I’m laying on my bed hiding right now. I can hear the kids bickering as they get ready for bed, and a little voice calling for water and a song. I’m tired and weary to my bones. I will get up anyway. I will go kiss little foreheads and pray a prayer. I will get the extra sip of water and I will listen while they tell me about their toe with the sliver. I will say, “Okay sweetie, no more talking. It’s time to sleep now, ” but then I will still say “uh-huh” a couple more times as I sneak out the door.

Now that I’m a mom, I’ve learned that motherhood is a lot more about showing up than it is about anything else.

It’s about showing up when you are tired, and scared, and exhausted, and mad. It’s pulling yourself through the motions when you have nothing left to give.

There were times in my life when I expected perfection from you. I expected you to know what to say and to never get tired or upset. I expected you to be a goddess instead of a mother, and now I know; now I get it.

I dream back about my life and I can imagine how you must have felt (just like I do now). I can imagine it because I’ve walked ten miles in your shoes.

Now I know, you were perfect.

I don’t judge a single decision that you made, or a single thing you said. I get it. I understand.

I understand what you sacrificed. I understand now how you laid your life down for my brother and I. I understand how you put things on hold to give us all you could. I understand how you wrestled with every decision you made.

I imagine how you must have felt the first time you held us in your arms. How you must have felt such love, such magic, and been oh so overwhelmed.

I imagine the tears you must have cried, that I will never know about.

No matter what happened in our lives everything felt stable because of you. “It will be fine, you’ll be fine, we are fine,” you said. Now I know that you said that even when you were scared.

In my teen years and my young adulthood I looked for what broke me. There was so much talk about counseling and inner healing. All those things are good, sure, but I was broken because we are all broken. It wasn’t anyone’s fault and it definitely wasn’t yours.

You did your best and that is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me.

You showed up again and again and again.

You came and tucked me in when you were weary to the bone. You tried your best to get it right, and you apologized when you thought you got it wrong.

I will never again hold you or anyone else to the impossible standard of perfect.

Thank you Mom.

You did an amazing job.

I understand, and now I know.

I know my kids won’t understand half of what I do. I know I will frustrate and confuse them. I know there will be times when they will wonder at how I let them down, and that’s okay. I haven’t been perfect, I have made lots and lots of mistakes, but I will keep showing up again and again and again…

just like you did.

Maybe one day they’ll walk ten miles in my shoes and they will know, but even if they don’t, I’m okay with that.

You taught me how to be a mother, and amazing mother…

Thank you Mom.

***

For more like this you can follow me here, on Facebook, and on Instagram.

Like do you mean right now while my kid is spread eagle on the Target floor demanding a slushy? Do you mean when I make dinner and half of the family is crying because it looks weird? Do you mean when I clean the toilets and I wonder how the pee reached the corner under the trash can?

I can do it; it’s worth it. But enjoying every minute is a different type of pressure.

In truth, there are a whole lot of minutes I feel annoyed or tired.

Being a mom is hard work, and that’s okay. It’s okay to admit it. It’s okay to cry about it and to vent about it. That doesn’t make us bad at this, and it doesn’t mean we love our kids any less.

It makes us human. It makes us “doing the best we can”.

I didn’t enjoy every minute when my nipples were cracked and bleeding, when I was falling asleep sitting up because I was so tired. I was anxious, I was milk-soaked, and I was overwhelmed.

When I look back at pictures of my babies during that time, I wish for them back. I wish so hard. It WAS way too fast.

BUT, if I look back at myself, a brand new mama, I wouldn’t tell her to enjoy every minute. I’d tell her to just breathe, it’s all going to turn out fine. I’d tell her she seemed like a fantastic Mom. I’d tell her it’s okay to be overwhelmed sometimes, and that we all are. I’d tell her not to listen to the voices that question her every move (whether internal or external). I’d tell her to enjoy what she could and cry (or scream into a pillow) when she needed to. I’d tell her that motherhood is a constant state of becoming someone we didn’t use to be, and that transition can be hard as crap. I’d tell her it would be worth it and she was going to do great.

I’d tell her not to lose herself.

I’d tell her she was enough (even though it is the hardest thing in the world to believe it).

I’d tell her there are other people whose microwaves look just as gross as hers.

I’d tell her to give away the pants that don’t fit.

I’d tell her that she will NOT under any circumstance be able to enjoy every minute.

I’d tell her to tell to speak her truth when it was hard. I’d tell her she’d find a wonderful community of women that way.

My kids are all past toddlerhood now and I still don’t enjoy every minute. Not even close. I struggle really hard to be present sometimes. There has never been a time when my kids were arguing or whining where I thought “this is so enjoyable“. What I thought was, GOD HELP ME NOT LOSE MY EVERLOVING MIND.

I know it’s easy to remember the highlights and forget the sweat and tears that come with parenting, just like we forget the pain of childbirth. When I think of my sweet babies snuggled in my arms, a part of my heart breaks in half, because it was the best and most wonderful.

But would you remember with me just for a moment?

Would you remember the sore nipples?

Would you remember the sleepless nights and the tears spent wondering if you were doing it right?

Would you remember the fog that comes with being a mom in the thick of it?

Would you remember the messy parts of raising kids?

Would you remember the constant-constant of motherhood?

Would you let us know you remember?

I’m already sad that this will be over before I know it. I already wish I could slow time down, but that doesn’t make this less intense and constant.

They are worth every tear, they are worth every glass of wine, they are worth IT ALL.

When these moments are all over I’m positive I will wish for them all  back.

But this is hard too and that’s okay.

We will enjoy what moments we can like flecks of gold hidden in mountains of dirty laundry and a drawing I just found on my favorite couch pillow.

***

For more like this you can follow me here, on Facebook, and on Instagram.

JOIN THE WONDEROAK SISTERHOOD

Shop Sister I Am With You shirts here

For every 20 shirts sold, one shirt will be sent to someone in need of some sisterly support (this is done via nomination on Facebook and Instagram).

Sister, I am with you is a message of solidarity between moms and women. It says I AM FOR you no matter what.

I don’t care if your house looks like the bottom of a cereal box. I don’t care if you’re makeup is fresh or three days old. I don’t care if you smile a lot, cry a lot, or yell a lot. I don’t care if you breastfeed or bottle feed, or if you like a glass of whiskey at the end of a long day. I don’t care if motherhood fits you like a glove or like a too-tight pair of pants that ride up the nether regions. I don’t care if you house smells like lavender or dirty diapers. I don’t care if you stay at home or have a full-time job. I don’t care if you’re keto or paleo or eat a lot of frozen pizza and carrot sticks.

I AM FOR YOU. Sister, I am with you.

10% of proceeds will go to Women for Women International to support and empower women in areas of conflict and war.

ALSO, join Wonderoak Tribe on Facebook.

In our family we fight. We argue about things. We say we’re sorry. We overreact and then we apologize. We take a minute in the other room to pull ourselves together. Some of us are more full of passion than others, and I take full ownership of my title as Queen.

In our family we spill milk and we break glasses almost every time we do the dishes. When we do art projects, they take over entire rooms and dining tables. We do a lot of doing first and thinking later.

In our family we make mistakes. We hurt each other’s feelings and we are selfish sometimes. We say sorry and we forgive. We pull each other close and we love each other still.

In our family we encourage each other loudly and often; we are each other’s biggest fans.

In our family we get tired and grumpy. Sometimes we all feel that way at the same time, and that is when it is a good idea to have a family movie night and eat pizza.

In our family we worry. My husband and I get stressed about finances or jobs and we get needlessly defensive and snappy with each other. We talk, and then we hug, and we remember that no matter what may come, we are up for the task and we are walking through it together.

In our family we do beach days, reading in front of the fire, and toasts with wine and sparkling cider.

In our family we know we can’t control the future, but sometimes we try anyway.

In our family we love each other forever and ever and no matter what.

What if the miracle of family isn’t the perfect storybook fantasy we’ve been told? What if it isn’t a home of poised parenting and dust-free light fixtures? What if it isn’t a mom who never loses her cool and doesn’t mind crafts that involve scissors and glitter? It could be that, but it isn’t always that.

What if the miracle of family is what we already have?

What if it’s just us, exactly as we are today?

What if I, their mom, am exactly who I’m supposed to be…already? What if I’m actually damn good at this even when I feel like I’m not? What if even though I say the wrong the things sometimes, the thing that actually matters is that my heart burns and bleeds for them? My heart bleeds for them and my mind works for them…endless hours of worry and problem solving.

If they could see me inside-out they would never for a second doubt my love or doubt how amazing they are.

My job as mom is to show them my insides as much as I possibly can.

I’m never going to be a mom who knows where the socks are or talks softly when I’m mad.

But I am me and I will show up every day with my whole heart.

I will always say sorry when I get it wrong and I will always hug tight and hard and maybe too long.

What if the miracle of family is that it’s really really messy, but that’s what makes it beautiful? What if there isn’t a perfect personality for motherhood, but all of us are in fact just right for our own kids?

What if what often steals our joy is that we don’t feel like we are the “mother” we are supposed to be? We constantly feel like we need to work on this and work on that…and what if THAT is actually the filthiest lie of all?

What if we are okay exactly how we are, just like our kids are okay exactly as they are?

Whoever you are today, I salute you. WE ARE MOMS. WE ARE WHAT MOTHERHOOD IS “SUPPOSED” TO LOOK LIKE and our families are what family is supposed to look like.

If we love our kids then we are 99.9 percent already there.

Whether you are a working mom, a traveling mom, a stay-at-home mom, a baby wearing mom, a natural mom, a sensitive mom, a doesntputupwithanyshit mom, a not very maternal mom… IT DOESN’T MATTER…it doesn’t define us, we define IT.

We are good moms.

We have beautiful families.

XOXOX

Wonderoak

*

——–> You can follow Jess here, on Facebook, and Instagram <——-

Sometimes everything feels chaotic and fast, like a whirlwind we can’t stop. Time is flying by and I forget to really see you.

When I stop and I notice, I see the etching of life, the processes that have made you older, stronger, and wiser. You are the same as when we married, but you’re different too. We’ve grown up together.

I am proud of who you are and who you’ve become.

I’ve seen you at your best, and I’ve seen you at your worst. You have seen me at my best, and you’ve seen me at my worst too. We’ve been undone together and we’ve loved each other still, that’s what makes us belong.

Sometimes I expect everything from you. Things that don’t belong to you, like making me feel happy, or skinny, or perfect. I’m sorry; it’s not your job, I know it’s not. Sometimes when I’m angry at me, I get angry at you instead.

I take things out on you. When I’m struggling or anxious or depressed, I roll my eyes and I glare at you when you say the wrong thing. There wasn’t a right thing you could have said anyway. My struggle is with me, not with you.

I’m sorry that in the day to day mess of life, I give you my worst instead of my best…more often than I’d like to admit.

Today, and every day, I want you to know:

You are my favorite.

You are my favorite person to go through hard things with. If I’m going to wake up with swollen eyes from sobbing all night, I want it to be with you. If I’m going to struggle, if I’m going to fail, if I’m going to fall apart, there’s no one I’d rather do that with than you.

You are my favorite person to adventure with. There’s no one I’d rather climb mountains with, or get on an airplane with, or have kids with. There’s no one I’d rather step into the scary unknown with than you. You are my person, you are my home, and I’d go anywhere with you.  (Except space or bungee jumping, because nope.)

You are my favorite person to celebrate with. When one of us wins at something  there’s no one I’d rather sit with at the kitchen table with a bottle of champagne than you. Even though there’s a sink full of dishes and laundry on the living room floor, there’s no celebration I’d rather be at than ours.

You are my favorite person to laugh with. I love to watch funny movies with you and make fun of bad acting and shallow plot lines. You’re my favorite person to be teased by, and there’s no one I’d rather crack up than you.

You are my favorite person to cry with. When I cry with you I don’t have to be pretty or clean. I can let it all hang out with snot and mascara running down my face, and it’s okay. I don’t try to wipe it away or be “together”. You know me and I’m not afraid to let you see my ugly.

You are my favorite person to parent with. We are doing our best to raise them with whole hearts and passionate souls and we barely ever know what we’re doing. We’re in way over our heads, and we think we fail more than we succeed, but we keep loving them and leading them anyway.

You are doing the very best job; I’m so proud of the dad that you are.

You are my favorite father for our kids and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt you are theirs too.

You are my best surprise. I knew I was marrying someone that I loved and admired, but I didn’t know the man you’d become. I didn’t know the father you’d be or the partner you’d be in good times and bad. I didn’t know how you’d hold our babies on their first day of life; I didn’t know how you’d be during financial struggles and I didn’t know how you’d hold my hand even though we just had a fight. I didn’t know how you’d brush our daughters hair or how you’d teach them all to work hard for their dreams.

I didn’t know, but I’m so grateful now that I chose you.

I know that you question if you’ve done well, and let me tell you something: you’ve done so, so, well. You’ve done better than I could have expected.

You have been my best and my favorite surprise.

I love you,

Your wife.

For more like this you can follow me here, on Facebook and Instagram. Happy Father’s Day friends!

I sat across from you today. You are struggling, you are tired.

As looked into her eyes I recognized the exhaustion and the fear. I recognized the question, the one that asks am I going to be okay? I remembered a dark season in my life. I remembered when I was so undone with anxiety that I couldn’t take the kids to the beach or even make it out of the house.

I remembered when I had no hope.

I remembered a friend who showed up every single day on my doorstep. She’d ask, “What are you afraid of today?” I’d tell her and she’d listen. She’d really listen…that was the gift. When I’d run all out of words I would sit shaking on my porch trying to feel the sun that beat down all around me, but never touched my skin.

Then she would say, “You are okay, your kids are okay. This is just fear and anxiety,” and I would cry until all the tears were gone.

And the next day she’d be back, because I’d already forgotten the truth.

Sometimes we need truth holders in our lives because our grip is not strong enough.

Sometimes we need to stand with each other until the sun comes up.

Right now, you are low. Right now you feel like a fragmented version of yourself. It’s okay to fall apart. When you are low, others are high. When you are broken, others are okay.

We have all been undone. We have all been undone, and then we get put back together piece by piece, and when we find someone else who is suffering we understand deeper and wider. We can hold space for them because we get it.

So friend, I take your hand, like she took mine, because we will walk through this together. There have been so many times in the past I’ve watched friends suffer from a distance because I wasn’t sure what to say, and I was afraid of making it worse. I made their pain about me, and I still cringe when I think about it. I wish that I’d showed up. I wish I’d been brave.

I’m done letting my fear keep me from staying close.

I will not do it perfectly; in fact, sometimes I might do it awkwardly and terribly. I will probably say the wrong thing. I will probably make you mad.

I’m okay with that now.

I will listen to you until you’re all out of words. I will listen, and I will listen, and then I will take your hand because you are not alone.

I will take your hand because you are going to be okay.

Whatever you do, do not forget that there are songs still left to sing. There are joyful moments coming around the corner that will take your breath away. This, my friend, feels like everything. It feels all consuming and that hope won’t ever come, but it’s not true…

The sun will come up.

You will laugh again. You will laugh so hard that your stomach aches and tears spill out. I promise. Things will be funny again.

You will have moments again when you hold your kids and your heart breaks into a million pieces, because your love is fuller and more overwhelming than you ever knew it could be.

Those are the moments that it is worth hanging on for. They are the moments that are worth more than a thousand years of everything.

Someday, you will be past this and you will look back and thank God that you’re on this side of the storm, and then you will thank yourself because it turns out you are stronger than you knew.

Joy is coming. It can’t resist you. You can’t resist it. Even when everything is so dark and dingy and hopeless, hang on, because it will come.

For now, when you can’t hope, I will hope for you.

When you can’t see, I will see for you.

And one day soon you will feel the sun again on your own.

Love,

Your Friend

***

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I see that you’ve grown over night. Your face is more defined, your eyes look older. A part of me is excited and in awe; I know you have so much ahead of you. Another part is scared because time is racing and I can’t slow it down. I’m afraid that I haven’t always been awake and noticing, and that somehow I have slept through the magic of your growing. I wonder, have I enjoyed you enough? Have I given you what you needed? Is your heart still whole? Is your spirit unbroken?

I’m not always good at this. I’m not always as good as I want to be at being your mom. I want to be great; and sometimes I am, but sometimes I’m not.

Sometimes I get it, and sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I do it right, and sometimes I completely miss it.

Everyday I make mistakes.

Sometimes I snap when I should be sensitive. Sometimes I lecture and give chores when what you needed was a hug. Sometimes I completely and utterly miss it. I know that I do. I mistake your pain for complaining or your sad heart for a bad attitude. I watch myself miss it, and later I grieve that I didn’t respond differently.

I miss it when I am tired, and you get my leftovers at the end of a long day. I wish that you didn’t, but sometimes you do.

I miss it when I am scared. I am scared of big things and little things. I really thought adults had it all figured out, but I am one now, and it turns out we don’t. Sometimes fear snatches my heart and I can’t seem to think of anything else. I forget to relax and to enjoy you. I forget to smile and to laugh. I’m working on that.

I miss it when I am lost. I’m struggling with my own demons and it has nothing to do with you. Sometimes it’s anxiety or it’s depression, but it’s never, ever your fault. I will keep striving for wholeness so that when you reach those obstacles I can help you do the same.

I know that it is easy to hang on to the negative things and forget all the positive, but I want to set the record straight. When I look at you I am SO. PROUD. When I look at you I see good. I see someone who is mighty. I wonder how I have been trusted with such a treasure. Your heart is pure and soft. You are gentle and kind, you are vivacious and fierce.

I am forever your biggest cheerleader and your greatest fan.

Please keep helping me to see you and to know you. Keep telling me when I hurt your feelings. Keep sharing with me your fears and your insecurities and we will figure it out together.

I’m okay with making mistakes, but I’m never okay with losing your heart. Your heart is what matters to me.

I hope that my weakness teaches you something. I hope that when you come upon your own brokenness, tiredness, fear, and confusion, that you will be okay with it. I pray that your imperfections won’t scare you as they have me. I pray that you won’t run from them, but that you’ll wrestle with them and you will keep showing up, saying sorry, and trying again.

We don’t always get it right and that’s okay.

We are all professional mistake makers, and you will make lots and lots of mistakes. You will make countless amounts of mistakes, just like I have, but not one could darken the light I see when I look at you. You are my treasure, you are my reason.

Even though life is racing by, sometimes we have a moment. Sometimes we can reach out, grab time, and hold it. The world stops, all is quiet, and we really see each other. In this moment when I glimpse the person you are and who you’re becoming, all I can think is…

Wow.

On this morning, where it seems you’ve grown overnight, I want to tell you that you are wonderful. You amaze me everyday – and as I watch you, you inspire me. You inspire me to pull out the greatness that’s inside me. In this family we will make mistakes, but we will keep doing it together and we will keep holding each other other tight.

It turns out I’m never, ever, going to be perfect, but I am always and forever yours, and I’m always and forever on your team. That I can promise you.

I love you.

Love,

Mama

Written by Jess Johnston

If you love this, you may love my new nationally best selling book “I’ll Be There (But I’ll Be Wearing Sweatpants)” https://amzn.to/3vuyWxN

I’m so excited about my newest post for Motherly, because, FOR REALZZZ.

Mornings before kids:

1. Get self ready.

2. Get self in car.

3. Go.

Mornings now:

1. Wake up children.

2. Go to the kitchen to start breakfast.

3. Hear no noise from children.

4. Holler at children every 30 seconds.

5. All appear, except one. Your future seems bright, you keep hollering.

6. You hear last child thrashing and grunting violently. This is the worst moment of his life.

7. Child finally emerges. It is unclear if he is human or zombie.

8. Child sits on couch.

9. Child becomes one with the couch.

10. You call frantically to them while making eggs: “Shoes!” “Hair!” “Clothes!”

11. Child stares into space.

Read more at Motherly…

I am not used to being the one who is not the parent of the screaming child. This was uncharted territory.

I identified with her painfully and I wanted desperately to affirm her. I wasn’t sure what to do except smile and look as nonjudgmental as possible. I tried to think of what I could say, like, should I shout above the screaming, “YOU’RE AMAZING!!” Or should I go in for a fist bump, “You got this!!”?

Before I could process what my awesome, pro-mom, non-judgey response was going to be the mom turned to me with desperate eyes, “I’m sorry, um, can you hold her?” She held out her crying infant towards me.

“YES!” I said eagerly. As I took her precious one in my arms, the little girl made eye contact and then wailed. I bounced her gently and put her pacifier back in her mouth, feeling such an intense solidarity with this mama.

“I have four,” I offered, hoping to reassure her that she hadn’t chosen a psychopath.

“Me too,” she smiled

“Target with kids is hard,” I said, “how old is she?”

“Four weeks,” she smiled with postpartum exhaustion in her eyes, “thank you so much,” she took back her baby and I watched her walk away.

No…thank you. I thought.

I have been the woman in the checkout line more times than I can count. I’ve stood sweating in this woman’s exact position, barely commanding the tears to wait until I got to my car. I’ve felt my face grow red and hot as my toddler screamed and kicked, waking up my baby who was angry and ready to nurse. I’ve felt so alone and so out of control.

I’ve thought I SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS. I AM DOING SOMETHING WRONG AND EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT IT IS EXCEPT FOR ME.

I’ve pretended to be calm and cool while inside I felt like I was suffocating. I’ve felt embarrassed and emotionally naked in front of an audience of spectators. In my mind people were waiting and expecting me to GET IT TOGETHER.

But as I rocked this baby I thought, in those moments, there were probably people just like me who were longing to lighten my load and whisper: hey, I get it, I’ve been here too – you’re doing a great job.

This mama was brave. She let her guard down and because of that, gave me a gift. She redeemed a thousand of my own frantic check-out moments by letting me be a part of hers. She let me join her village and reminded me that I’m not alone.

I am not the first one to walk this road and I will not be the last. There are grandmas, great grandmas and great great grandmas that have gone before me. There are mamas whose kids are older than mine and who are navigating junior high and high school. There are those who are right where I am and those who have brand new babies.

Whatever stage I find myself at, I will not find myself alone. This is a weathered road we travel.

I’m not the only parent whose kids have thrown tantrums in Target, I’m not the only one to have her kids tell a lie, I’m not the only Mom to lose her temper. I’m not the only one to have a son who struggles with reading, or the only one to have a child scream I HATE YOU. I am not the first and I will not be the last.

We really are a part of a village, a part of something much bigger than just ourselves and there are women all around us who simply get it.

Chance brought me one of my people, a sister I just hadn’t met yet. She is one of the ones in the ring with me, doing messy, but beautiful work. We are both knee deep in motherhood and for a moment our stories crossed and I am grateful.

To me she was beautiful and valiant, a mother holding everything together by a thread. I don’t know how she felt. I don’t know if she felt small, or if she felt tired. I don’t know if she felt undone or defeated…but I hope she felt supported.

I hope that in that moment she did not feel alone.

I hope she felt like I was WITH her.

No judgement.

Just respect.

We are not the first moms and we will not be the last to have a “moment”.

It is messy, it is hard, we will fail often…

but we do none of it alone, and we are never, ever the “only one”.

#solidarity

***

Gah, I love you all! I am so grateful for a growing community of mothers who are FOR each other. Ya’ll are the literal best. 

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

It was magic. Birth is magic. It is terrible, it is messy, and it is brilliant. After 24 hours of hard labor and zero results, my friend had gotten a epidural. She cracked jokes as she nibbled graham crackers between pushing contractions. What a bad ass. She was so strong and so powerful…I have never seen her so beautiful. Her husband stroked her head and held her hand as she used all her strength to bring new life into the world.

We cheered her on like it was the World Cup. At one point we offered to leave the room and the midwife looked at us intently, “No, she needs you – she pushes harder when you encourage her.”

“This is how it used to be,” she said, “Women gathered, supporting each other during birth.”

As she gave the final push, Flora Milo became, and I watched her dear parents also become. They will never be the same. We all burst into tears as this tiny being was placed on Allie’s chest. Magic. Blood, sweat, and tears, had brought them to this moment. Crushed hearts, tragic loss, health battles, and doctors that said this moment would never happen…yet here they are.

And here is this baby who says I beg to differ.

And we cry, because magic.

As I held this precious one, I thought of my own babes when they were brand new earth-side…and my heart hurt. I remember the magic. I remember the simplicity of eat, sleep, eat, sleep.

That night I was looking for pictures, and I came across Facebook posts from 2 and 3 years ago. My heart sank. Their precious tiny faces.  Oh how I miss it! How’d it go by so quickly? The moment didn’t seem special when I was in it. It seemed stressful and hectic. It seemed like something to survive until everyone was finally in their beds, fast asleep.

I was disturbed by the regret that gripped my heart. What was I worried about then? I was worried about my pant size and whether Scout would ever stop throwing tantrums. I was worried about the budget and whether or not my floor was clean. I was worried about me.

How am I ever going to stop worrying so much about me??

I have somehow misplaced this magic. This magic that lives and breathes and wakes up in my house every morning.

Haven with her big hair and puffy eyes. She sometimes is cute, other times she growls in response to our cheer with clenched fists and an arched neck. Her eyes say DO NOT SPEAK THESE GOOD MORNING words to me.

It will get better when you can have coffee dear-heart, hang in there.

Magic.

Magic is the smell of Oaklee after a bath. It is all of us dancing in the living room to Shakira and Robin Thicke after movie night. Magic is when Haven sings to Bob the cat about how she wasn’t trying to hurt him. It is Scout crying because Malachi got in trouble. It is that four kids ask to have sleepovers together on their bedroom floor.

Magic.

There is magic happening all around me every day…why do I miss it?

Sometimes there is no coffee strong enough. Sometimes I look inside my bottom fridge drawer and witness things a person can never un-see. Sometimes it’s the whining and the bickering and it’s the constant of eat, clean, eat, clean. Sometimes it’s that life is painful and it feels like it is closing in from every side.

It’s the constant, persistent, wondering if I am doing this. all. wrong.

It’s the wondering if I can really raise these children into the incredible adults I know they can be. Will they be kind? Will they be strong? Will they be healthy?

I think about my friend giving birth.

Could it be that the process and pain of labor isn’t really over? Our mother hearts are in the wringer daily. With each transition and every stage of growth – our minds often scream, “I CANNOT DO THIS.”

And we lose the magic…

for good reason.

Because it is damn. hard.

Birth isn’t that magical when you’re doing it. It is a lot more like pain and really really hard work.

But, we are not doing it alone. We are a sisterhood. A sisterhood of flawed mothers doing our very best.

So my friend, wherever you are at, and whatever your story,

As one flawed mama to another,

I want to take your hand and say LISTEN TO ME. YOU ARE A BAD ASS. You are DOING IT!! This is HARD, but you are CAPABLE. Look at the amazing children you are raising…WOW! Look at how STRONG you are…

Because we can most definitely, certainly do it better together.

Mama, YOU are INCREDIBLE. Look at you.

Childhood is magic. It is terrible, it is messy, it is brilliant.

Lets cheer each other on like it’s the World Cup.

****

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

I’m not sure if it was my inability to clean things, or the fact that I wanted to spend 24 hours a day with only one person that tipped him off.

I pictured Graham and I sipping caramel mochas squeegeeing side by side – deep in conversations about life. My friend was definitely wrong. This was going to be the best. thing. ever.

My window career lasted exactly one day. It turned out Graham mostly wanted to work.

So disappointing.

Along with not being able to have a joint-career, it became clear that although we were each others best-friends-forever – we were going to kill each other if we didn’t find OTHER friends. The problem was, we were very uncertain on how to find these friends. We weren’t sure where they were, how to meet them, or how to talk to them once we met them.

About five years and three kids into marriage, we realized that these mysterious soul mates were not going to magically appear. We were going to have to find them.  So, we decided to make Friday nights our having-people-over-night. On this night, we would be very mature and grownup by feeding and talking to adults. We would have to wear pants. We would need to clean our sinks. It was going to be great.

The first Friday night we were terrified. I started cleaning and cooking at 7:30 in the morning because I was certain I was already running out of time. We cursed ourselves for thinking of such an awful idea like “having people over”. WHAT were we thinking? We fought. I cried. We were certain we were coming down with something…like the REAL influenza probably.

But then we did it…and we survived.

We even more than survived…it was kind of wonderful. We lounged on the couch after our new friends went home feeling full and more connected than we had in a long time. WE. DID. IT.

That was five years ago. Hosting still freaks me out sometimes, but now I know what’s on the other side of my fear: connection and belonging. It is hard to pursue friendship, especially when you’re busy with work, life, and kids – but it is possible, and it is worth it.

Here are some tips we’ve learned along the way:

Just start. We did once a week. You could decide on once or twice a month if thats sounds more doable. Whatever you do…start. Ignore your insecurity and the sometimes awkward “first dates”. Keep at it, it will be worth it.

It is normal to be scared. That urge to cancel and binge watch Elementary instead? That’s probably fear – and it’s NORMAL. The people coming over? They’re probably nervous too. It’s not a sign you aren’t cut out for this – it’s a sign you are adulting. You are being brave and taking a risk. GO YOU.

Hide your mess. I have what I call a mess room. Some people might only need a closet…I need a room. My pre-hosting routine includes gathering all the shit, throwing it into said room…and locking the door behind me. My mother-in-law (who is my host-spiration) has an epic story about how she used to hide her bills and papers inside a stove…until one day she forgot and set it all on fire. So don’t do that.

Or maybe do. It would take a lot off your plate.

Food & Wine. I think the key to hosting comes down to good food and drink…it makes people happy.  Now before you give yourself an aneurysm over an Ina Garten recipe…”good” doesn’t HAVE to mean complicated and fancy. Comfort food is often cheap and easy. Potato soup with crusty bread? Crock pot pulled pork and slaw? BOX BROWNIES?? I say yes, yes, and yes.

Don’t be perfect. It’s not possible anyway, so relax. How many perfect, flawless friends would you like? I would like zero of those. You don’t need to perform – you need to be you. Be authentic and you will find the people that love you without requiring a performance.

Make it work with kids. Now is not the time to show off how little screen time your kids have. Put on a movie, appease them with snacks…or have friends over after they’re in bed. Make it work.

Get good at asking questions. One of my number one concerns with having people over was: I’m not that cool or interesting. What if they do not like me??? Good news: you don’t have to talk about yourself for two hours, and actually, no-one wants you to. Get good at asking questions and listening. It is such a gift when someone is sincerely interested in who you are. Get good at giving that gift away.

Get out a game of cards. Games are an excellent way to take the pressure off of everyone to talk. I notice that people almost immediately relax and start teasing each other when you get out a game.

Think of it like dating. Enjoy sharing meals with lots of different people. Be brave, invite people over that you really like, but intimidate you. Sometimes it will just be one meal. Other times  you will want to move them into your spare room and keep them forever.

Graham and I have connected with so many wonderful people, and over time we have found our people. These people are treasures and we wouldn’t be the same without them. They come over in sweat pants and send us hilarious, inappropriate memes. We eat together, we pray together, we celebrate engagements and babies together. We go on trips and we love each others’ kids like we love our own.

We are more whole and alive because of them…and it all started with just one dinner invitation.

Cheers friend…to messy rooms, box brownies, and friendship.

***

For more like this you can follow me here on Wonderoak, like my page on Facebook, and follow Wonderoak Blog on Instagram!

Pin this: