One of the hardest lessons I learned as a young woman is to never put people, especially those you love, on a pedestal. For years as a child, teenager, and young woman, I held my mother in such high regard that I thought she could do no wrong. She was absolutely perfect in every way. Unfortunately, I was setting up our relationship for failure. When I discovered her brokenness, the glass house I meticulously built around her in my head shattered. It was devastating to find out she had flaws that ran very deep and parallel to my own. Oh how my pride and vanity melded into anger. It took a long time to accept the person, the mother, I discovered in the wreckage. I now realize how unfair it was to put her up on that perch in the first place. This is a lesson I certainly learned the hard way, and one I desperately want you to avoid.
I love walking into a clients home and observing how light supports their family’s story. Every client's home has its own unique story of light. Walking into a new space is a treasure hunt for me. This newborn session from New Year's Eve was a treasure trove of beautiful light and precious newborn details. The kind of sweet details that make your heart melt.
My family and I have been quarantined at home for 34 days. I have left my home only a handful of times to pick up groceries or prescriptions. I must confess, I was very optimistic when this all started. I thought it was going to be an opportunity to slow down and really weed out the daily hustle. I would get quality time with my family. I would get a lot of stuff done. I would document our days showcasing the beautiful chaos. While this is true, I didn't anticipate the deep emotional and mental sufferings I would endure. Grieving for how life used to be and accepting our new reality.
I’ve been wandering in my own Garden of Gethsemane, right here in my home. I’ve been agonizing and lamenting over the cards my family has been dealt, and I failed to see it as an invitation. An invitation to accept the road that lay before us. An invitation to dive deeper into my faith. An invitation to radically trust.....
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.
A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of documenting a dear friend and mother of two. This is Jessica and she is as beautiful inside as she is out. One of my first Artifact Motherhood sessions (link to her AM session here), she has since welcomed another son into her sweet family. We’ve been discussing, on and off, of doing a similar session with her newest addition. A few of my favorite moments from her motherhood summer story below.
It’s no secret that my favorite thing to do is to capture the beauty of ordinary moments--the moments otherwise missed or overlooked. What if we had someone to document our families day in and day out? What would yours look like? I’m a firm believer that we don’t have to create a backdrop to paint the beauty of our families. The beauty is here; the beauty is now.
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.
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.
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.
Liesl changed my life. And I thought I had a pretty good life before she came around. It’s one of those things that scared me the most about motherhood. The fact my husband Jake and I loved each other so much. We had a great life before her. I was afraid that I was going to mess that up. In no way, shape, or form did that happen. Liesl enriched everything about our lives. She made Jake and I a stronger couple, me a better person. She helped solidify priorities that I am happier with now than the priorities I had before. She helped me value myself more than I ever did before. Which is weird, because you think of being a mother as giving yourself to someone. However, I found other aspects of myself that she basically gave me.
Young and in my early twenties, motherhood wasn't on my mind. I didn't think much about things of that nature. At that time I didn't want to be married, much less be a mother. Those feelings changed when I met my husband. It wasn't until after we said our I do's that I realized children and being a mother was something I did, in fact, desire.
As a child, I remember holding my baby doll and dreaming of having a little girl of my own. I recall telling my dad, Daddy, I can’t wait to get married and be a mom.
I have always wanted a daughter. Growing up, I had faith God would bless me with one. He did, he blessed me with two! In high school I would buy little girl stuff in hopes that someday I would be able to give to them to my little girl. I’ve kept those things over the years, and I now have it for them. After graduating high school I remember telling my dad, I’m not going to college, I’m going to get married and have babies. Daddy just giggled. Truth is, I did end up going to college and graduate school, where I met my husband Terry.
