i want to remember

I want to remember the way you started calling me "Honey" this summer. It equal parts cracks me up and delights me.

I want to remember the sound of your laughter when you say something that you think is so funny.

I want to remember the way you reach for my hand on the evenings I chant to you just before you fall asleep. 

I want to remember the sound of you sounding out words and the look on your face when you figure it out.

I want to remember the way you're growing up as you pause and notice the way your words and actions affect others. It's a huge piece to understand, and I'm so proud of you.

I want to remember when your counselor at camp said, "Has Eleanor told you that she's become one of our best sharers?" and your face beemed when we told Daddy all about it later.

I want to remember the conversations we're having about just playing when it comes to creativity instead of worrying about "being good." I hope you always remember that playing with paint and paper and pens and color and glue is at its core fun.

I want to remember the joy surrounding you when you ran into the studio and said, "Mama, I taught myself how to swing today!" and explained how you are climbing onto the swing yourself and pumping your legs.

I want to remember the way you so often want to do what I'm doing. If I open my journal and start doodling, you want to play in your journal. If I go into the studio, you are close behind me ready to "help make things for your shop mama. I want to help you make things for the ladies." If I'm looking through a magazine, you want your own. I know it won't always be like this, but it's special to connect with you about the little things that bring me joy.

I want to remember that moment when I looked at you and realized you are a big kid now. And I want to remember the moment right before that one too. 

photo by Tara Whitney 

and then on a day in June

There are so many stories inside me about the photos I don't have. 

Over the years I've seen so many mama and baby photos and I've wished I had those photos. Those gorgeous, real-life, this is holy and hard and gorgeous photos of a mama with her baby. I've wished I'd had a photographer take photos of my little family when Ellie was born, and then right before her surgery, and then right after, and then when she was one and two...

Of course, this wishing hasn't meant that I haven't been present to the beauty of the everyday moments. Noticing the everyday beauty is "my jam" as they say.

But you can be present to that beauty and still wish sometimes.

I wanted a photo that captured how it felt to be her mama. A photo that captured the joy that is there even if only at the edges some days. A photo that said, "Amidst it all, she feels this joy, this love." A photo that said, "You're doing a good job Mama. You really are." A photo that captured both of us - the magic, the silliness, the softness, the connection. A photo that would gently push me to shed another layer of how I wish that first year could have been for her, for us. And honestly, a photo that did all that while capturing me in a way that wouldn't distract me from the story. I wanted to feel beautiful in that photo.

Of course I could tell the story with my words and with my camera and I have again and again. And that piece is so important. Self-healing, as my friend Pam says, is an important piece of unpacking the stories and feeling seen by one's self, which is vital in my opinion. But still, I felt that ache of wanting to be seen by someone who would deeply get it. I wanted to hold that evidence in my hands so I simply couldn't deny it.

And then on a day in June, Tara Whitney arrived, and Ellie took her hand within minutes and said, "Come and see my room." And a little girl's laughter and a photographer's wisdom and kindness created space for me to relax into myself, to relax into that joy and love. And before I even saw the photos, that little wish that was more like a crack in my heart stitched right up. 

There are so many gorgeous photos from this day that I'll be sharing, including one of me and Jon that has me saying, "Yes, this is exactly how I feel" even when that feeling can feel far away from time to time after this many years together. And several of all three of us that make my heart burst with joy. But this photo. This one. I had to show you because I'm so grateful for the ways you've held my story these past few years and I knew you would get it. 

Photo by Tara Whitney (who is full of magic and grace and delight.)

five years {what is real}

 

Five years ago today we were in the PICU not sure of what the next few hours would hold. Our five week old wasn't thriving and eating was exhausting her and her heart was beating so fast her little body was vibrating. At her 5 year check up last month, her growth was above the 20th percentile for the first time (it was actually above 50!). For the first two years she never hit above 5%. I remember the day her cardiologist told me it was time for milk shakes and french fries. But she's always loved broccoli and peas and strawberries most of all. So when we have ice cream on girls' night and we talk about how things went at camp today and she tells me about running and creating and playing, I can't stop myself from taking photos of her eating it all up. And tonight, I think about how blessed we are that her body kept listening on those nights I'd whisper while she slept, "Your only job is to keep growing and growing so that you can live your life and see all the beauty in the world waiting for you." Yes. Yes. Yes.

I posted this photo and words on Instagram earlier tonight, and it feels important to share it here too as this is the space where I've worked so much out over the last (almost) ten years...where I've made sense of my story and the way it's unfolding. Thanks for being along beside me.

there are things i want to tell you

I want to tell you about the ways being a mother pushes me more than anything I've ever done. It knocks me around. It takes my breath away. It takes me out at the knees. It grows my heart bigger.

I want to tell you about the way I can see love float through the air whenever my daughter giggles. It's like heart-shaped bubbles surround her, surround us, and I can't help but relax into myself.

I want to tell you about the ways I'm certain that I don't know what I'm doing, the days when the questions and the shoulds and the whys stack up.

I want to tell you about the moments when I wonder why it has to be so hard, why she has to push so hard against me, against the love.

I want to tell you about the moments that are full of ease, full of more joy than one person can hold, full of certainty and wide hope.

I want to tell you about the moments when I whispered to her, "All you have to do is live. Is breathe on your own. And then you can live big in this world. You can love big. You can walk beside an elephant in Africa and discover all that you love and become a superhero and just be anyone you want to be. All you have to do is live" as the ventilator whooshed beside us.

I want to tell you about the choices I've made, the mistakes, the blunders, the parenting moves I want to redo because I'm that mom whose baby girl almost died and it can be hard to get out from under that truth.

I want to tell you about the ways I'm trying to soften inside when I think about those mistakes because she's that daughter who doesn't need to think about that almost for even a second because she's so strong and living so big in this world.

I want to tell you about feeling turned inside out while also feeling certain that "yes, even this" can be the path.

I want to tell you about the ways I don't do it all, the ways I'm plowed under by the clutter and the anxiety and the "Please don't ask me one more time if we're there yet."

I want to tell you about the ways my heart keeps stitching together as another bead slides down the string and she joins in as I chant to Ganesh and later after she's in bed he looks at me and says, "Can I hold your hand?"

But instead I'm just going to tell you that each day I'm doing all that I can to set down the pushing and the almosts and the "yes, even this" sometimes to notice the way I want it to be and the way it is, and I'm building a bridge between them where I'm going to sit and dangle my feet while I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I'm building a bridge where I'm going to live.

Where we're going to live.

retreating

Ellie and I are in Arch Cape, Oregon for her first art retreat this weekend. It's just the two of us and it's pretty awesome to be here together teaching her the ways of retreating. We're painting and getting sea and salt in our hair and snacking and writing and laughing. And there's of course a heavy dose of remembering to be kind and learning how to take some space when we need it and creating a mess with our words and then hugging it out.

Our time here has me very excited to come back in June for the One Move Retreat (which has five spots left). And it has me thinking about writing a few posts with some thoughts about what I'm learning as we paint and talk and hug it out.

 

While watching her run on the beach with a new friend this morning, I started thinking about how parenting is so much about trying to stay rooted while the world feels like it spins faster. And I'm not talking about time. That's a given. I'm talking about how you go from knowing what to do in a moment and saying just the right thing to help her learn to hearing her laughter and see her joy literally bubble up around her like magic to watching her run too far from you until she can't see you, until you can't see her, while the tide is coming in and the moment suddenly tosses you over a cliff of worry and knowing you're going to have to pull out the serious voice while not totally losing your shit in front of wedding guests who are suddenly gathering on the beach where just 20 minutes before there was only you and her and adventure waiting. Somehow staying rooted, even if only by a fingertip, in moments like that. 

More soon...but I think it's time to nap while she naps...