Artifact Motherhood December 2023

Dear little Loves,

After finishing a year in the classroom and embarking on my second full year of full time teaching, I am more intentional in how we spend our time together. The summer was slow, fulfilling, and rejuvenating. The fall has ushered in new stressors, leading me down a path of humility and embracing silence. But amidst the stress, chaos, and heartache the year wrought, I always find myself coming back to the solitude and stillness of our family–the weekend rhythm of baking and digging deep in the earth, the comforting feelings of snuggling up by a fire. These are the moments I crave when the world seems to be too much: home, stillness, gentleness. 

I sit here leafing through previous letters from this past year, I was struck by their common theme. The beginning of 2023 ushered in the desire to savor moments spent with you, digging deep within myself to be present and still. While I did not have a “word of the year” to strive towards, I did find that I naturally gravitated towards this theme. 

One invaluable lesson you have collectively taught me is the art of gentleness amidst the chaos. In acknowledging my own imperfections and embracing selflessness, I've come to realize that, like you, I am in a perpetual state of honing virtue. I stumble, make mistakes, and occasionally say or do things that I later regret.

When things get shaky and tempers flare, I find myself leaning into God’s gentle whispering to be still with you and listen. The gentle whisperings of  steering the ship towards resolution instead of more conflict.The cadence of our interactions has shifted for the better, and as we collectively strive to nurture patience and gentleness, I want you to understand that my intentions are sincere, and I am genuinely putting forth my best effort.

In the tapestry of our shared journey, I hope you can remember that, above all, I am trying my best. More importantly, it is because of you that I am able to acknowledge my weaknesses; it is because of you that I have a deeper understanding of love and mercy. 

With all my love,

Mom

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come.

Go next to the wonderful artist, Kirsty Larmour read her post in our blog circle.

Season of Motherhood June 2023 Rooted

Rooted

Dear loves,

I feel a strong  call to rest this summer; I didn’t sign you up for summer camps or fill our family schedule to the brim with entertainment. No my dears, our days are filled with quiet and stillness. We have dirt under our feet and fingernails. These summer days are full of endless discussions about grasshoppers, the masters of disguise, and the ways in which deep, well drained root systems keep our vegetables, herbs and flowers healthy and productive.

I want you to consider the treasures that await to be discovered in the quiet of our yard: the difference in a bird’s song at the break of dawn and twilight of dusk, the feeling of cool grass between our toes on a hot summer day, how a spider's web glistens in golden light.  I want your memories ROOTED here, rooted in the summer we took rest and refuge in our garden together.  My intention is that  we will learn how to take care of our mental, physical and spiritual root systems, as we practice dwelling in the quiet and stillness of our days. 

The world is only getting noisier and overstimulation is more prevalent. My hope is that when you are called to a season of rest, especially in your adult life, the stillness won’t be so foreign. You will know how to deeply water your root system, to keep you healthy, well-grounded, and ready to bear fruit.

Stay rooted. 

Love,

Mom

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come.

Go next to the wonderful artist,Jo Haycock to read her post in our blog circle.

Artifact Motherhood May 2023

Dear L ,

As long as I can remember I have always wanted to be an educator. When I was in the third or fourth grade, my mother would bring home her old grade books for me to play with.  I would set up a classroom in my room complete with a library and a card catalog.  When it was time for college, naturally I gravitated towards education. It was through the discernment process  and a few doors closing, that I landed in the field of special education (mild-moderate). I remember sitting in one of my field study classes and getting into deep discussion about the nuances between Autism Spectrum Disorder, dyslexia, and ADHD.  I remember thinking to myself, how fascinating it would be to work with and mold these minds. It was my perspective, then and now, that neurodivergence is untapped potential and creativity. These minds possess new ways of seeing the world that the neurotypical couldn't fathom. I find it beautiful, unique and inspiring. 

I would have never imagined that 11 years later  I would be sitting in your therapist's office as she pointed to a painting on her wall. 

“What do you see, Mrs. Stokes?”

I replied, “A painting of a lonely horse.” We discussed the painting in detail. 

“Do you know what your son sees?”

“A horse.”

“No, he sees a black and white painting. Have you ever heard of Autism Spectrum Disorder?”

It’s almost been a year since this conversation about ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). I can not say that the news was an easy pill for me to swallow. As an educator, I knew exactly the world you faced. It was not the world I imagined for you. As your mother, I felt guilty that I didn’t see it coming. It is my natural inclination that your life should be carefree and easy, in the sense that the grass is always green and there is continual sunshine. It’s hard for me to watch any of my children struggle with academics or social emotional intelligence deficits. I naturally want to go in, right away, and fix and kiss away any suffering. 

L , I have to do something or walk the path to understand that something on a deeper level.  My experience with Dyslexia, ADHD, or ASD, is no different.  The summer after your diagnosis,  I grappled with the literature and therapies. It dawned on me,  I could go out into the world and use this hard-won degree I earned 11 years ago in hopes that by walking the path, it would lead me to a deeper understanding of neurodivergence, which I desperately craved. 

The truth is, sometimes I am scared. Sometimes I am scared that I don’t have what it takes to meet each and every one of your needs–to talk you out of a loop or handle a matter of fact disagreement. To teach you to understand and think outside of a black and white box in a world that operates in the gray.  In the subsequent months of teaching special education at  the highschool level, I witnessed, first hand, that by serving my students, I can come home and better serve you, teaching you in the gray isn’t as daunting of a task.

Thank you for being the driving force and inspiration to my purpose, as  both a mother and an educator. Thank you for the challenges we have faced together and opportunities that have stretched my endurance and understanding. Teaching me about your world, hasn’t and will-not always be easy and warm. It is my hope,  when you find this letter someday, you will have the ability to read between the lines and discover the gray. Discover that a big part of my decision to go back into education was to see and understand your world on a deeper level. It was not   YOU that needed to understand the gray,  I needed to see and understand the black and white. 

Please stay exactly as you are: wonderfully and beautifully made. 

Love,

Mom

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come.

Go next to the wonderful artist, Diana Hagues to read her post in our blog circle.

Season of Motherhood February 2023

Savoring

Unexpected winter weather put a pause on the weight and urgency of weekly schedules. I find myself welcoming the break and leaning in to slow moving days. I take pleasure in the stillness of my littles curled up next to me, soaking in the unstructured, creative play and warm goods fresh from the oven. The winter weather ushered in an impromptu and much needed recharge–a moment to savor the moments I didn’t realize I deeply craved.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artefacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Go next to the wonderful artist Caro Wellings to read her post in our blog circle.

Artifact Motherhood September 2022

In the Weeds

I have written about it before; the end of summer and cusp of fall is always a time of transition for us. This year is no exception. The wildness of summer slips away slowly, and we embrace more civilized routines. Time is always moving forward, and I find myself reflecting on all of the changes and insights we, as a family, have gleaned over the past decade 

I think it’s common for a young mother to say “no one prepared me for…..”. During those first few years, I remember telling myself,  “it’s only hard for a little while. When they are older and more independent it will get better”. The truth is double digits are just as difficult to navigate. The burden of this stage presents itself in an entirely different way. I may not be sleep deprived, but the mental capacity to deal with the bombardment of attitudes, arguments, and lack of social skills are just as energy depleting. This season is accompanied by the same yearnings for rest that I experienced as a new mother. I find myself saying again, “ it’s only hard for a little while, when they are older and more independent it will get better…” 

I can finally see the pattern. I don’t believe the challenges of parenting will ever cease. I don’t believe raising children, even into adulthood, will stop being strenuous. Although we have not come to those chapters, I imagine this pattern to continue, manifesting in a different way.

The stressors of parenthood are beautiful opportunities to love-harder. To love into those spaces in my heart that opened up when you were born. I couldn't fathom how love could grow and would continue to grow everytime I exercise these muscles. I could not have fathomed how  sacrificial and sacred the journey would have been for me. I am not the same woman I was 10 years ago. Looking back, I am proud of all of the challenges I  have overcome and endured. Because of you, my little loves, I am better for it. 

So while we are in the weeds of the tweens, I will stop telling myself it will get better, and  embrace this time TODAY with great love and patience. It is in this process of endurance that I have grown in wisdom and, above all, love.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come.

Go next to the wonderful artist, Diana Hagues to read her post in our blog circle.

Season of Motherhood February 2022

Inflate

Photography has and always will be my form of prayer. Deep within the more vulnerable places of my heart, I’ve always found it poetic that I was bestowed the gift of painting with light. There was a time-not long ago that I found the rhythm of my vocation as a wife and mother irresistibly inspiring. It was from this deep place of love that my creatively flowed. If I am being honest, it’s been a long time since I have felt I could freely create from this place of joy. I see you beckoning me back and I hear the whisperings on my heart. Light is penetrating palaces I’ve felt more comfortable leaving tucked away. There is no freedom in hiding now is there? Inflate- this is my season.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artefacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Go next to the wonderful artist Min Mohd to read her post in our blog circle.

Artifact Motherhood May 2021

Dear E,

In February bitter arctic air crept south. We aren’t equipped for such a deep freeze in Oklahoma. So cold, we had to blow space heaters on exterior pipes to keep them from freezing. It was the coldest winter I have personally sheltered through. Regardless, the winter wonderland before your eyes was absolutely irresistible. You were already out the door before I could warm myself over a cup of coffee. 

I didn’t see you fall on the ice. I just remember scooping you up off the pavement and attempting to console you, while trying to judge the seriousness of the bump you took on your head. After some observation, your dad and I decided he would take you to the ER. A few hours later we would begin to understand just how significant the fall was.

Eventually we found ourselves sitting in a pediatric neurosurgeon’s office. While the fall to your head caused a mild concussion, doctors discovered, through a CT scan and subsequent MRI, you had a grape sized congenital cyst snugly situated between your brain and skull. The surgeon explained just how much pressure it was putting on the left hemisphere of your brain, while also beginning to thin the bone it pushed against. The recommendation was that we remove the benign spinal fluid filled sac.

Leading up to your surgery,  I put on a brave and calm exterior while sifting through some intense lament internally. While preparing you, all you could talk about was spending the night in the hospital and trying their food.

Surgery day came, and we couldn’t have prayed for a better outcome. You came out of surgery bright, cheerful and very hungry. In between pain meds and studying the menu for your much anticipated meal, all you talked about was a cheeseburger. To my suprise, when it came time to order, you settled on grilled cheese and tomato soup.

“Do you know why I ordered grilled cheese instead of the cheeseburger, mom?” you asked, “because there are children here much sicker than me. I want them to have the cheeseburger.” You went on to explain how a grilled cheese sandwich was much easier for the cook to prepare compared to the cheeseburger. Afterall, there was no need to spend time on your meal when others needed special attention.

You: a little boy coming out of neurosurgery, with no thought of your own physical suffering but focused on the pain others experience.  The fact that you possess such an acute understanding for the plight and feelings of others, while having no concept of how a hospital kitchen works astounded me. It took a minute for me to wrap my mind around your sacrifice. 

This is the part of your story: your resilience, courage, and your continuous outpouring of love that beckons me to look inward and reflect on how I choose to love those around me. A  little boy a few years away from double digits inspires me in the most profound way.  It is how you love and the way you love that makes me pause and step out of my own selfishness; I desire to love in that way too. I pray that your heart continues to love radically, serve those around you, and inspire. Keep going my little love.

Love, 

Mom

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records, we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Ann Owen click here to follow the link.

Firm Foundations

To my little Loves, 

Every time we go to the pediatrician's office, the nurse asks if there are any new stressors in the family. I've always answered no. Enter Coronavirus, now I feel like I have an entire list to go through beginning with the death of our beloved pet, COVID, the decision to homeschool, and all the things in between. This has been such a raw year; we are riding the emotional roller coaster of this pandemic. I think the greatest lesson learned so far is the arduous process of letting go. We have been asked to let go of so much during this pandemic: school, community, grief, family.

We lost our family pet at the beginning of the year. I was deeply struck by the realization that as parents we are entrusted with teaching you EVERYTHING.  I don't mean the basics like walking, getting along with siblings, and schooling. I mean we have to lay the foundation for processing the big emotions--emotions that most adults have difficulty getting through. Grief was not a skill I expected to teach; it was never on my radar, especially at such a young age. But there we were, having in-depth discussions and navigating big sorrowful waves of emotion. Losing Gilly was your first experience in losing a loved one.  Not one of you grieved in the same way, each had a vastly different way of handling the process.  I've watched some of you deal with such sorrow in anger, others with confusion, and still others with great sadness. Every step of the way we worked through this new process and pain as family.

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Before you four were born, your father and I had many discussions about your education and carefully laid out THE plan. In retrospect, our journey with schooling has been one detour after another.  I've let go of plan after a plan, and after carefully discerning and reading and reading, we have scrapped THE plan and have committed ourselves to homeschool. It was not a commitment that came easily.  It was a bittersweet process of letting go of a school that we considered our home, while looking forward to and feeling hopeful about the opportunity to teach you this coming year. Intuitively, I know our experiences at our table will be just as wonderful as the previous one and incredibly meaningful to all of us.  

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As I sit here, I can’t help but reflect and feel that the beginning of the year foreshadowed what was to come. I’ve felt a weight on my shoulders, thinking now more than ever I must teach ALL the things. In preparation for our new journey, I was reading Teaching From Rest. Sarah Makenzie spoke to my soul, when she writes,

"... It is so exhausting-sometimes even demoralizing-to realize that our work raising up and teaching our children is never really done. But we must remember that we were never intended to finish it..." Sarah Mackenzie, Teaching From Rest. 

These words have resonated so deeply within me, I'm seeing its theme vibrate across many strings in my life and home, even through the processes of grief and relinquishing of control. 

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The author uses an analogy of the medieval cathedral builders and how they would toil away building these beautiful structures, knowing they would never see the finished product. Regardless, they did so with joy and labored with great care.  My job is very similar; we are at a new beginning, as we crack open our curriculum and have discussions at our kitchen table, I am carefully laying down the foundations, all the while knowing that your life and faith will finish what I am so meticulously building now. Brick by brick,  we will learn how to work through big emotions right along with our phonics and subtraction.  It is my fervent prayer as your mother, that when our time to gather at the table is over,  you have a sturdy foundation to house your beautiful cathedral. I would be lying if I said I didn’t long to see it finished in its complete and utter entirety. But I must remember, I was never intended to finish it. 

Mom

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records, we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Jo Haycock click here to follow the link.

Season of Motherhood May 2020

“We don’t own our family history. We simply preserve it for the next generation.”

— Rosemary Alva

This is my why and this is my season of motherhood… Memory Keeper.

Season of Motherhood is part of ARTIFACT MOTHERHOOD - a project shared with other female artists who are documenting our journeys as mothers and creating memories for our children through our photographs and words.

Go next to the wonderful artist April Christopher to read her post in our blog circle. Or visit artifcatmotherhood.com

Supporting Details

I have been noticing details lately--specifically light. I don't know if it's my artsy eye or if it’s something deeper in my soul, whispering for me to notice--maybe a little bit of both? Suddenly I am aware the way light pours into my home highlighting the supporting details of my life: leftover toys from yesterday’s adventures, bottles and utensils dotting my countertops, and the endless baskets of unfolded laundry. This is my season, my truth, my journey, my motherhood.

I rouse to the stillness of my home. My first few steps out of bed are typically the most painful, figuratively and literally. Sharp pricks of pain shooting through my heels and up my toes, a direct result from continually and tirelessly making my rounds on the hard surfaces of my house barefoot, consoling a child here, putting out a fire there--the revolving door of troubleshooting between siblings, breakfast, lunch, dinner, laundry. These things continually keep me on my feet. This is my season.

As my first cup of coffee starts to brew, I begin opening all of the windows in our home. So inspired by the light’s ability to drive out darkness, I begin to write light on my heart ... patience, patience, wisdom, understanding, patience, calm... I pray. As the shades are drawn, the sun's rose and copper tones illuminate each room’s imperfect spaces, bringing warmth and joy to my achy bones. The light highlights the beauty of the unfolded towels in the corner. “We’re still here ... waiting,” they seem to say. Or the lone cheerio that greets me in the hallway along with a stray sock that didn’t quite make it to the laundry room, a stark reminder that there will be a day my laundry room won't overflow and the floors will be a little tidier. This is my truth.

In my bathroom, I find light dancing on my vanity and walls, pointing out the tiny handprint pattern that dots my mirror. I can easily let the handprint taunt me into immediately wiping it off. But instead, I choose to admire the masterpiece, thinking of the artist who left their sweet work. I choose to not stress over the mess but embrace the moment; this is a true reflection of my journey.

Typically, every morning starts the same. I follow the path the light lays before me and reflect on what it illuminates: the dishes that pile up in and around my sink, the toys left unattended, the handprints, spills, and dribbles that pattern smooth surfaces, and the trail of cheerios. It is not easy, but I am consciously choosing to find gratitude in these moments, rather than letting them irritate me. I know deep down I won't always wake up to these details. One day these spaces will be organized and clean because there won't be tiny hands and feet to come in behind me. After all, this is motherhood, this is my story, and these are the supporting details.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Diana Hagues click here to follow the link.

Wonderfully and Perfectly Made

In college I was a part of a reading program that helped at-risk students. We were required to pick out a book to read together once a week; the idea was to work on reading fluency, comprehension, etc. I remember going to the local bookstore and picking up C.S Lewis’ The Magician’s Nephew. As I flipped through the pages of the book, I imagined what it would be like to introduce the beauty Narnia to my own children. In that moment, I began dreaming of what being a mother of an elementary aged reader would be like--magical.

The most misleading part of motherhood is the dream of motherhood-- turning dreams into expectations. In my fantasies, I pictured myself curled up with my children, delving into adventures and relationships with books in a way that I experienced as a child. In all of my time spent imagining the future, I failed to factor in the actual journey. Would we struggle with processing? Would we feel frustrated with the process of learning? Abandoning my own plan and embracing the journey is a type of vulnerability that not only forces me to see the beauty of the REAL in my own family but also appreciate how hard won each sight word victory is for my hardworking son.

As a special ed teacher, I never dreamed of being on the parental side of a learning disability. But here I sit— I am on the other side of the table, and I feel vulnerable. I am educated and prepared to help children in this position, but I find myself in my own brain stutter. I want to step in and fix it for my son, but this is something he has to do for himself. He is wonderfully and perfectly made; I can only give him the tools and watch him grow. At this very moment, reading is our challenge. It hasn’t come with the ease I dreamed of all those years ago. As with any new adventure, I know there will be frustration, laughter, and tears from us both. As his mother I FEEL his frustration and anxieties, and I wear them on my shoulders like they are my own. Fear and doubt is a funny beast; it suffocates and keeps us from our truest potential, but that’s not going to happen here because we are striving for progress, not perfection. We can do hard things when we put forth time and effort and don't compare ourselves to others. Out of our mistakes and frustrations there is growth, IF we acknowledge it. I make no promises that this is going to be easy, but I know that he is brave and can do hard things.

I see our destination sitting on the bookshelf.. .into the woods we must go. The way may not be clear, but we’ll reach a magical destination together.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented  Diana Hagues click here to follow the link.

You can also read more about Artifact Motherhood by clicking here.

Survive

Survival has been my theme for the month of January.  Two hundred and fifty-two days, that’s how far along I am into pregnancy number four. In a few short weeks, we’ll be welcoming a new son or daughter into our family. I wish I could write how elated and energized I feel; however, the physical and emotional strain of this season have taken a toll. My nights are restless and my energy depleted even before my day begins, leaving me guilt ridden and impotent in the light of my children’s faces.  

Now, more than ever, amid all my aches and pains, I am driven to find the beauty and joy in the everyday--to push myself toward intentionality--not an easy thing to do lately. It seems like there is always a need to be met, small hands wrapped around my legs, never ending laundry cycles, and a mess to be cleaned: the monotonous never-ending to-do list and countless distractions. By the end of the day, my bones, my body and my mind ache. It is when I slow down and appreciate each new stage, new milestone, and the nostalgic moments my three children often evoke of my own childhood that my to-do list, aches and pains melt away. They are no match for the beauty, love, and joy found in these moments.

This is how I survive.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented  Ann Bloom click here to follow the link.

You can also read more about Artifact Motherhood by clicking here.

Here Comes the Sun

I can't remember if its summer or spring; however, the grass is green; it's a mild day, and the wind whips through my curls. I am in the front seat of an old white Chevy pickup truck, windows down, and Abbey Road playing in the cassette player.

Here comes the sun. do, do, do, do.

here comes the sun, it's all right.

My dad is singing to me. I'm grinning from ear to ear; everything is as it should be. No worries, carefree, watching my hero thump his thumb on the steering wheel.

We turn down a road with trees on either side. Their branches embrace one another creating a natural cathedral above us. The rustling leaves from the breeze make the light from the sun dance on my lap as we bump along. We are headed out to the land, a small slice of country my parents bought and hoped to build a house on one day.

This is as far as my memory can take me. A few moments of the distant past that I often drift back to. The way my dad was singing, the smell of the old pickup,  the light dancing on my lap. The love and warmth of this moment comforts me.

Your grandfather, my dad, has been in my thoughts quite a bit recently. Rightly so, November is a very special month. A month we celebrate the lives of loved ones who have passed away as well as your late Grandfather’s birthday.  

On our way to school, a few weeks ago, a Beatles song came on the radio. I could so vividly see and feel him sitting next to me, singing and tapping along ot the beat. Almost as if a faucet of emotions had been turned on and very much unwanted on our drive to school, I could not stop the flow of tears. You, my oldest noticed right away.

“Why are you sad, Mommy?”

Oh so inquisitive, kind, and compassionate you always are. What a loaded question to lay before me at seven in the morning. I explain that you can feel sad without having your feelings hurt. Your heart can ache because you miss someone, and you can smile at the same time because the memories you have of them are warm and happy--what an odd emotion to verbalize..

In all honesty, the tears still sting, my heart still aches for conversations that will never be, but I can’t help but smile. His music always brings a bittersweet comfort, even if I have embrace the stings to get to the smiles.

As I say "I love you" and give kisses goodnight, I tell my little loves that I  am always with them-- forever. Its sobering, knowing I won’t always be with them physically. I find comfort that these songs may one day bring them back to this peaceful place: where the grass is forever green, light dances on their laps, and I am singing. This is what I mean by forever--the secret place, deep in our memories and hearts.

2015

2018

2016

2018

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Abigail Fahey, click here to follow along.

You can also read more about Artifact Motherhood by clicking here.

Summer of Transitions

I remember when I found out I was pregnant with my first--how exciting that time was! I started to meticulously lay out my plans. I imagined seamless transitions and the perfectly well behaved little boy he would be. “Oh I’ll never let my son do that” I’d tell myself.

It’s funny how my perfectly laid plans were tossed out the window no sooner than 48 hours after he arrived. Three children later, and I can’t help but laugh at how silly I was. There are no seamless transitions, and I can make plans all I want, but I have to accept that plans are subject to change on a whim.

Ironically, as I’m writing this, I planned to have my daughter napping. When in reality, she’s full steam ahead to dropping her afternoon nap.

Our family is going through a lot of new transitions and changes this summer:  watching my youngest go from infant to toddler overnight,  transitioning from being a preschooler to an elementary student, debuting new attitudes and conflicts with my oldest.

As a mother, these phases are hard to handle, but they are even more difficult for my children. In the most chaotic of moments, they look to me to help them anchor their emotions. I rise to the occasion calming storms, kissing wounds, guiding them as they navigate their own relationships.  I do this using patience I didn't know I was capable of expressing ... most of the time.

I'm navigating through the waters without any maps or sense of direction. One tool I have is faith. Faith that I'm making the right decisions on my children's behalf. Faith that it's all going to workout for the best. Faith that my children are going to get through the next hurdle unscathed

This is the summer of transitions and ever evolving and dissolving plans. This is where my spiritual faith becomes my life line; it always eases my anxieties and forces me to accept that I am really not in control. I have faith in the goodness of God's plan--even if His plan is different than mine. My hope is that my children learn this a lot sooner than I did.

Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back.These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented April Christoper, click here to follow along.

You can also read more about Artifact Motherhood by clicking here.