Wow. 6 months and my last Sakura Bloom Sling Diaries entry. On one hand, the time has flown by. On the other hand, my time as a Sling Diariest marks my time here in the Boston area: Pittsburgh feels so far away.
With my last entry, I’ve been given the task of writing about community. It feels so perfectly fitting.
It causes me to ache with the pain of missing my community back in Pittsburgh, only to wipe away the tears to reveal an incredible community here in our new village.
Neither better or worse, but each are beautiful in their own way.
I’ve moved a few times in my life, but many were when I was too young to remember. I did the back and forth from college for four years, moved to Pittsburgh after graduating, and hopped around a bit with apartments and our home there.
The packing of boxes.
The unpacking of them.
The purging. The cleaning.
All of those things are hard and fun and time consuming and real.
It’s the leaving though.
I’ve talked about it before, but the village we had was something special. The tribe of moms and dads and neighbors and friends became stronger with every life event. I understood the village needed to raise the children, and I saw its beauty firsthand.
Leaving our community. Leaving our village. It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.
With the pain of leaving, brought a door open to a new community. A different community. At first I didn’t want to open myself up — I wanted to pretend like we were embarking on a long vacation, only to return “home” after a short while.
But the problem with vacations is that they are temporary: it would be difficult for a tree to take root and really get grounded if it was only going to be there temporarily.
So I’m learning to take root.
I’m learning to let myself be loved by people. I’m learning to say yes when people offer to help. I’m striving to live like we’ll be here a long while, even though I have no idea how “while” our time here will be.
I’ve already learned so much during our short time here. I’m bringing aspects of my village with me, and seeing the beauty of this new village building. This community is beautiful, quirky, loving, and patient.
As much as I dread the sadness of someday leaving here–leaving this community–I can’t let the potential sadness keep me from being present and here. I want to need this community. I want this community to need me. I want my kids to see us loving our city and its people well.
Thank you, Sakura Bloom for this opportunity to be a Sling Diarist. I am honored to part of this community as well. There are some days I wish the internet would go away, but for the people it has brought into my life, I will forever be grateful.
a strong desire to do or to achieve something, typically requiring determination and hard work
• desire and determination to achieve success
I love definitions. I love that even though the explanation written below a single word can remain the same, the definition can take on new meaning given one’s stage of life.
Ambition used to describe my desire to do well in school, music and art.
Ambition used to describe my desire to excel in my job and career.
And while the above still are true in some capacity, I don’t think anything fits the description of ambition more than my desire to be an great wife to my husband and amazing mom for my kids. “Requiring determination and hard work.” I’m not diminishing the ambition needed to do anything else, but in my life, I’ve never before tackled anything as difficult.
In the everyday mundane, there are many days I just don’t want do empty the dishwasher or dryer one more time. There are many days when I’m exhausted, and I don’t have another answer to “why?” Many most days, I simply don’t feel adequate to even begin tackling any of these roles, small or large.
Here is the thing that strikes me most about ambition: how do I measure success?
Some successes are easy to measure: grades, graduation, job. Success is relative, yes, we all have different measurements that are important to each of us, but what about success that isn’t as easy to measure? How do I measure my success as a mom? Do I keep a tally of I love you’s and kisses? Do I document minutes and hours spent with child? Do I correlate my mistakes with outcomes and try to do the same with “things I did right?”
Just last evening, Andy walked in the door of our apartment, and he could see it on my face. Crippled by my perfectionism, I was tallying my mistakes and being swallowed by them. Wrapping me in his arms, he reminded me of the grace I need to give to myself.
I’m going to mess up. I’ll probably always fight my desire to keep my ‘Motherhood Mistakes” tally, but I think sometimes the mistakes are part of the success, right? I want my children to hear me ask for forgiveness from them when I need it. I want them to see my constant prayers throughout the day. I want them to see that even with every ounce of determination and hard work to perfect my mothering skills, I will never ever be perfect.
But I will be perfectly theirs.
xo
This post is part of the Sling Diaries Series with Sakura Bloom. I am wearing Jones in Sakura Bloom Deep Sea.
Writing about health has me with a bit of writer’s block. Health: not exactly something I’m great about making a priority these days.
I’m usually grabbing a handful of chips and hummus for lunch – maybe followed by scraps leftover from Harlow and Jones. My mealsare forgotten. Workouts are few and far between. 2 pregnancies have done a number on my body, but I’m realizingthat focusing on my health is so much more than fruits, veggies and breaking a sweat.
I’m here at camp for the 26th year. My cell phone reception is pretty spotty, and I kind of hope that is one thing that never changes about this place. More time with each other and fewer distractions lead to memories made and cherished.
This year I am accompanied by not only my immediate family, but also in-laws and my sister’s in-laws. Harlow and Jones attend class with the children of friends who have known me longer than just about anyone other than family.
Having just moved to a new city, I have forgotten how refreshing it is to just be known. To not be exhausted from every conversation, even when they are so good.
I know this place isn’t “real life,” but I’m so thankful it’s a piece of my life.
Health is taking care of the health of my heart, too.
It’s easy to notice when I’m not taking care of my body: my jeans fit a bit tighter, my skin looks more dull, my energy is lacking. But an unhealthy heart begins to sneak up on me. Feeding my heart is often the first thing to go on the “do tomorrow” list. As a mom, my hope each night as my head hits the pillow is that my family has full hearts as their heads hit their own.
Did they hear and see how much I love them?
Did I tell them how special they are?
Did I spend enough time with each of them?
I want them confident of my love — I want them to be certain. But how confident am I of my love for me? Or even others love for me? Am I so busy that I rush past their outpouring of love? Do I slow down to let my heart be filled?
Being here this week is a reminder to slow down. A reminder to let myself be loved so that my heart health becomes a priority in my life.
When my heart is healthy, other things seem to fall into place. I have the ability to love more deeply and receive love in a new way. When my heart is healthy, I see more clearly the importance of healthiness in every facet of my life.
The beautiful thing though is that with each new day comes the opportunity to choose what to make the day. Will I let my heart be filled, so that I can pour it out?
I know the saying often goes, “happy wife, happy life,” but I think the more accurate statement for me would be, “choose a healthy heart, for each day is a fresh start.”
I’m signing off for the rest of the week. You can read more about my love for this place in this post. And the beauties in the photos with me are my older sister, Brianne and her sweet daughter, Myla. My little sister, Kaitlyn took the photos. Thank you, Sakura Bloom for this opportunity to once again slow down and reflect upon an aspect of my life that I would most likely gloss over. //
I’ll just be real: celebrating anything over 4 hours of sleep in a row is what I rejoice in these days. Exhaustion and mom-guilt get the best of me often when it comes to truly celebrating moments.
I find it easy to celebrate the things you’d maybe expect as a mom:
sleep-filled nights (can you tell I’m tired? ;)
potty training successes
new words
new skills!
new teeth!
But celebrating myself as a woman, wife and mom is something I avoid and shut down quickly. Whether it be a compliment or a milestone, I find reasons I failed in some way, instead.
I coulda…
I shoulda…
I woulda….
I want to be the mom who says thank you to a compliment instead of turning it down. I want my kids to see me rejoicing in small successes, so they learn to do the same.
It’s so easy for me to be too busy or distracted: the mom’s to-do list is never ending.
Celebration often feels like a ton of work. Well, maybe not a ton of work, but another thing on the list, for sure.
But I want to be the mom who celebrates finding petunias because “we can eat these mommy!” I want to be the mom who stops what she’s doing to celebrate the lego tower and the drawings. I want to be the mom who changes dinner to sandwiches, so we can spend more time celebrating a doll’s birthday at Ristorante Delicioso (that’s Harlow’s new restaurant, if you’re wondering).
I want to learn to stop and truly celebrate the tiniest of moments.
Since our move, I find myself longing for familiarity. And in small ways, that is starting to happen: I can even drive home from Trader Joe’s without using my GPS.
But the longing for a friend who’s known me longer than a few months is real. Friendships take time, and when I think about celebrating something, it’s the friends who have known me for years that I long to be with.
I know the days will be long, but the years will be short. Memories will be made and moments will be celebrated.
One thing we’ve celebrated as a family is the purchase of a home here in the Boston area! It’s been bittersweet for me, as sometimes I felt like we were just on a long vacation and heading back to Pittsburgh in due time. But knowing that we will have so many reasons to celebrate — both large and small — in this home together is what causes me to truly rejoice.
We go often to check on its progress and explore. We’ve named the bunny family in the backyard, Harlow’s claimed a bedroom, and I sit and pray for laughter and celebration to fill the now empty spaces.
I want to be a mom who celebrates home wherever home may be.
It’s easy for me to try to skip ahead into a home to settle into, nights filled with sleep and no more diapers. It’s easy for me to say, “I’ll celebrate then.” and “I’ll celebrate when…”
I don’t want to be a skipper, and I don’t want to wait. I want to stop and celebrate, even when my heart is missing family and feeling heavy. I want to stop and celebrate, even when I’m exhausted and sleep is all I want.
I want to be the mom who finds joy in the mundane and celebration in the chaos.
I often think of laughter as a distant memory or an old friend. I look back on it fondly, missing its authentic sound and voice. I never forget, but as time goes on, the small details lose clarity.
What exactly did her voice sound like?
That door was what shade of blue?
And time continues. Moments and faces fill the spaces once occupied by those tiny details now fussy in my memory.
I often think about laughter in this way.
I often think of laughter as a muscle once used, once strong.
The memory of the motion — the running, the lifting, the punches — is still there, but the memory isn’t enough to maintain the strength.
It must be flexed and used. It must be broken and strained, so that it can grow stronger.
I often think about laughter in this way.
With motherhood came the responsibility of more lives than just my own. Lives I put before mine — even as I sleep, with one eye open. Always watching, always looking, always thinking….
always worrying.
I find it so easy to worry, yet so difficult to laugh. The worry plays the trump card in every hand. The laughter is moved to the “do tomorrow” list.
I’ve strengthened the muscle of worry. I’ve revisited its memories and face. I’ve let my laughter muscles atrophy.
The worry voice sings loudly:
Did I play with them enough today?
Did I show my love?
Did the bill get paid?
Why didn’t he nap?
What will others think?
What if… what when… how will…
From the lightweights to the heavy-hitters, I allow them to consume me. Punching down the genuine laughter, leaving reasons to worry behind.
If you can get me to laugh — really laugh — you’ll hear chuckles turned to silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. As I silently laugh with tears streaming down my face, small squeaks make their way out as I inhale. An friend of mine used to call me “window washer”: my laughter mimicking the tiny squeaks you hear as the glass is polished until it is shiny and clean.
Shiny and clean.
Motherhood isn’t shiny and clean — you can do it all “right” and still be left with heartache.
Is it possible to laugh while the heart hurts? It is possible to genuinely laugh when life just feels hard and heavy?
I want to be the window washer again.
Harlow has a laugh that is simply beautiful. She squishes up her nose. She squints her eyes shut. She giggles loudly. She laughs often.
The other day I said to her, “Harlow, I love your giggles.”
She replied so matter of factly: “I just love to laugh, mommy.”
And in that moment I realized that laughter is like so many things forgotten: it doesn’t have to be.
It is a muscle that doesn’t want to be lost. It is a sound that wants to fill the air. It is a feeling that wants to be experienced, contagious to oneself and others.
In that moment, I realized my motherhood needs my laughter.
Laughter doesn’t mean that everything is perfect. Laughter doesn’t mean that I have this motherhood gig — or life gig — figured out.
Laughter means finding joy in the tiniest of moments: to even for a moment forget all the reasons to worry. I want to show my kids that life is more than responsibilities–being their mommy is more than the weight of it all. It is having the honor to laugh at the crayon mural on the freshly painted wall, to laugh at the joke you’ve heard one thousand times, to laugh with joy when it doesn’t mean you are happy.
Even in the middle of heartache.
Laughter may not make the world shiny and clean, but I’m beginning to believe that the sound of true laughter has the ability to polish a small piece of the heart. One moment at at time.
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