What love looks like (for me, right now)

What love looks like (for me, right now)

“Mommy, talk me,” Auden says from the backseat. “Talk me, Mommy.”

I hit pause on my podcast for the third time and look in the rearview mirror to the backseat where my almost-three year old begs for my attention. Driving used to be my quiet time. Key word: used.

 “Talk me!” He says again.

He means that he wants me to make conversation with him to pass the time, to answer his questions—the questions I’ve of course already answered.

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Anger Out Loud

Anger Out Loud

I go from mother to monster in just two seconds.

“Stop that!!!” The words spill from my mouth in an animal-like growl, too loud and too ferocious to ignore.

My almost three-year-old looks at me, stunned, and tears immediately crowd the corners of his eyes.

But it’s too late. Words keep spilling from me, just a few more shouts. “I SAID STOP THREE TIMES ALREADY!”

“Okay Mommy,” he whimpers, his lower lip actually trembling.

Immediately regret slams into my chest. Shame quickly follows, settling right there by my lungs, ready to stay with me for the rest of the day.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” I say right away. “Mama shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

I can see from the look on his face that the damage is done, that there’s no going back, that there’s no rewinding time. I give him a hug, pat his back, apologize again.

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What’s in a Name?

What’s in a Name?


            I knew my son’s name halfway through the pregnancy. I felt the little butterfly-like fluttering of his movements within me for the first time during our trip to Ireland, and that’s about when Rob and I decided on the name.

It was very uncomfortable traveling halfway across the world at 22 weeks pregnant, but I hadn’t anticipated that when planning the baby-moon months earlier. On the eight hour plane ride, I needed to get up to pee at least six times. Once there, I slept horribly in the hotel room, as that’s when my legs started to cramp during the night and my hips ached from stretched ligaments. I plastered a smile on my face when we walked from museum to museum, but I couldn’t stop from complaining about my aching back and incessant need to find a coffee shop so I could pee yet again.

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I am a steward of my children.

I had that thought the other day, after listening to a podcast in which a mom shares the story of losing her son. It was a sad thing to listen to, and it had me pushing off tears with the back of one hand while the other balanced the stroller on my walk. It made me realize how much I take for granted, made me rethink my role yet again, made me reevaluate for the thousandth time.

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