Childhoodtake2!

Morning lovies, this morning, I took another yoga class, and this one really focused on the word surrender, something your mamma does not do well. When you are always trying to fight and resist, surrendering is almost impossible. And so, I set it as my intention for the morning and really focused what it would mean to surrender to the rest of my year.

It would mean that I just lean into the hard. I start to get excited about the new. I get sad about the loss of a part of me, I get upset that I am saying goodbye to 20 years of something I worked so hard to build, something I believe in so very much. It means that I surrender my body to the stress and I surrender my bones to the tired. It means I go to bed when I am exhausted. It means I surrender to when I can't sleep. It means I surrender to when you two fighting brings me an annoyance that is so irritating that I can't function. It means I surrender to the chaos the next 4+ months will be, because they just will. Resist all I want, they just will.

It means I also surrender to the plans of my future. It means I surrender to the building of what is to come. It means I get to dream and hope and map out how different things will be for me. It means I get to surrender to you planning too...how different our summer will be, how different our time will be.

It means I surrender to a lot of what I thought I was, what I thought I needed to define me and I just am. I come out as something new, something completely new. It means I surrender to the times I make big mistakes, like being obedient when I should be strong-minded. It means I surrender to the times that my interactions haunt me, they should, it's how I learn. It means that I surrender to the feelings of blue, because the next four months will be filled with so much change, so much going on, so much I have to do, so much of what I need to keep doing, and I surrender to the madness of it all.

It means when I am in class, I surrender to that time...just me and my breath and I remember to exhale. I remember to melt into the floor, not just on it, but into it. It means I am grounded in my feet and from my root, I will rise.

It means when my feet hit the pavement I surrender to the different breath I have to find in order to find my rhythm in that day's run. It means as I start what might be my last half marathon training, I realize I can do hard things. And hanging up my training shoes is not giving up, it's finding a new me, putting aside the hard and finding what else I can do.

It means when I am taking a bath, I have to surrender to the warm water on me, I have to settle into the bath, close my eyes for just five minutes and be. And then it means I leave the full day right there in the tub and wash it down. It means I have to physically watch as it throws itself down the drain, today is behind me, honestly washed away.

It means during our reading dates, I surrender myself to our family time, to our connection, to what is important. It means when you ask for me to read to you, I put whatever I am working on down to be with you, you won't call for me much longer. It means when you want little guys I joyfully say, of course. It means when you fold into me, I allow you to and I rub your back and tell you how much you still look like the baby girl I brought home.

It means I surrender to what is coming. I have called for it and we are all ready.

Mom doesn't surrender all that well lovies. But today I took my first step and I know you will feel the struggle that is coming. But, we will hold hands and I will be reminded of your faces, your smiles, and your softness. I surrender to you.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on lack.

Go.

When we feel as though we are lacking, we feel less than. We feel as though there is a hole that needs to be filled, but we don't know what needs to go in there. Nor do we know how to fill it. Nor do we know if we are the ones to fill it. Because we are lacking. We could be lacking in love, or light, or confidence, or balance, or strength, or power, or joy. But what that means is that we are without it and if we are without it, we are not complete. We are missing something vital. We are missing an important part of who we are.

When we feel as though we are lacking, we feel without. We feel stripped and find ourselves seeking "it", no matter what "it" is. We have to get it back, we have to find a way. Recently, I have found myself lacking. In most of the above. I have therefore found myself on the hunt and that is never a good place to be. So, I have to recognize this is where I am. I have to start counting all of the things I do have, I have to start accepting that time and the universe will answer and I have to give "it" up, no matter what "it" is. Here is my ultimate, I have what I need. I am not without, I am not lacking the strength or rhythm or desire. I am not lacking the work ethic, I am not lacking the drive. I am not lacking in the balance needed and wanted. I am not lacking in the calm that I seek. I have it all, I just have to tap into me.

Stop.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on just.

Go. 

Just trying to hold on and make sense of it all. Just trying to remember the me that I am in the chaos that has been here. Just trying to breathe and let it come, let it go, let it build, let it be.

Just trying to redefine this year, just trying to undo the universe having heard me call it "terrible" before it started. Because what I actually meant was that it would be challenging, but I will rise to the challenge. It will be overwhelming, but I will find a way to calm my nerves. It will be a lot for me, but I will search for what I can and should delegate. It will be ever changing, but I am embracing my year of change. It will at times be painful, but I will look at the lessons and I will look to the love I give out and let in.

Just trying to connect, remembering that loneliness is the killer of my joy. Just trying to build the best me, be the best me, shed what makes me dark, embrace the light. Just trying to move towards light and love and loss and living.

Just trying to remember that I have you. Just holding on to the love that we have created in this house turned home. Just trying to connect with their little faces, just trying to be right here with them. Just trying to remember these days of small and crushing little. Just trying to embrace all the big kid things for a mom that cherishes the baby phase. Just trying and that's the best we can all do, is try.

Stop.

It's a funny thing, ambition, grit, and drive. It allows for a hum for those who feed off of it, for those who need it as much as others need air/food. But it is also debilitating and at times, robbing of actual joy. It is also an exceptionally negative force and creates one more reason to feel lonely.

All week, I have been hooked on stories that follow people through the good/bad/ugly/gorgeous of their careers and the drive they had and have and the lessons they learned along the way, the lessons they are still learning, the lessons they know inside and out but cannot stop themselves, the reason why they feel so trapped in a box, why they love it, why they hate it, why they need it, why it is ruining important things in their life, and why it is their life. I have heard their side, I have heard those that worked with them, for them, speak up about how "interesting" it is to work alongside someone that has this drive. I have heard words like micromanage, all in, crazy, relentless and I have heard questions like are you successful because of or despite of? All week, I have related to, cried with, screamed at, felt sick for, been addicted to, and have felt ever so validated by all of their stories. Their determination has made them successful, leaders in their trade, trailblazers in their industry, the actual standard of how to do this and do it well. But rarely does anyone do this for success. It is the drive that is propelling and in charge. It is the grit and the never settling for anything other than greatness from yourself and those around you that makes them feel alive. And I find myself desperately searching for my own set of rules, a handbook of sorts to get through this.

There are what some call simple rules for doing and running and succeeding like never be afraid to fail (yeah right!). Take a chance, just leap, jump at opportunities. All of the words that make my heart go up and down, my stomach ache. But the rules for drive, those are much more complicated, much more in the gray, and very very personal. The problem is, the rules that we create, also become the chains that hold us down. And although personal, they do follow this weird little path that looks and feels and smells so familiar. It starts with pouring your heart, your you, into something and all you can think about, all you can dream about is the thing. You can't sleep so why bother? Go to work instead and just do what you are laying there thinking about doing. That hum keeps you alive and keeps your attention and keeps you going and in love. You get to a place of bone tired and you start to remember that you have others around you to turn too, others that can do some of the things right? But damn, letting go of that thing is hard because you know the thing, you took care of the thing, you nurtured the thing, you know so well how to do the thing, and you wonder, will they take good care of it as I have? And just when you think you can start to come up for air, you allow something else to fill that space and you are right back to where you started. And sometimes, the things that you gave up start to unravel and you double down. And the hum is harder to hear so you double down even more. And the anger starts to build and the person you are most angry with is yourself. Why are you here again? How has it been decades and you haven't moved the needle for yourself? You've moved the thing, but you are where you started, obsessing over the thing.

Drive is such a funny and exhausting but very much alive emotion. It fills us full and depletes us completely. And for those that feed off of it, we need to remember our balance. We need to remember how much we lean into work and how much it means to us. But for those that lean so heavily into work, we also have to remember that we can still get knocked off of our balance. Because the answer is not doubling down, the answer is not just doing more. We have to remember that when things get depleted, we have nothing to give those we actually love. Those we actually love, not just the thing we love. Those we actually want to nurture, not just the thing we have nurtured. We have to remember why we started, what our vision was, how important it is to us, how much we love it, how much we need it (more than it needs us) and why we also need to walk away from it to recoup.

Drive and ambition...for some they are food, water, air, life. In order to keep them alive in us though, we need to find calm within it. Maybe that means some of the rules have to change. Maybe that means celebrating success. Because although success isn't the goal, it is important to recognize the successes along the way. Maybe that means, looking for a line. Because although the finish line is never ever the goal, it is important to recognize milestones. Maybe that means stopping, looking hard at yourself and asking, for what and how do you want to be remembered?

I have been in a season of sacrifice for a very long time.
I started referring to times like these in my life as seasons of sacrifice because someone I follow mentioned how it helps to reframe the hard.
Focus that it is a season, not your life.
Focus that it is a sacrifice, not the new normal.
Focus on the systems you can put into play to make it manageable and realize you will get back to your ways in time.
It's a season, and seasons change.
But I remember the end of last year.
I remember how that season of sacrifice made me so sick.
Brought me to the doctor kind of sick.
Made me think something horrible was happening to me kind of sick.
And in my year of different, I knew the season was approaching and I have been trying.
I planned, I put my systems in place, I prepared, I put myself in the "right" state of mind, I kept eating and drinking water and doing the things that I was told I needed to not get sick and avoid another health scare.
And instead, I have been struggling, really struggling.
I think part of my issue is that it started so much sooner and summer never let up and I just never felt an exhaling.
Halfway through my year, there is always this little window of reprieve.
One in which I get to calm down a bit, regroup, recenter, refocus, and remember to breathe in and especially out.
That life isn't that serious.
That all is going to be okay.
That I know where my real priorities stand.
And as I enter my last quarter of the year, I am never ready, but my mind at least got a little break.
My summer normally is a time of rest and calm and instead it brought with it turmoil and haste.
And I struggled.
My fall is crazy, always crazy, and for the last several years, just keeps adding on to itself.
And I am still struggling more and more.

It could be because my summer was too much.
It could be because there is now too much on my plate and I can't breathe.
It could be because my calendar and schedule and to-dos and family and kids and business and life and all of it is piling up and I am the one that keeps us organized and I can't so we're not.
And I'm the one that keeps the house running and I can't so it's not.
And I'm the one that keeps everything moving but I can't so there's a lot of running to stand still.
So, I'm struggling.
To smile, to stay awake, to keep it all going, to be close, to talk, to want to partner, to take anything else on, to laugh.

And I say all of this for anyone that is reading and feels that they are alone.
I know I'm not, we're not
I know we are all out there.
Doing our very best every single day.
Because we are.
And our tempers might be short.
And our patience might be worn.
And our minds and bodies might be tired.
And our nerves are actually sizzling.
But we show up.
We show up for them and for us.
We show up for jobs and homes and loves and life.
We know the end will come and we tell ourselves every day that we, of course, have a little more to give.
We wake up a little earlier, we stay up a little later, we make time, we find a way.
We show up even though the struggle is very real, and there will come a day when we look back and think, how did we do that all?
How did we manage that?
How did we make it?

Today, for my birthday present, I went ziplining.
We were about to walk across a really scary bridge after three exceptionally scary "falls" and the tour guide said the best thing I have heard in a very long time.
Compared to the shit you have just done, this bridge isn't' even a skid mark.
And that's how we make it.
That's how even though the struggle is very real, we always find a way.
We show up, keep going, and realize we can handle a load of crap coming our way.
We let things go that we can, we prioritize it all, we continue to do and try our very best, and we show up again and again.

It's hard to stay strong and remember all of this when we are smack in the middle of it.
It's hard to keep remembering how capable we are.
It's hard to remember that sometimes you will lose at things.
It's hard to remember when you feel so unappreciated and so very alone.
It's hard to remember that it's not all on you.
Because the struggle is very real, and the time seems unmanageable, and you don't see a way out.
But hold on and remember it is a season, not your new normal.
The last leaf will fall
the season is changing again and the sacrifice is always worth it because we make it work.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on pause.
Go.

And today, I will hit pause and sit in calm and comfort.

It has been a whirlwind of a week.
Two huge events for my agency
big meetings for my business
triathlon training is really taking up so much of my time
the kids are getting close to the end of the school year
my husband has reached his school year limit
I have been running around trying to keep it all together
which means at night my brain falls apart and forgets how to fall asleep
which means this morning as I sit in the success of the last few days
I will hit pause.

Today, I will breathe
I will nap
I will have a cup of coffee by a window while I read
I will take my dog to the park and have her burn off energy
I will pause.

I will shut down
forget my list
I will linger
I will sit with myself
I will be happy with the accomplishments but also happy that it is over
and I can hit pause.

Today I will hug my kids
I will snuggle them
we will have dinner together
we will kiss noses
they will tell me about their week
they will ask how my week went
and I will remind them that work is important
that mom loves to work
she leans into it
but I am happy to be home
hitting pause.

I will reconnect
become a better bride
a better mom
a better friend
I will find the other parts that were pushed away.

Today I will linger
I will smile
I will feel whole and full.
Job well done sort of full and whole.

And today, I will hit pause and sit in calm and comfort.

Stop.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on work.
Go.

It's what I am best at.
No, really, I am a good worker.
I put my head down, I work my fingers to the bone, I get it done.
I am a hard worker, I don't give up on the assignment, I don't turn anything in late, I stay staring at it until I figure out how to make it work.
And when you are good at something, you gravitate to it, it keeps giving you a feeling of success so you keep showing up.
So, the better I got, the more I worked.
The more I worked, the better I got.
And the cycle kept going and going and going.
I added a child, I didn't break my stride.
I added a second and folded him in too.
I kept showing up for what I was good at.
I once heard someone who felt overworked talk about work like it was a hum.
There was a hum to my day, I've got this part of my life.
I could work my way out of a situation.
I could work harder and get a little more done.
And the hum was so loud in my head, I felt light, I felt like this was the one place in my life that I knew the answers.
And the hum grew stronger and stronger.

"Mom, I know you're probably going to say no to this, but can you play with me?"

Until one day, I didn't feel light.
I didn't feel strong and able.
I was tired.
I felt heavy.
I was sad.
I was stressed.
I was anxious.
I was worried all of the time and
I lost my hum.

"Mom, why don't you get time off with us like dad?"

And, instead of taking a step back, regrouping, taking a much-needed break, stepping away and finding my breath, I doubled down.
I worked harder, searching for my hum.
I stayed up later.
I got up earlier.
I worked from dark till dark.
I kept at it, thinking, somewhere in the work, I would find my purpose again.
I would find how I have defined me.
I would find me and my strength,
I would find my hum.

"Mom, are you done yet? Can we have a reading date now?"

It's what I should have done three years ago now,
I should have given myself an opportunity to grow differently.
I should have opened up opportunities.
I should have used what I learned to my advantage.
But, they say it's never too late.
So here I am, starting and trying to not focus on the should have, could have, would have.
I am starting new.
I am finding a new path,
I am finding me.
I am finding my hum.

Stop.

It's been eight years.
That's how long I have been a mom.
And, when my first was just 8 weeks old, a new part of our lives started.
A part in which I welcomed other women into my family, daycare and nannies and helpers.
And they helped me raise my kids.
They helped me raise my kids and me, into a mom.

It all started with one.
I met her when I was pregnant and we were looking for an at home daycare.
Someone that had other kids in her home but still had a personal and flexible touch.
I immediately felt comfortable and calm with her.
I felt that she would love my little one, I just didn't know how much.
Nor did I know how much she would care for me, me for her.
I remember that very first day.
I left Anna in her pac-n-play and I walked out the door.
Except I didn't just walk out.
I kept going back in, and I would touch her face one more time...
and I would cry.
And then I would walk back out and start the process all over again.
And it was her voice that simply said, I get it and you take all the time you need, that finally got me to go out the door.
I sent many messages, called frequently,
and she took every phone call, she let me talk to my 8 week old like a crazy person.
She would send me notes every day, letting me know how it all went.
What Anna did, how much she ate, how many diapers she changed.
And when preschool started, she was the one that dropped off and picked up.
She became a part of us, she became my friend.
This has been the most humbling eight years of my life,
she helped me raise them.

And soon after our second, I met my second.
She came to our house, helped with the morning, helped me with my stay at home days.
She would play, she would separate, she helped put them down for naps.
She was the one that reminded my crazy mind that I wanted Cole to go to preschool because it was more quiet now.
Quiet is what I needed
quiet is what I longed for.
And as the tears came harder and harder, she told me,
I get it, I understand. I miss him too and I can't believe it either.
She would miss him too.
She stayed through his preschool years.
Helping with drop off and pick ups.
Helping with the bus, always so flexible so kind.
She would tell me how the bus went
she would fill me in on Anna's day before Anna could.
She would tell me how tiring preschool was for my little monkey
she would send me pictures of him sound asleep.
He runs to her when he sees her
arms open ready for this hug.
They still talk about her all of the time and ask about when they get to see her again.
She became a part of us, she became my friend.
This has been the most humbling eight years of my life,
she helped me raise them.

And then, in our last year of need came our third.
She had one adorable little face too, looking to transition out of full time employment and she was
loving
and generous
and caring
and concerned
and upfront
and calm
and always smiling.
She loved watching my kids with her daughter.
I beamed when she told me she was expecting another.
She reminded me of the beginning of motherhood, the gushing love.
She was never stressed with all that was on her plate.
She just loved my kids.
And when I hugged her goodbye, I cried a little.
I cried because once again we are writing a new chapter.
One in which they go to school and no longer need my village.
He talked about her and her daughter throughout the day
he longed for his days with her.
He fell in love with her kid, he was so excited when he found out she had a baby in her belly.
Anna, she would take guesses on boy or girl and felt gratified to know it was a girl.
She became a part of us, she became my friend.
This has been the most humbling eight years of my life,
she helped me raise them.

Eight years of daycare and nannies and three amazing women that helped us raise this amazing family.
Eight years of drop offs and pick ups.
Eight years of bags packed and worrying.
Eight years of goodbye waves as you take over for the day
to the half day
to a few hours
to now.

This has been the most humbling experience.
Seeing them become who they are
watching you fall in love with them too.
Letting go and seeing you take over
watching them fall in love with you.

This has been the most challenging years
the juggling
the schedules
the figuring out the when and where and how.
The potential for one ball to drop and a whole day is ruined.
The, he's sick today, who is taking over.
The, the weather is bad, should we have them come over?
The, who's going to what?

This has been the most loving of years
the quiet time with just us.
First, you and me Anna.
The crazy quiet time you loved
the sleeping from 12:30-4
the alone time once naps were over
the to and from preschool.
You were always so good at this.
You were always so patient with me.
You always loved this time, you were always so content.
And then you Cole.
The time we finally got just us two, because with your second, those times are precious.
The rhythm we found.
The kid you became
the greatness you are.
Even during the difficult years,
the times I had to take meetings in my closet because you were crying
the times I had to schedule it all around your naps
the times I had to figure out how to do this job and all of you
this was always the best time with you.

And the other night, as we were going to sleep, I turned to you and said,
I remember that first day with Wendy and now...
as the tears flowed down my face, you reminded me that we found three amazing women.
Three amazing people
each different
but all three incredible for taking this challenge on with us.
How did they do it? How did we?
And then you said, I know, this will be hard for you.
But, it's always hard to let them go a little more.
And on top of it, say goodbye to all three.
But, we somehow became lucky three times.
This is a parent's nightmare and we didn't find just one, but three amazing people.
We were always so comfortable with them.
We were always so at ease.
We never worried about our kids with them.
And as hard as it is to give your kids over, it was always so fine with us, because we found these three incredible people.
I don't know how we got this lucky, but we really had the greatest hearts helping me raise my kids
and raise me, into a mom.

I want you all to know that you have shaped me.
You have allowed me to love my family and my work.
You have allowed me this time.
You have allowed me to do any of this.
Because whenever anyone asks how we get any of it done, it has always been because of you.
And I thank you for loving them
for loving us
for being a part of us
for sharing your home
your time
your families
your love.
For seeing the good in them
for realizing I don't have any of the answers
you became my friend.

I also want you to know how much they adored you.
How much they looked forward to you coming.
How much they loved seeing you.
How much they loved babies, especially Cole.
How much they would wait for you.
How much they still talk about you.
You became a part of them too.

This has been eight years of us.
It has been crazy
and stressful
and fun
and slow
and quick
and worrisome
and loving.
I am about to walk into a whole new chapter now, again.
A time in which I sit alone and work
no kids
no listening to the imagination at play.
No more rhythm
no more hum
no more meetings in closets
no more shushing the cries.
I once again give you over to someone else.
I once again get to hear about your day from a far.

Because big kids go to school
and I am the mom to some big kids now.

Thank you village
thank you.