And why I believe in unicorns and fairies and that everything happens for a reason.
I’ve been saved by grace a million times over.
I’ve been saved by the grace of something bigger and grander than my wee human self so many times that I definitely believe in magic.
In moments of overwhelm, moments where I’ve face-palmed myself in a how the hell am I still doing this alone? kind of way, I’ve been saved by grace.
Mindfulness, meditation, yoga, and therapy master that I am, I still fall flat — often.
I think I would question myself and the meaning of life more if I didn’t have those emotional wall moments where a torrent of tears or primal screams are the only thing that save me from a nervous breakdown.
A parent’s love-hate relationship with their children’s bodily goo.
I hate poop. H.A.T. E. it. Hate is a strong word, I know. From dirty diapers to accidents in undies, I’ve had uncountable moments cleaning, smelling (or trying not to) and griping over ongoing poopcidents (yes, I made that word up).
Ironically where hate lives, love isn’t far behind.
Why parents can’t rest — ever.
I unrolled our new self-inflating camping pad and laid it out on the living room floor for my daughter to try. The bright lime green against our light pastel rug made it an inviting bed. She blew up the attached pillow and cozied up, a lazy haze settling over her deep blue eyes.
“I’m excited to go camping this weekend, mom!”
I chuckled to myself. Just moments before she’d complained to me about camping. Will our tent be big enough (it’s new and we haven’t put it up yet)? Will it rain? Will our neighbors be loud? Will there be fun things to do? Her sharp, inquisitive mind was considering every angle.
Motherhood requires your full attention. Being a writer does too. Can writing and motherhood co-exist in a healthy way?
I think about writing all day.
As soon as I wake up and start scooping coffee into the filter, (Oh my that’s a sacred moment! The aroma! The sound!) the ideas start pouring in.
My deep in thought self suddenly hears a faint, then not so faint, “Mommy, can you come to the bathroom with me?” My 8-year-old doesn’t like to pee alone. My idea trance has ended. That writer bubble has been burst. My un-caffeinated body stumbles toward that little girl voice, “Yes honey, on my way.”
Soul Writer. Single Mama. Life ponderer. Nature Lover. Therapist. Introvert. HSP & Empath. Life is my playground and each day a blank canvas.