You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
You turning 7 feels like touching a hot stove. The shock so searing and humbling it takes my breath away. Just like the moment I took a pregnancy test that said “yes.” I was listening to Billie Holiday sing “I’ll be seeing you” -the second reason for your middle name. I’d never been so happy about anything in my whole life. My earliest memories of independent play are pretending to give birth, bearing down to a baby doll I would hold so tenderly. Having a C-section felt like ripping my heart out- I was so angry at how my body had forsaken me. I’d only ever asked it to do one thing. Then you were in the NICU, a place where the ringing in your ears takes the shape of a room. Terrified, I’d sit next to you in the incubator, counting the minutes til we could try breastfeeding on our own. I’d squeeze my swollen nipple into your tiny mouth and watch it fall out. Screaming inside, the fear so overwhelming “not this too” I thought. The moment you latched was the quietest moment of all time, all the sound went out. The ecstasy I had imagined of pulling you into this life replaced by the connection of us sustaining it. I learned to trust you. You continue to amaze me everyday- in the ways you are unique and tender, the way you love and witness and express your feelings. When you tell me you didn’t hear me because you were “looking out the window imagining things that haven’t even happened”- I gasp. When I tuck you in for bed and you say “I’m going to cry and I don’t even know the reason” – I tell you to let it out. The other day I yelled and you turned to me gently suggesting that I take a break. I left the room and heard you tell your sister “don’t worry, she just needs a moment to calm her body down.” You met me with your presence and gave me back mine. I am so proud of you, in awe of you, so extraordinarily forgiving of my body because of the way it assembled your cells into being. For doing the one thing I asked. For doing it so perfectly. I am awash with joy at the tether to this planet you have given me, cherishing the steps we take together, trusting each step you take on your own. I love you so truly. I’ll forever be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
I’ve gotten a beautiful gift the last couple years- women I love becoming mothers. Watching their shoulders drop, their face change and their breathe soften. I have been waiting for them. Waiting for them to join me in this gentle, achey lovingness. To nod my head when they say “what was I even doing before this?” Mothering remains as joyful and as painful as it always has. Spending my most poignant moments staring at them in the rearview mirror. The risk of missing the turn eclipsed by the risk of missing the way their eyes change on the way to school and on the way home. Watching them stare out the window, their thoughts and dreams that I wish to peer inside of, whispering lyrics to Avril Lavigne songs. My life a merry go round of “how was your day?” Seeing my baby tuck away her pacifier before preschool, my toothless child begging to transition out of her car seat- all while wishing for my own safety harness to grow into. A kaleidoscope of the way things change- no longer jolted awake by a crying baby at 3 am, but the gentle shake of a 6 year old with big worries. Her little body curled up against mine, just like how it all started. A new kind of bad sleep softened by the breathing in of her exhaled dreams. I have learned that the feelings and the bodies do not grow to scale, the feelings will always outmatch us. My container for them will splinter but we are not made of glass. As mothers we can hold their feelings, we can also connect to them, even when it hurts. Even when your child looks you dead in the face and says they’d be happier somewhere else. “Tell me about that happiness” I’ll never forget the way her face changed, and how in that moment my life did too. Mothering is a practice of witnessing all the changes, in our faces and eyes and in our hearts. The permission to design a life of their wildest dreams, their happiness on their own terms. May that happiness be a place I can visit, maybe even one day to find their face changed asking me “what was I even doing before this?” So much. So much.
Dolores Wild, I have often wondered about the lesson I am to learn from the universe sending me a child that looks so exactly like me. Sometimes it’s pretty on the nose, the gift of reparenting yourself. To dismiss your harsh thinkings because they have no place near your precious baby. The ruthless annihilating self-criticism silenced by looking into your big brown eyes, a mirror and a time machine. I’ve been in a 5 year arm wrestle with projection, seeing myself v. seeing you. The thing is- the ways you are like me have nothing to do with our carbon copy features. It’s the nerve endings longer than your whole little body. The way you track, and observe, the way you fix. You rub my back like you used to be my mother. I rub your back to remind you I’m yours. I spent so much time tangled up in the ways we are the same, I forgot to notice the way we are different. “She stands up for herself.” I choked on the words and the tears crashed over every groove of my face into my lap so I could hold them in my hands. A small ocean with the lesson written in the sand. “She stands up for herself.” Words I now chew and swallow. Your name came to me like a strike of lightening from the great beyond. It means pain. Life has so much of it, and you notice it all. Pain that is not yours to carry but to transcend. Your middle name is Wild- it means a place without the influence of human activity. It’s the perfect name for you. You like to tell me things through aliens. Last year it was E.T. This year it’s Baby Yoda. I hear you. You are an alien, as if I didn’t already know. But I will always treat you as such. I’m so grateful for your dance on earth with me. Be the force, little one. For yourself before others. You are the force, sweetheart. Be with us, not for us. Don’t get distracted, I’ll help. I know how to now. Happy birthday my sweet, sweet baby. Five years ago, you alchemized everything. We’re so lucky for it. I love you so much it is chicken boonanas.
Dolores Wild, I have often wondered about the lesson I am to learn from the universe sending me a child that looks so exactly like me. Sometimes it’s pretty on the nose, the gift of reparenting yourself. To dismiss your harsh thinkings because they have no place near your precious baby. The ruthless annihilating self-criticism silenced by looking into your big brown eyes, a mirror and a time machine. I’ve been in a 5 year arm wrestle with projection, seeing myself v. seeing you. The thing is- the ways you are like me have nothing to do with our carbon copy features. It’s the nerve endings longer than your whole little body. The way you track, and observe, the way you fix. You rub my back like you used to be my mother. I rub your back to remind you I’m yours. I spent so much time tangled up in the ways we are the same, I forgot to notice the way we are different. “She stands up for herself.” I choked on the words and the tears crashed over every groove of my face into my lap so I could hold them in my hands. A small ocean with the lesson written in the sand. “She stands up for herself.” Words I now chew and swallow. Your name came to me like a strike of lightening from the great beyond. It means pain. Life has so much of it, and you notice it all. Pain that is not yours to carry but to transcend. Your middle name is Wild- it means a place without the influence of human activity. It’s the perfect name for you. You like to tell me things through aliens. Last year it was E.T. This year it’s Baby Yoda. I hear you. You are an alien, as if I didn’t already know. But I will always treat you as such. I’m so grateful for your dance on earth with me. Be the force, little one. For yourself before others. You are the force, sweetheart. Be with us, not for us. Don’t get distracted, I’ll help. I know how to now. Happy birthday my sweet, sweet baby. Five years ago, you alchemized everything. We’re so lucky for it. I love you so much it is chicken boonanas.
Dolores Wild, I have often wondered about the lesson I am to learn from the universe sending me a child that looks so exactly like me. Sometimes it’s pretty on the nose, the gift of reparenting yourself. To dismiss your harsh thinkings because they have no place near your precious baby. The ruthless annihilating self-criticism silenced by looking into your big brown eyes, a mirror and a time machine. I’ve been in a 5 year arm wrestle with projection, seeing myself v. seeing you. The thing is- the ways you are like me have nothing to do with our carbon copy features. It’s the nerve endings longer than your whole little body. The way you track, and observe, the way you fix. You rub my back like you used to be my mother. I rub your back to remind you I’m yours. I spent so much time tangled up in the ways we are the same, I forgot to notice the way we are different. “She stands up for herself.” I choked on the words and the tears crashed over every groove of my face into my lap so I could hold them in my hands. A small ocean with the lesson written in the sand. “She stands up for herself.” Words I now chew and swallow. Your name came to me like a strike of lightening from the great beyond. It means pain. Life has so much of it, and you notice it all. Pain that is not yours to carry but to transcend. Your middle name is Wild- it means a place without the influence of human activity. It’s the perfect name for you. You like to tell me things through aliens. Last year it was E.T. This year it’s Baby Yoda. I hear you. You are an alien, as if I didn’t already know. But I will always treat you as such. I’m so grateful for your dance on earth with me. Be the force, little one. For yourself before others. You are the force, sweetheart. Be with us, not for us. Don’t get distracted, I’ll help. I know how to now. Happy birthday my sweet, sweet baby. Five years ago, you alchemized everything. We’re so lucky for it. I love you so much it is chicken boonanas.
Dolores Wild, I have often wondered about the lesson I am to learn from the universe sending me a child that looks so exactly like me. Sometimes it’s pretty on the nose, the gift of reparenting yourself. To dismiss your harsh thinkings because they have no place near your precious baby. The ruthless annihilating self-criticism silenced by looking into your big brown eyes, a mirror and a time machine. I’ve been in a 5 year arm wrestle with projection, seeing myself v. seeing you. The thing is- the ways you are like me have nothing to do with our carbon copy features. It’s the nerve endings longer than your whole little body. The way you track, and observe, the way you fix. You rub my back like you used to be my mother. I rub your back to remind you I’m yours. I spent so much time tangled up in the ways we are the same, I forgot to notice the way we are different. “She stands up for herself.” I choked on the words and the tears crashed over every groove of my face into my lap so I could hold them in my hands. A small ocean with the lesson written in the sand. “She stands up for herself.” Words I now chew and swallow. Your name came to me like a strike of lightening from the great beyond. It means pain. Life has so much of it, and you notice it all. Pain that is not yours to carry but to transcend. Your middle name is Wild- it means a place without the influence of human activity. It’s the perfect name for you. You like to tell me things through aliens. Last year it was E.T. This year it’s Baby Yoda. I hear you. You are an alien, as if I didn’t already know. But I will always treat you as such. I’m so grateful for your dance on earth with me. Be the force, little one. For yourself before others. You are the force, sweetheart. Be with us, not for us. Don’t get distracted, I’ll help. I know how to now. Happy birthday my sweet, sweet baby. Five years ago, you alchemized everything. We’re so lucky for it. I love you so much it is chicken boonanas.
Hal & Harper ❤️❤️ first 2 episodes streaming now on @mubi I love this show so much it hurts.
Hal & Harper ❤️❤️ first 2 episodes streaming now on @mubi I love this show so much it hurts.
All of the feelings are safe ❤️ Hal&Harper on @mubi October 19th.
