Mothers are the toughest people I know. We do so much. Physically, right now, you are growing a human being inside of your body. Next, you’ll birth the baby, going through one of the most physically demanding experiences of your life. If that isn’t some sort of superhuman strength, then I don’t know what is.

I live for quietness. A hushed walk, having the space in my brain to recognize the sun’s warmth, or to have a full thought come to fruition without being cut off. But this is not my reality.

On a whim, last January, on the first of the month, sunk into my favorite corner of the couch and nestled with my favored woolly blanket, I settled on a personal challenge. I decided to delete Instagram and Facebook from my phone while contemplating another year of new opportunities and fresh starts. It was a one-month experiment that turned out, I really liked.

Dear Morton Arboretum,

Thank you for the hospitality. I have found myself sheltered…

An exercise that led me to write a lengthy list of things I love, and in the end, I felt as though I could keep going. The perfect reminder of how much I have to be grateful for. What do you love?

The little one is napping while the oldest is at camp. So with dire urgency and the rare commodity of moments of alone, I grab my laptop, an icy can of lime La Croix, and make myself comfortable in the sun’s warmth. The lid of my laptop creaks open, I create a new Google Doc and watch the cursor. Blink, blink, blink, over and over. Silence. As I wait and hope for some inspiration to burst from my fingertips, I take a breath and allow myself to notice.

We have just 21 school days left for this year, but who's counting? I am. This year Valor never left the house to attend school. He attended Virtual Academy (VA), thank you Covid-19 pandemic. In seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, I have been reflecting on this experience and want to have it written down for memory's sake.

The room is warm and dark. His still small body is encircled around me like a sloth, chest to chest. My thoughts slow to the present. The ceiling fan’s cadenced breeze grazes my skin and I feel my toddler’s breath, body warmth, and weight. There is a mere sliver of light bursting through a gap in the blinds. I sing. He is silent. We rock.

Recently on Instagram, I saw a person pose the question, “What is your favorite thing about motherhood?” After a brief moment, I typed, experiencing the wonder of life through the eyes of my boys. I could come up with a hundred reasons, but felt like that was the experience, boiled down.

Last weekend my mom told me that Valor stated, “my mom is happy all the time,” which came as a shock to me. We have had our rough days (weeks, months?) over the past year. Grumpy attitudes, negativity, and tears. There have been countless days where Valor has declared, this is the worstest day ever!

I ponder over this past year and a piece of my heart breaks yet the other part smiles. The sadness comes from realizing that you have spent the majority of your life, living pandemic-style. Yet my heart is relieved knowing that you are blissfully unaware.

Lean in.
To the present.
The now.
Give yourself the gift of presence.

Amidst the everyday stressors and mundane tasks, life gets busy, and it is easy to lose track of how wondrous life really is. It is too simple to overlook seemingly minor joys like juicy orange smiles at breakfast, toddler giggles, or the cup of coffee my husband brewed for me. Sometimes we need reminders.

Sitting in my hospital bed with a fresh wound across my abdomen where my first baby was emergently rescued, a lactation consultant rolls in a big yellow pump on wheels. I take mental notes as she shows me how to hook up and use a breast pump. My baby is down the maternity corridor, in the NICU. Not how I imagined motherhood would begin. Or how I would be feeding my baby.

As a mother, there are many moments I attempt to guard in my heart as the years quickly move forward. When I was pregnant with my first I recall asking questions of moms ahead of me, and they would reply, “I don’t really remember.” Each time a mama would give me this response, my mind would slightly explode. How on earth can they not remember? I’d think.

It is a common journey — known by the many women who have traveled its path marked by mountaintops and craggy valleys. A place of waiting, often in deafening silence. With slippery slopes, harsh rocky terrain, and its distance longer than ever imagined. Riding high on a hill for the moment, then quickly being pulled down to the reality that there is another shadowy valley ahead. What is this painful and grueling place?

We spend so much time in our early adult years trying to discover our purpose and how we might be able to make a difference in our small corner of the world. We struggle, change directions, find ways to grow within our careers, develop partnerships and friendships. We try to sort through our aspirations and how we can best use our talents for betterment. Eventually, we have babies...we become mothers.

2020 has felt a lot like playing KerPlunk. Do you remember that game as a child? “Don’t let the marbles fall!” The object of the game is to remove sticks from the tube while dropping the fewest marbles possible.

I reflect on our distant summer travels, sitting on the beach, gritty and warm. The air is dense with the smell of salt as the indigo waves create a rhythmical pattern. Growth. Decline. Regrowth. Squabbling seagulls dart on the blanket-littered sand as I welcome myself to listen. The ocean’s pulsing heart is speaking to me as the water swells and crashes onto shore. Maybe this is how life is. I find myself getting caught up in continual need for growth and betterment, but maybe our lives should follow the ways of the waves, ebb and flow.

My toddler picks up a bag, swings the handles into the crook of his arm and closes the door as he walks out of the room. The door muffles his voice, but I can still hear him shout, "Bye, goin' to work!"

This short routine scene sends me down the rabbit hole. Is this normal? It this what he will remember of his childhood, his mama always leaving for work? Or will he recall the dedication and commitment I had for my family and career?