a fire / a trough / a pill
motherhood
I have a confession to make.
Is every day perfect? Absolutely not. Is it good enough? Better than I expected, even? Yes. Yes it is.
take care of you first, mama.
You don't have to get dirt under your fingernails to be a good mother.
the year our children grew in isolation.
He's this whole entire other person and it's happened in secret.
play first, worry later.
be with them now; the rest can wait.
why taking care of yourself is not admitting defeat.
Put on your own oxygen mask first. Always.
sometimes we just have to hold them.
I scooped up that five year old, all arms and legs, brought him to my lap and I hugged him tight. I held him and I told him he had every right to feel angry.
dear pandemic parents:
for the guilt you harvest for falling to pieces.
sometimes our children are the stabilizers.
The key chain from the aquarium sat at the other end of the kitchen table. I watched the blue-dyed water and the turtle inside shake, each time he sunk into his chair and wriggled, refusing to read an assignment.
today I managed to be fully present for you.
I snapped quick photos of your concentration, placed the phone down and watched your fingers move, how you dipped your brushes a little too aggressively, swirled through the orange like a hurricane then slapped on too many layers.
