The sun will rise again

Anyone else’s kiddos go full bore when both parents are home? Memorial Day weekend was a recipe for exhaustion with both of us home with the kids for three days. Throw in a gardening project, a birthday party, and lots of playing outside and we’ve got some tired toddlers on our hands.

In the midst of the meltdowns I’m reminding myself to soak in these joyful moments like we do the sun.

May we drink in the light and use it to fuel us through the darkness. May we remember all darkness is temporary. May we find comfort in knowing the sun will always rise again.

The tears won’t last forever but the memories made in between will. Hang on, parents of the tiny humans. Don’t stress if they sob. Scoop ‘em up, squeeze ‘em tight, and remember, sunshine isn’t far away.

Moms come in many forms

mother's hand and child's hand linked with a garden in the background.

Moms come in many forms. You don’t have to grow a baby in your womb or nurse one at your breast to be a mom. If you’ve loved a child, supported a child, taught a child, coached a child, believed in a child, mentored a child, picked one up when they were down, wiped tears, wrapped band-aids around tiny fingers, lost sleep at night over their well-being, found yourself in tears because it has seemed impossible to be everything they need—and still managed to get it done, you’re a mom. If you’ve shown compassion, put your needs second to another’s, and loved unconditionally you’re a mom.

We step into many roles in our lives and the thing that makes “Mom” the easiest is also what makes it the hardest: there is nothing that matters more than your kids.

The greatest mark one can make is in the impact on another life. Our own laughter and tears are temporary but those shared with the next generations become stories that are told and retold, memories that defy time. It is through mothering, parenting, grandparenting, coaching, loving, caring, mentoring, and shaping the life of another, that our own presence becomes eternal.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who has loved a child.

The Last Bottle

 

When Garrett turned one we transitioned him from formula to whole milk and once that seemed to settle we started the process of switching him from bottles to sippy cups. To our surprise, as we replaced the bottles with sippy cups and condensed the number of feedings, he started to eat more solids and in turn sleep better through the night. In hindsight it makes sense, but in the thick of first time parenting every change and new process seems like a puzzle.

Over the course of a few weeks we had whittled him down to a single bottle a day, given at bedtime, and we knew he was probably ready to trade that out for a sippy cup as well.

Last Saturday we spent a banner summer day playing outside, reading books, taking walks, swimming, and eating watermelon. Levi and I gave Garrett his evening bath and I carried Garrett up to his room, his arms draped around my neck, his still slightly-damp hair curling, and his sweet, soft skin smelling of soap.

I rocked him and  gave him his bottle and after I laid him in his crib I padded down the stairs and started rinsing out the sippy cups from the day and the bottle I had just given him and I realized that I had probably given him the last bottle I would ever give him.

Steam from the hot water in the sink filled the air and I thought about the hundreds of bottles Levi and I had given him over the past 14 months and the daily routine of putting a kettle on to boil each evening to wash the mountain that grew throughout the day.

No more bottles, to me, meant he was really out of the baby phase.

I felt silly for being so sad over something as simple as giving him a bottle. But I think the weight of knowing I’d never give him one again–and that I didn’t realize that before giving him the last bottle–was at the core of it.

How many lasts will I miss and not know it to be the last?

Parenthood seems to be this joyous and tiring march towards our children achieving milestones, and celebrating and being so proud of them (and ourselves) when they hit them, but what no one tells you ahead of time is that is also combined with waves of grief for the passing of each previous stage our child was in.

Maybe the feeling is something you learn to expect and know. Maybe it’s not. As I already said, in the thick of first time parenting every change and new process seems like a puzzle. But as I pack up the bottles this morning I know that Garrett is healthy and growing and thriving, and that there is so much more to celebrate on the horizon than there is to be sad over.