The Blur and Bustle

The coordination of the holidays quadruples a mother’s already overloaded workload. The parties, the presents, the hosting, the shopping, the wrapping, the cooking, the cards are a delicate dance and we can’t help but fumble the moves. Would I say I’m my best self during this holidaze? Uh sure. In the way a mom is camera-ready 3 seconds after giving birth.

I read an article recently about how we should be the most patient with our kids during this season of little patience. If we see it from their perspective we make them dress in itchy clothes (thank you SNL for getting this so right), constantly change their daily routine with breaks off school and overstimulated outings, fill them with enough sugar to power Santa’s sleigh, and dangle presents over their heads as motivation for good behavior. How can we expect our kids to be their best during this time of year, when we are not?

As my husband would say, how do we solve the problem?

Let’s start by setting ourselves up for success by managing expectations. I watched my 3-year-old niece glow brighter than Rudolf’s nose at the sight of Santa last weekend, while my own daughters were more cautiously curious. And that’s OK.

I’ve learned, you cannot manufacture joy.

Sure, you can give a two-year-old bubbles and are almost guaranteed a smile. But toys and stuff are just stuff. The core ingredients we provide for our children this season will be what they carry with them as memories and that’s: love, togetherness, and gratitude. So don’t forget to peek your head up out of the blur and the bustle, as it’s the only way to witness the magic.

Behind the Picture

Comparison is the thief of joy.

There is no greater truth, especially during this time of year. It’s the season where everyone’s highlight reel gets sent in the form of a sparkling holiday card and parents everywhere can’t help but wonder the story behind the pictures, because there is always one.

Well let me tell you the story behind this photo:

Photo credit: Brian Cutter

My husband won’t even answer the door to UPS wearing basketball shorts; he is a jeans-and-t-shirt-man through and through and wouldn’t be caught in sweats outside the house even to get the paper. Luckily, I need only bat my eyelashes and he would give me the world if I asked—but you should have seen his face when I held up our outfits. Now there is a picture.

My dad took these matching flannel jammies pics when we were in Park City, Utah over Thanksgiving. Everything about this picture is adorable: from Josephine’s glee to Charlotte’s bare feet. I will tell you exactly 8 hours after this photo was taken, I was hit with a violent combination of food poisoning and the stomach flu, right at the exact moment we were set to fly home. If you have ever had the experience of traveling with 3 small children while every fluid in your body wants to leave faster than a toddler on Santa’s lap, it is one for “The Parenthood Sh*tshow Olympics”—sponsored by Adult Diapers and Pepto Bismol. At one point I turned to my husband and said, “If the plane were to go down, save the children and let it take me.”

Spoiler alert: We don’t actually sit around at home in matching PJs and the professional pictures we have taken in the past took as much: effort, coordination, and precision as the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Not to mention all the bribery.

So much bribery.

I would love for a cameraman to follow us around for a day and capture the true essence of my family—from the raw ragged flashes of our humanity to the sweet seconds of heart-filling tenderness. But these moments are ours and ours alone and that’s what makes a family a family. I can see the love encircling friends and family within their documented photos and I’m grateful for these images because they fill me with joy—but I know too well, that this isn’t their real story, because those truths lie during the moments in-between camera clicks.

A Mother Found in her 30s

How lucky am I that I’ve been chronicling my life now for just over 5 years, so when I want to look back and see how I felt on my 30th birthday, I needn’t look any further than my post “Rhymes with 30” Charlotte’s little grin that is now Josephine’s little grin exactly. I am just so darn lucky.

I remember on my 30th birthday driving with my husband and expressing that I have absolutely no problem with me getting older, I just need time to slow down for my kids.

            “We will blink and be 35, just watch.”

            Well, we blinked.

This year to honor me entering into mid-30-dom I could think of no better way than running the California International Marathon on a relay team with other moms who have been on this ride along with me. To me this symbolizes the strength, unity, and dedication it has taken to get to this point--not as woman somewhere in her third decade, but a mother found in her 30s.

See, I was never lost, but am being discovered; and here is what is unfolding:

I am now achingly stringent with my personal time.

I know exactly what I want and what I do not want.

Self-care is not a selfish act, but a necessity of motherhood.

It is OK to feel overwhelmed.

Asking for help is a sign of strength not weakness.

My friendships have shifted from leisurely check-ins to my oxygen mask.

I am much too busy to tiptoe to the point.

While this season of life is largely about my children, it doesn’t mean I need to sacrifice my own happiness: mother does not mean martyr.

I have stopped saying “maybe next year” or “when the kids are older” and started doing.

Motherhood, more than anything, has taught me I am capable of hard things with more love than ever believed possible.

Right as I entered my front door after the race I was greeted by all three of my girls and I let them climb one on each leg and another in my arms until my body was consumed by them. One of them scurried all the way up until she could whisper gently in my ear, “Mommy, did you win?”

To which I replied, “Absolutely, I did.”