A Tale of Helga- I Gave Birth to Goliath

Sorry for the absence, but I have been running a circus over at my house trying to figure out how to take care of three kids 4 and under. In case you have not heard…

Screen Shot 2017-08-24 at 7.38.38 PM

I did it. I gave birth to my beautiful not-so-little boy.

Hayden Blaine entered the world on June 25, 2017… weighing in at 10 pounds 3 ounces and a whopping 23 inches. The first measurement was 24 inches, but the midwife had the nurse measure again because… no way.

His head and chest measured in at 16 inches, and I was informed that apparently the average head is 13/14 inches and chest 12/13. Suffice to say Hayden is a big boy.

I was kept blissfully (sorta) unaware of the fact that my large, posterior (sunny side up) baby was quite the topic in the hallways while I was attempting to birth him. It was a long, hard labor. I had a nurse who fought successfully to keep me from a c-section (God bless her), and many bets were made about how big this kid was. The midwife would come in, feel my belly, and look at me with a look of pity. “Big boy” was a common comment.

When my water broke the nurse said she didn’t need towels.. she needed blankets.

So ya… with a ton of fluid and a goliath baby… upon entry to the hospital I was pretty much as big as a house.

Screen Shot 2017-08-24 at 7.30.16 PM

At 34 weeks they knew he was 7 pounds. For most ladies, this size would garner a discussion about induction.

Not for me.

Nope.

Not this delicate flower.

I am a viking woman.

Apparently, the doctor saw that these Scandinavian hips were made to carry life.

Push out a 11 lb baby?

Psh.. look at her.. she can do it.

I am Helga. Hear me roar.

An interesting thing happens when you give birth to a child the size of the average two month old. Somehow the social etiquette of strangers asking about your lady parts goes away. Once I reveal how big he was, I can see their eyes shift downwards and start to burn as they begin to internally process the moral quandary about whether or not it is appropriate to ask about what went on down there.

Ya I basically gave birth to the average can of paint or a large house cat.. how do you think it went?

When I was at my oldest son’s 4 year check up the doctor asked me how old my baby was:

Me: “A month.”

Doctor: “Wow. Wow. How big was he?”

Me: “10 lbs 3 oz and 23 in”

Doctor with big eyes: ” Oh wow… did you.. did you.. you know?”

Me: “Give birth naturally?”

Doctor: ” Um ya?’ *Stares at newborn baby the size of a 3 month old*

Me: “Yup”

Silence.

Silence.

Awkward. Silence.

Doctor: ” Oh wow. Well… I guess the other two just paved the way for him.”

Sure lady. Thank you for that. You know I could probably birth a teenager by the fourth baby.

And you can just duplicate this conversation over and over with other strangers, but add in some V tearing questions.

I mean I do not think it is completely normal for complete strangers to ask the state of your lady parts… or to have concern for their recovery… but hey.. maybe I will start being awkward too.

“Oh ya… we are all good… the next baby will probably just fall out.”

“I turned down stitches because I plan on giving birth to twins on the next go and pushing them out at the same time.”

“How am I doing? Pretty good, but you should ask my husband.”

Ok. Ok. I will stop.

We love our Hayden Bug. He was worth it all.

I also really love this blog and love to write. Feel free to add some suggestions as to what I should write about or any suggestions for this space. I want to create a space for dialogue about being a woman, a mother, a wife… with humor, laughter, and love. I would so appreciate your help in getting there!

Screen Shot 2017-08-24 at 7.39.14 PM Screen Shot 2017-08-24 at 7.39.01 PM

 

PHOTOS COURTESY OF ANGIE KLEIN OF REELS OF JOY PHOTOGRAPHY

 

A Tale of Miscarriage: Sharing in Joy and Sharing in Grief

I prayed for my baby.

My family, friends, and I prayed for this baby.

My baby.

The decision to have another child had come easy. Taylor and I thought we had wanted to wait until the next year to try for a little one. We thought maybe we needed a bit of a break, but on the way home from a family beach trip, I had this overwhelming sense that it was time. I looked over at my Tay and told him. I knew he had wanted to wait so I was unsure what his reaction would be. Would I need to wait awhile until he was ready?

His reaction was classic Taylor: simple, secure, and full of hope and love. He thought for a moment, smiled, and replied with a “Let’s do it”. He was ready, my partner in adventure, always willing to grab my hand and jump.

We sat silently for a moment relishing in our excitement over a new bundle. Boy? Girl? Who would this number 3 be?

I could not contain the excitement when I saw those two pink lines. Like I did with the other two, I told everyone within a matter of days.

A baby.

My baby.

Our baby.

Holden would rub my tummy and tell me it was a “Baby Doy/Dirl”. My family and friends all rejoiced with us when we told them the news. A prayer had been answered.

A baby. Living. Growing. Baby.

The morning I began the process of losing my baby I had a playdate planned at my house with a large group of women. My mom was in Mexico, I was on the verge of a panic attack, and I was minutes away from welcoming women (some who I did not know too well) into my home.

I began to text and call. Friends came to play hostess and make sure that Taylor was able to take me to the hospital. My sister in law came and told me she would stay as long as she needed to to watch the boys. My pastor’s wife called and prayed with me. My aunts left work and drove to the hospital to be with me because my Mom was out of the country. My sister left school and did not leave my side those next few days.

That whole weekend felt like I was frozen in a space of impending doom. I started to miscarry Thursday and did not officially find out I had lost the baby until Monday. I attended a lifelong friend’s wedding that weekend and enjoyed visiting with old friends while trying to ignore the fact that my heart was breaking.

It was a beautiful wedding.

I had been looking forward to that weekend for a very long time. It definitely provided the distraction I needed while I was waiting on the official diagnosis. I prayed fervently. I begged everyone I knew to pray. But deep down, I knew.

Spontaneous Abortion.

My body had betrayed me. I felt like I had been robbed of my innocence. My blind hope raped. Something precious had been stolen from me, and I would never be the same. I was angry. I was sad. I was anxious. I hurt.

I cried out to the Lord… and He answered.

He answered by carrying me through the fire.

I cannot explain it, but at times I felt like I was sitting in a dark, cold pit, seemingly all alone, and then suddenly there was warmth. I was being hugged and comforted in the midst of my despair.

In Psalm 34:18 it says, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

I know this to be true because I experienced it.

He answered with the big hug that was my community. 6a06eca627b15cf92a6bb9aea7ec8467

My parents spent time with the boys, Tay, and I. They got me a necklace in memory of my baby. One sister in law took me shopping and the other bought me wine and candy. My sister sat in bed with me an entire day. My other siblings called me often. My father in law held me and prayed with me while I cried. My mother in law offered to watch the boys. After returning from their honeymoon, my friends brought me wine and flowers. Out of state family emailed, called, and texted condolences.

The same women who had prayed for my baby now prayed for my heart. Calls and texts to check in… they listened to me. They offered to take the kids. They sent handwritten notes. They hugged me. They brought me flowers and chocolate. They shared their stories of loss. I even made new friends.

They VALIDATED my loss, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Just the other day a friend hid a present in my trunk and when I opened it I found a handmade sign that I had been wanting, but didn’t possess the talent to make it or the money to buy it.

These people were the hands and feet of Jesus for me.

They had shared in my joy and now they shared in my grief.

Because I told.

Because I told them about you, my precious baby.

My precious little one, you were known. 

I wait anxiously for the day I get to hold you. I don’t know if I will get to count your toes or your fingers, but I know I will know you.

We loved you for seven weeks in my tummy and forever in heaven.

My little bean.

My little one.

My momentary hope.

My forever love.

My baby.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note- I realize that some people are very private or they keep their community small and thats ok! Please understand that this is a post to thank those who have loved me well, as well as a post to let women know that it is ok to talk about a pregnancy before week 12. But guess what… if that is outside your comfort zone that is ok too! Tell a few, tell a lot, you are the boss.  In summary, my personal opinion is that, in my experience, it is important to have a couple people you can tell (a spouse, a relative, a friend) so that they can love, support, and rejoice with you in the early stages of pregnancy no matter what the outcome.

Also, there is something I have observed in my own, as well in others, dealings with grief. I have found that there are always people who say awkward, non comforting things or people who don’t say anything at all. Shoot, I have been one of those people. I would encourage anyone that is grieving to give grace. Some people don’t know what to say, have a hard time with grief, don’t understand, or just don’t know. That doesn’t mean they love you any less! If it bothers you greatly, talk to them about it. Ten bucks says they never meant to hurt your feelings. Better yet, just let it go. There is no reason to add more hurt and a little bitterness to your plate. Love always wins. Grace always wins.

And if you need a friend or someone to talk to, I am always here. 

 

 

 

 

Miscarriage: A Marriage Letter

Dearest Tay,

The other day I stood at our open refrigerator, staring blankly at the neatly arranged meals you made for me, and I began to sob.

I have cried a lot this past month.

You and I, we never knew there were different levels of crying. Last month showed us what it is like to grieve and cry from the deepest recesses of our hearts.

There is a cry that comes from deep within the soul. A cry reserved only for the bereaved. It takes you out of your body, and you wonder who it is who is making all these sounds.

And you wonder how to comfort them. But it is you.

Miscarriage.

A word that sticks to the top of my mouth like peanut butter, dries me out like a mouth parched for water, and pierces my soul in a place I did not know existed.

A word you and I share.

A loss.

A trauma.

A baby that was ours.

A tiny hope, a little spirit, a piece of you and me.

You and me.

We survived.

It is a pain that takes you to a place where there are no words.

Thinking back and attempting to tell the story feels like falling. Falling and grasping for the words, but all that is left are colors and feelings. Even now, I struggle to put my thoughts to pen. Sometimes there is only darkness.

But in the darkness you were there. You and my Jesus.

And somehow, amidst the pain, I felt as if I was being carried… as if I was being hugged. The Lord tells us He is close to the broken hearted, and oh how we know that is true. He was there, but He also gave me you.

You.

Going to work. Picking up clothes. Washing dishes. Bathing kids. Making meals. Grieving. Holding me. Loving me.

After a week of all of this, you sent me out that day wanting me to have time with a friend. Wanting me to have time for me. And I came home to swept and mopped floors, folded clothes, clean sheets, and happy kids.

So when I saw that you had cooked and shopped and arranged my food for the week so I would not have to worry.

I broke.

Because..

You.

Kind. Caring. Selfless. You.

Amidst your own pain, you have carried me when I could not walk, and I will forever be grateful.

I love you.

Forever Yours,

Shelbi

 

— Miscarriage is not often talked about so I will be writing a miscarriage series as I process through my thoughts and feelings. This will not be every week. I will still be posting my funny stories and life as we know it in our home. I am just hoping that I can bring some hope, some companionship, and some understanding to those who have experienced this type of loss. Love you all so very much <3

 

 

 

I Survived Doomsday: A Tale of Sickness

 Sometimes when I am having a really rough time with the babies I think to myself “Is it too early to drink?”

And then I think “It’s 8 am Shelbi. Yes, it is too early.”

imagesYou know, since having two kids under two, I feel like I have officially earned my “Mom Badge”. 

I mean I went through some rough experiences while adjusting to one baby, but I do not feel like I really earned this badge of honor until I survived doomsday in my own household. In a matter of one week, we were hit with the tummy flu. “We” being the kids and I.  Luckily, my husband’s ironclad immune system has yet to fail him.

“We” may be a little bitter about this.

Do you want to know what I experienced in that week of tummy flu? Projectile EVERYTHING.

I sat in disbelief as I watched my toddler come up to me, lay his cars down on the couch, and proceed to vomit straight out all over the couch. The kid was like a dragon laying waste to all that he breathed his fire on. I mean it came out of his nose! Do we as adults somehow know how to block vomit from spurting through our nostrils? When do we learn this skill?

The best part was that while I was cleaning up the couch I realized there was another distinct smell surrounding the area. Yes, Holden had peed all over the couch. Somehow he had positioned his diaper in such a way that he could spray the couch. It seems the dragon deemed it necessary to put out his vomit fire with his very own urine. He is such a sweetheart.

And then it was the baby’s turn to vomit all over me and my bed.

6a8a2db524e8d72fe98a626910a1abf7As if that was not enough, the baby decided to spray his feces onto my shirt and face while I was changing him.

By the time the nausea hit me I had spent all day cleaning up disgusting messes. And then I had a “You know you are a Mom when…” moment.

You Know you are a Mom when:

You get sick and because you are breastfeeding you don’t quite make it to the bathroom in time and thus have ANOTHER mess to clean up. You have a meltdown. Your husband hears this meltdown. His reaction is to sweetly tell you to just take a shower and lie down, and he will clean up your mess.

This was not exactly what childless you had in mind when she thought of her husband whispering sweet nothings into her ear, but nonetheless, it is at this moment that you fall in love again. You think, “This is true love. Truly, there is no greater love than this. That a man lay down his life for his puking wife.”

The romance is real people. 

And no I did not let him do that. A girl needs a little dignity in this life.

 

Bah Humbug: A Tale of my Decor Grinch

2c7f1418c3216d1fe8f28ad19ae0a470Oh Christmas. You have brought a tad bit of strife into my life. Maybe it is because of all the pregnancy hormones… maybe it is having a toddler… or maybe it is because I may or may not live with someone who is not very fond of decorating for Christmas. I have my own little decor Grinch.

Apparently decorating for Christmas is not something practical people like to do… or people with small children… or husbands who think there is no point especially since baby children destroy everything.

This is what our three Christmases have looked like with the decor Grinch:

Year 1:

Taylor reasons that because we would be flying home for Christmas (we lived in South Dakota at the time), there was no reason to do any decorating on our beautiful, turn of the century home that was blanketed with snow.

(People of Minnesota… this is a big deal for a Southern California girl… we do not have beautiful old houses, and if we want to see snow we take a day trip to the mountains.)

Taylor did not budge. He had zero desire to decorate when we would be gone for a week. Heaven forbid we enjoy decorations during the weeks leading up to Christmas, but I digress. I was in my first trimester and morning sickness clouded my judgment so alas… we did not decorate anything.

Year 2:

This is the  Christmas that traumatized Taylor. I was bound and determined to give my five month old the best first Christmas ever. This meant we were decorating. We now lived in California so instead of a beautiful turn of the century yellow house with a red door, we had a third floor apartment to spruce up. I didn’t care. Once again, Tay and I went back and forth over whether or not to get a Christmas tree.

This time I won.

I had it all planned out. We would all get dressed up. We would meet at the Christmas tree farm after Taylor got off of work. We would take pictures with our adorable baby. Picking out a Christmas tree is about the experience you know. We would be the perfect, happy, Christmas card, Norman Rockwell  family.

… And I would love to tell you that is what happened, but alas, my dream did not come true.

The day we were to get the tree was a very hectic day. I don’t remember why, but I know I was stressed and for some reason that was the only day we could get a tree. There was also terrible traffic. But it was going to be ok… I was going to meet my husband at that Christmas tree farm, and we were going to have a grand time.

While sitting in terrible traffic, late to our date at the Christmas tree farm, I get a call.

“I picked out a tree. Traffic is terrible so I am just going to load it up on the car.”

Dream. Crushed.

I just replied “Ok” and headed for home. I reasoned the entire drive back to the apartment.

“I am not going to get upset. Our baby is small so he wouldn’t remember anyways. At least we got a tree… it is a step in the right direction.”

What seemed like forever later I heard our front door open. In walks a disheveled Taylor pulling a Christmas tree. Apparently getting a tree on top of a Camry and then getting it up three flights of stairs is no easy task.

He then tries to put up the tree, but the pedestal the tree goes in is not holding the tree. Our poor tree keeps falling over, and Taylor is getting more and more frustrated. Finally, over an hour later, we are able to begin decorating our first tree with all our personal ornaments from childhood and our first years of marriage.

I am in heaven looking at our beautiful tree. I do not even mind cleaning up all the needle mess it leaves behind. I just know that even though Holden cannot talk… or crawl for that matter… my child is in awe of our beautiful tree. We head to bed.

Boom.

Three am and it seems our tree has decided to commit suicide. Apparently we did not figure out how to get the pedestal to work. Thankfully, only two of our ornaments were broken in the tragedy.

I think Taylor is starting to get a nervous twitch as he surveys the mess. I just pick up the tree and lean it against the wall and leave it at that.

Year 3:

The Christmas tree argument is back on in full swing.

Taylor refuses to ever get a real tree again. He declares last year was his nightmare.

I am in my third trimester, and we have an active toddler who loves to destroy. Maybe I should just give up on decor. What is the point when my husband does not seem to care, and my little one is too young to notice? I thought I was at peace with this decision until… Target.

Tay hates Target. He hates it with a passion. He hates that we go in there for one thing, but then I drag him around the entire store just to look at other things he has no desire to buy. All in all… Taylor hates shopping, and Target is his personal hell. So we are both in splendid moods since I just want him to be merry and browse, and this is the last thing he wants to do with his free time.  While shopping, we happen upon the Christmas tree and decor aisle. I look at all the decorations and the tree and try to squelch my desire to decorate. Then I hear Mr. Decor Grinch:

“We are not getting a tree. We are not decorating. There is no point in being in this aisle. Let’s get what we came for and go home.”

I broke. Like a toddler who is trying their best not to throw a tantrum over not being able to get their favorite toy, I bite my lower lip, say “FINE”, and head for the check out stand. People, with the amount of hormones and moodiness in this pregnant body, it was not long before I was full on crying. As an adult. In Target. Because I was not getting what I wanted. I actually had to excuse myself and go to the restroom while Taylor paid.

When we got in the car, Taylor turned to his highly emotional wife, and asks the question I had been wanting to hear,

“Do you want a tree? I will go back there and get you a tree if you want one. ”

“Yes. Yes I want a tree.”

So my friends, I got my tree. It is fake, but it is beautiful. I will have my tree every year from now on, and Tay promises to feign happiness over our decor… to the best of his ability.

Moral of the story: Even as an adult, crying gets you what you want at Christmas. Just kidding. Sort of.

Merry Christmas from our family to yours!

1472007_10152409923245824_5141132841370931937_n

 

 

Everyday Fairytale

384a5656529a837920ee1325b08e9c92

Hey there.

It has been awhile I know. There is so much to catch up on, but I am back.

Currently I am 26 weeks pregnant and about to hit my 3rd wedding anniversary.

THIRD.

Wow time has gone by so fast.

I was contemplating this the other day. How much life has changed… how much I have changed… how much Tay has changed… how much marriage has changed.

And how much has remained unchanged.

We are about to hit year three, and I have one thing to say about marriage: It just keeps getting better.

Granted many times the most romantic gestures of the day look pretty mundane to the unseeing eye, but I notice. I appreciate. My fairytale may not look like the ones in a story book, but it is still my fairytale. Taylor is still my Prince Charming.

For example:

I am giving Holden a bath in the royal chamber. I am not fully paying attention to my child in the bath because let’s be real… His love of water toys and his man parts are giving me plenty of much needed silence. I relish in the freedom I get at bath time. I am going to sit here next to the little Prince’s tub and try and read a book on the Kindle.

Foolish Mother.what-its-like-all-day

Who would have guessed what would come next? Not I.

I hear a giggle… I look up… and gaze into the tub of my beloved son.

But wait… Hold the phone… What is that in the tub?

On his hands?

IN HIS MOUTH!?

No. I refuse to accept this as my reality.

Can we go back to the land of literature and peace?

Because there… in all his glory… is my beautiful little boy… playing in his own feces.

He had relieved himself in the tub and decided his excrement could be used as play dough… or mashed potatoes.

Oh the horror.

I don’t even know what to do. I just yell for Taylor that I need help.

At the sound of my horror and yells, Taylor runs in. My knight in shining armor has arrived. In the midst of the terror, I, his one true love, gaze upon my rescuer’s face and say tenderly, ” Your son is not only playing in his own poop. He is eating it. It’s everywhere. Please, please take care of this.”

I then whisk myself from the room, while my gallant husband slays the brown mess of the blue eyed monster.

And in this moment I love him a little more.

I remember someone telling me once that when you have a baby, the love you have for your baby defies all comprehension. I would have to say I disagree. I can comprehend and grasp the love I have for my children. It makes sense to me. They are a part of me. I am responsible for them. I carried them inside me. I nursed them. The bond between mother and child makes sense to me. What I cannot comprehend is the love I have for Taylor. It is so full and consuming. How is it possibly to love a person so deeply? We are not related by blood. He is not my child. He was raised in a different home. We are separate, unique individuals, but he is a part of me. I know this sounds so cheesy, but I have been thinking about this a lot lately. I firmly believe that you don’t marry your soulmate. Your soulmate is the person you marry. There is a depth of love within a marriage that only grows with time.

True love grows with the little things… a day at a time.

I believe love isn’t in the big romantic gestures. (Although hey I will take those too!)

To me love is:

It is never having to fill up the water in my Keurig because he always notices when it’s getting low and wants to make sure I can get my coffee ASAP in the morning.

It is opening my car door and rarely seeing it messy because he routinely cleans it out and details it for me.

It is never having to worry about my gas tank being full because he always fills it.

It is saying my feet hurt and hours later when we are alone on the couch he starts to rub my feet.

It is going to bed with dirty dishes and waking up to clean dishes and laundry going.

It is overhearing him tell people my job as a stay at home mom is much harder than his.

It is the absence of any complaint, grumble, or harsh word.

It is in his silence as he listens to every word.. and randomly repeats things back to me.

It is in the matter of fact way he says things… not realizing he just said something sweet.. like being asked in a game what he would do if he found 100 dollars… he would spend it on me.

It is in nighttime prayers with our son.

It is in our own prayers.

It is in the nighttime laughs and daytime winks.

It is seeing how much my family adores him or hearing my sisters say they want a husband just like him.

It is my Taylor.

Steady.. unselfish.. unchanging.. constant.

Were these the words I would have used as a young girl to describe a great romance? No. Probably not. But they are the words and the attributes I so cherish now.

All this love… all this kindness… wrapped up in this big man who doesn’t talk much, but shows me everyday what it means to love someone with all his heart.

And in turn I do my best to deserve him.

Screen Shot 2014-12-05 at 1.14.10 PM Screen Shot 2014-12-05 at 1.13.50 PM

Transition and Grief: The Mom Experience

559756_10151542658100824_1731661354_nTransition: a synonym for change

Being a mother has been the greatest transition of my life thus far. Nothing has changed my world more than being a mother. It changed my dreams. It changed my present. It changed my future. It changed me.

And that is ok.

But it didn’t always feel ok.

Why does no one talk about that? I have an idea… they don’t talk about it because it feels like a betrayal. A betrayal of your precious child(ren). I couldn’t even begin to express to you how much I love my son. It is one emotion that I can’t even begin to describe or I will start crying. It is completely all encompassing. So how could I ever tell someone that with becoming a mother… with that change… some of my dreams died? How could I ever say that becoming a Mom was/is wonderful, but sometimes the process hurts?

How awful does that sound?

But it is true.

I had everything planned out. I am a planner that’s what I do. I still do. I plan and replan my life over and over again. The funny thing is that no matter how hard one tries… you cannot control everything in life. After I graduated from college early, I was going to spend a year abroad as an intern and then I was going to go to law school.

Detour.

On the day I graduated from college I got engaged to the man of my dreams. Six months later we were married.

Best decision I ever made.

He had one more year left of college football so after we said our “I do’s” we loaded up my stuff, and I moved from sunny California to sometimes sunny South Dakota. Getting married and moving across the country to be with my husband… but not around anyone I really knew… was quite the adventure.

Change. Adjusting. Growing.

Almost a year later and I was almost done perfecting my law school applications. My personal statement was almost perfect, but I couldn’t quite press send without a few more adjustments. I never got to push send. Two pink lines and a tiny heartbeat on a monitor later…

Detour.

We packed our bags and headed back down to sunny California to be by family and have support while Taylor builds his career. On July 21, 2013 the most precious blessing entered our lives. And I was forever changed.

Taylor and I have always agreed that one of us would be home with our children so it wasn’t even a question that I would be staying home with Holden while my husband works and does his Master’s program.

So I found myself in an entirely different place in life that I had imagined myself being at this age. And it hurt. I couldn’t express it properly, but for the first time in a long time I felt very insecure. In the space of less than two years I had gone from being an aspiring, world traveling, professional student to being a stay at home Mom, and it was a lot to process. I guess being so young it was hard because the Moms I met that had babies were older and more established than me… and the people my age… who are in the building part of life… didn’t have kids.

It is a confusing feeling. Loving your baby.. loving motherhood.. but trying to ignore this whole other part of you that all of a sudden had to be put on hold.

I rode this wave of emotions for awhile until I finally confessed how I was feeling to an older Mom. And what she told me set me free. So now… I want to tell you… just in case you have felt this way too.

Grieve.

It is ok to admit that you feel a loss of some of your dreams. When the woman first said this to me… I felt defensive. I was so consumed by the idea that it was bad to admit that I had to give up some things as a mother. Within our culture, we are inundated with the idea that we can have it all… that everything is supposed to be about us. But we can’t have it all, and having everything be about ourselves is such an empty way to live.

After that first wave of feeling defensive, I realized that I was afraid to admit that some of my dreams and plans for my future were gone. I am a mother now so the way I had planned some things can never be the same.. and sometimes that feels like a death.  And fellow Mama… it is ok to acknowledge that… to grieve it even.

But… she told me… after you allow yourself to grieve it.. you need to move on.

You can’t stay stuck in your grief. Acknowledge the loss and let it go. I don’t know why it felt so freeing to have someone tell me it was ok to admit that sometimes it hurts that things had to change. Change hurts sometimes. But that doesn’t mean that the change isn’t the most wonderful thing ever.

A death to one dream only means the birth of another. Does being a mother mean I will never accomplish my goals? No, the path will just look different. Does choosing to stay at home make me any less ambitious? Not at all. I am just in a different season of life right now, and someday my children will grow, and I will enter another season of life. Change is constant. Me, my goals, my aspirations… they will all continue to change and grow.

So I did it. I cried. I grieved. I let it go.

And I felt FREE.

Transformation- Innovation- Metamorphasis: synonyms for change 

10408154_10152083990315824_8978888943685551383_n

Skip to toolbar