sleep and showers and hobbies, that most foreign of concepts – and I’m frozen in place. I keep looking back at the life I know, with all its overwhelming demands, and clutching it ever more tightly to me. Just a little longer, I think. I need them to need me, just this desperately and all-consumingly, for a little longer.

I even pitched the idea of having a third child to Jon – an idea he lobbed, ever so gently and yet equally firmly, right back to me. And I get it; I really do. I think he understands that it’s more of a fear of moving forward than a desire to stay where I am that’s prompting me, anyway. It’s been the hardest phase of my life. It has asked more of me than I knew I could give. I’ve learned to operate from a place of depletion – where I just have to have enough to get through every day, and then I can collapse in my bed until it’s time to start again. Soon, though, there will be time for more.

And maybe, when I’m honest, that’s what I’m afraid I’m not ready for. Learning to be more than mom, again. Taking the time to chase a dream or two, instead of just chasing little ones. Losing my excuses for losing myself.

Roots and wings, is what I whisper to myself as I mother; my reminder that all my tender work and care is for the purpose of allowing them to leave me someday and flourish on their own. But maybe there’s a promise there for me, too. Roots and wings, mama. This life with littles isn’t my defining chapter. My roots run deeper than this phase; there was a me before them, and I’ll find her again.

Motherhood is More

This wasn’t what I expected.

I expected to feel tired. Really, really tired. But only for the first few months until the baby started sleeping through the night (bless me). I did not anticipate the bone deep exhaustion capable of stretching on for years and a sleep deficit so great I fear I’ll never truly feel rested again. I didn’t know about sleep regressions or consider all the lost nights to teething, sickness, big boy bed transitions, trips away from home and things that go bump in the night. Multiplied by each additional child.

I expected my body to change. I braced myself for softer, lower, stretched. And all of that came, plus eczema and new moles and different hair texture. I wasn’t expecting to feel strong, but hefting babies then toddlers then preschoolers does have that small perk. On a related note, I wasn’t expecting the back pain.

I expected to know what I was doing after the first child. I forgot that babies are people, each with a personality and likes, dislikes and preferences. I didn’t remember that most siblings share very little in common, aside from a gene pool. I wasn’t expecting having a second child to be so hard. I wasn’t prepared for my tried-and-true soothing methods to fall flat, for my schedule to be useless. I forgot that we would still need to introduce ourselves to one another and find our own rhythm together. I didn’t know how hard it would be to learn how to weave those two relationships – the one I had already established with my son and this fresh new one with my daughter – together.

I expected to have good days and bad ones. I had no idea that the good ones would be so good. Little pieces of brightness and heaven beyond anything I knew possible. I had no way of anticipating the darkness of the bad days. The wracking sobs of a mother who feels like she’s failing. The bubbling anger and resentment when the patience runs out and the exhaustion overwhelms. The fear when your baby is sick or hurt.

I expected camaraderie. I wasn’t the first in my group of friends to have a baby, nor the last. I thought it would be a lovefest of swapped advice and playdates. I didn’t expect to feel lonely. Despite a husband who is my partner in every sense of the word and a network of supportive family and friends, motherhood feels like an island sometimes.

I expected the love, although the depth, breadth and ferocity of it still takes my breath away. But it’s the drive to protect them, a compulsion stronger even than the love, that I wasn’t prepared for. It’s the piece of motherhood that terrifies me the most, to be honest. Loosening my grip and letting go a little bit at a time, so they get to live their own lives instead of in the shadows of mine. Understanding that they’ll push against my love and protection every step of the way, carving out their own paths. Anticipating how much that will hurt me, to have them bristle at my touch and roll their eyes at my loving words. Knowing that I’ll spend the rest of my life hovering on the sidelines, stopping myself from intervening every time I see a risk they don’t.

I expected the love, I just didn’t know how much it could hurt or what it would cost me. It is brutal, exquisite and bankrupting, this mother’s love.

This isn’t what I expected. It’s more difficult, more exhausting, more beautiful. Simply put, motherhood is more.

Take Your Time

Jon knows that sometimes I struggle a little in my transition to being a (mostly) stay at home mom. I think he knows this because occasionally I text him things like “OMG WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME; I’M ABOUT TO LOSE MY MIND” at 2 p.m. on a workday. I’m subtle that way. But he encourages me to take time for myself regularly, whether that’s to meet friends for dinner or just to escape for a walk alone. And every time I go, he gives me a gift – he tells me, take your time.

I love him so much for giving me those three words. And he means them, too. Never once have I gotten a “will you be home soon?” text from him. If I call or text him while I’m out (just to check in, of course), all he will say is that things are fine and for me to take my time.

I had no idea so much freedom could be found in such a short phrase. I wish I had claimed those words sooner. So, in the spirit of paying it forward, I offer the same words to you: take your time, mama.

I hope every mom will embrace it, but especially you new mamas. To the ones home fresh from the hospital with your first tiny little one, take your time. You don’t have to know everything about babies right now … or ever, really. You just have to know yours. So, slow down and get to know her. Memorize the way she smells and how perfectly she fits, nestled against your chest. Watch what she responds to, what soothes her and what agitates her. Don’t miss it when yours is the only voice that she’ll open her eyes and turn her head for. Marvel over her and take a minute to be downright proud that you made a person.

Get to know yourself as a mom, and your husband as a dad. Be patient – with baby, each other and yourself. Worry not about sleep training, self soothing or getting on a schedule. All of that can come later. In these moments, what matters is that you’re becoming a mom. I say “becoming,” because I don’t think it’s something that happens the moment your baby arrives; it’s a process. It’s a process that can be, simultaneously, the most wondrous and most frustrating thing you’ve ever experienced. You’ll feel more than once like you’re losing your mind … you’re not. You’re losing your pride, your selfishness, your self-centeredness. You’re going to emerge from this refinement a completely different person, stronger, fiercer, more loving and more capable than you ever knew. But going through that – whew. So take your time.

Understand that the moments of frustration and feeling overwhelmed are just that – moments. Though they don’t feel like it, they are just as fleeting as the moments of bliss. Babyhood is the land of phases; nothing (good or bad) lasts forever. So take your time, and keep putting one tired foot in front of the other. You will leave the house again, you will sleep again, you will be a real, live human again. I promise.

And don’t forget, in all of this, to take YOUR time, too. Listen to yourself carefully, and your body will tell you what it needs: a walk in the fresh air, a mindless wander through Target, a trip through the Starbucks drive thru, a shower, a nap. Take it, and don’t feel guilty for it. Even just an hour on your own can bring you back rejuvenated and ready to mom again.

Remember that rushing through the day does not hasten its end. We can’t will time to move forward, nor can we call it back again once it’s gone. So, take your time. It’s only yours to take once.

Opting Out

This week was supposed to be my first week back at work from maternity leave. Instead, I quit last Thursday and, for the moment anyway, am living the life of a stay at home mom.

For the record, this was never my plan. I liked the sense of accomplishment and independence that came with holding down a job and earning a paycheck. I liked having something tangible to reflect my hard work.

But things change. I changed. You see, I have a 12 week old daughter who likes to take her naps lying on my chest.  And I have a 3 year old son who likes to make up stories so that I can write them down and help draw the pictures to go with it. And to be honest, I’m tired of missing these things. Not just during the hours at work, but because I wasn’t my best when I came home from work either. Other people were getting the best of my attention, my creativity, my patience. My husband and my kids got what was left. And maybe that’s on me, for not balancing things better. For not having anything left in my tank when I came home at night. But in the end, something had to give, and it ended up being my career.

It’s not an easy choice, mind you. And it’s not just the immediate challenges of learning to live on one income and changing my mindset, either. I’ve read all the articles and studies about the damage that “off-ramping” does to your career and long-term earning potential. I’ve heard the calls to “lean in” and how important it is for women to pursue leadership roles in the workplace. I understand that I may be torpedoing my career with my choice. That’s a tough pill to swallow sometimes, when it’s just me and my thoughts.

But then my son asks, “Mom, can we snuggle?” Or my daughter looks right in my eyes and gives me the biggest grin. And I know that it’s this that I want to lean into. Memorizing the smell of the top of my daughter’s head. The weight of my son’s hand as it clasps mine. It’s not big stuff around here. Some days, it’s mind-numbingly little stuff.  But it’s fleeting, ephemeral – the good and the bad stuff. And for me, in this season of life, I just want to be here for the stuff.