Yesterday morning I frantically threw together a bag of snacks, diapers, and diversion tactics while simultaneously feeding Emerson lunch and layering her in mittens and warm clothes. I was late, as per usual, to the support group I attend every Monday.

I eventually made it to the meeting, and also as per usual, was not judged for being late. In fact, we were all told to congratulate ourselves for making it there. And with that, I was in a safe place.

When it came time for me to speak, I decided to bring to light something I have been silently struggling with for the past eighteen months that I’ve been a mother. This post, though, is not about that struggle in particular, but a small prayer of gratitude for the sacred space called “Mother Woman” that allows me to share what feels insurmountable and leave feeling lighter each week.

***

When I learned I was pregnant, I knew I’d need support when the baby arrived. And somehow physical help with my new baby seemed to pale in comparison to the emotional support I knew I would need to weather the enormous and overwhelming transition into motherhood.

So, I had a group for new mothers picked out halfway through my pregnancy. When my baby finally arrived, that group was the one place I could go during those first few weeks and months when the life I had previously known felt like it had been paused, and the majority of my time was spent at home nursing and sleeping. It was a place where my baby could cry….a place where I could cry. There was no judgement and a whole lot of voices speaking the truth about this beautiful but confusing experience I was going through.

But then I was no longer a new mother and my baby was no longer a newborn so we outgrew the group. Yet, I felt like I needed support more than ever as I started to have feelings and experiences that I felt very alone in (mostly while browsing my Facebook newsfeed full of “motherhood is so great and special!” posts). I spent many months suffering without an outlet and feared I would soon slip into postpartum depression. Until one day when a new group (part of a larger organization) formed right across the street from my house—a group that has become critical to my sanity and serenity as a mother.

In our lives as mothers we spend so much of our time and energy nurturing others, but we, ourselves, need to be nurtured in order to continue this tough job. We need to know we are not alone in our struggles, to feel heard (and perhaps validated), to be totally real without fear of judgement. We need other mothers.

I am incredibly grateful for the group of mothers I have found who always manage to leave me feeling nurtured and empowered. And I urge other mothers to find the same!

Light and love, sisters!

This past week I found myself unexpectedly evacuated from my house. We have been on a waiting list to have the exterior of our house de-leaded and painted for a few months and finally got the call on Sunday that it was time. I immediately entered panic mode as we were traveling this past weekend, which meant driving home, unpacking, washing everything, cleaning and repacking in less than twenty-four hours. Alex and I were also stressed at the thought of our family being split up, something we try to avoid whenever possible. But, it was for the sake of Emerson’s health, so we did it.

My mother-in-law came up to help us get this whole evacuation situation worked out, thus beginning a week that got me thinking about so many things. Namely, support.

Alex and I moved to the top of this isolated mountain when we were in a very different phase of life. We were a newlywed, urban-dwelling couple who fantasized about living a simple life in a pastoral setting. The idea of six months of snow, farm shares, being a long trek from civilization, and not knowing a single person who lived in this new place all sounded so pleasant. Romantic even. Totally what we wanted after living in cities for most of our 20’s.

And then we learned we were pregnant with our first child a week before we closed on our new house (and new life). Little did we know all of our needs and wants would drastically change when two lines showed up on that plastic stick.

Life instantly became a bit more challenging as my pregnancy kept me close to my bed (and a toilet) at all times. Suddenly, being so isolated didn’t feel all that romantic. And once the baby came, it felt downright impractical at times.

Now, all the things we didn’t want have become the things that we need. In fact, it is so extreme a shift that our hometown, the very place that Alex and I couldn’t wait to run as far away from as possible throughout our youth, has become an ideal example of where we’d like to raise our kids. And living down the street from our parents doesn’t sound all that bad.

You see, as I spent this week with my mother-in-law, I felt how truly wonderful it is to have frequent help and an abundance of resources at my disposal. Quite honestly, it made parenting so much easier and more enjoyable. It is everything I have dreamed of having the past (almost) eighteen months as a parent.

One thing is for sure: It takes a village. But, what happens when you don’t have a village nearby?

Anything that progresses or can be accomplished in a linear fashion is comforting. It’s predictable, logical, and the end point tangible and rewarding. Unfortunately, none of these things describe parenthood, and that is why I often feel like I might lose my mind.

If you frequent my blog, I’m sure you’ve noticed my lack of posting these past two weeks. And the reason for this unintentional hiatus is my unpredictable daughter. Nap time (aka the time I use to write this blog) has been totally shaken up. I had (so illogically) come to rely on this time. I’ve always had a chunk of hours, every day, without question. But, as of late, I have  found myself fighting with my toddler to go to sleep, spending nap time with her lying directly on top of me (and if not, she refuses to sleep), and this week I’ve had the pleasure of also experiencing motherhood without any naps during the day.

Let me just say, mothering a toddler who doesn’t take a nap is just not fair.

Let’s also throw in the mix the fact that I’ve been dealing with a child screaming in pain in the middle of the night (thank you to those three teeth that are currently ruining our lives!). So, when I have managed to get my toddler to nap, I have subsequently passed out on the floor, unable to accomplish anything on account of terrible nights of sleeplessness.

It’s not linear. We had figured out how to take one three-hour long nap every day. We were getting so good at sleeping in a toddler bed without mama. We were nursing less. We were sleeping more. And then boom! Parenthood. I was fooled by what looked like a straight line, and got way too comfortable, before promptly being reminded that parenting isn’t that simple.

So, we ride on. Up. Down. Over. And over. (And probably over, again). And we remind ourselves that it won’t always look like this. It can’t possibly. The roller coaster will continue, of course, but the details of today that seem immovable will one day vanish. (I’m hoping that day is tomorrow).

Most ideas for sensory play involve a toddler’s hands, but they can learn about the world (and have just as much fun) with their feet, too. It’s a fun way to change things up.

Here’s one idea for sensory (foot) play: Line the floor with different textures, put on some music and encourage your child to dance on this fun new dance floor. Here I used bubble wrap with various size bubbles and crinkly packing paper.

Have fun (tutu optional)!

After I published my post last Friday about the difficult phase of mothering I am in, I tossed a book (not about parenting) in my purse (not a diaper bag) and headed to the café down the street (by myself!). To my former, pre-child self this was an ordinary act, but to my current, round-the-clock mama self it was nothing short of monumental. Much to my surprise, in my first outing sans little one, both selves came along.

I was only down the street, but the space and distance I felt from my life was powerfully relieving. I drank tea before it got cold, I sat in a public place feeling relaxed instead of constantly rummaging through a bag of tricks to keep my child quiet, I read a book without pictures or torn pages. I sat there—slightly altered, but almost the same—feeling ready for more ME. Forty minutes and a quarter mile from home wasn’t enough.

And so, I woke up the next morning, strapped on the yoga clothes that were practically my uniform in my past life, and set out to reclaim more of myself. I was excited and comfortable with the idea of leaving Emerson at home for the first time (more than a half hour) until she started to cry and begged to nurse. My husband and I had been bickering as I was trying to leave (horribly poor timing) and in that moment I felt like I was kidding myself for thinking I could take time out to be “me” again.

I stood paralyzed in the doorway, trying to decide between two things that I love so fiercely: my child, and myself.

I finally made it to the car, but sat in my seat with the door ajar for seven minutes, tears welling, before I finally realized that tears or not (on Emerson’s part, or mine) my need for space was still there. Leaving now was exactly what this was all about—no longer ignoring my own needs. Put my oxygen mask on first, I reminded myself.

So I went. I felt nervous until I turned off of our street. And then suddenly, as I made my way down the mountain, autumn leaves flashing past me, adult music reminding me of freedom, I became myself again. Just like that. After forty-three weeks of carrying Emerson inside me, and sixteen months (two weeks and two days) of carrying Emerson on my hip, I felt that old self that I feared was lost forever.

When I finally made it to the yoga studio and spread open my mat I was afraid that this “new old” feeling wouldn’t last. Tears once again welled in my eyes as I poured my story out to the instructor….leaving my child for the first time….having left my yoga practice for so long….not knowing what my body was capable of after giving birth. She understood. She was a mother.

And then, music began to fill the room with the soft wooden floor. It was the very album I had listened to on repeat many years ago. And my body responded. It opened. It called me home. I moved through the poses gracefully, as if dancing—inhale, arms up, I’m okay…exhale, forward fold, I am still me…inhale, lunge, I can do this…exhale, chaturanga, I am strong. It was as if no time had passed.

On that morning, in that studio, by myself, everything was the same, but different. It all made sense to me…finally…as I bowed my head and held my hands in front of my heart.

I know I’ll get lost again, for I am still a mother, but at least now I know my way back home.

I remember reading in the Dr. Sears Baby Book that the period from twelve to eighteen months was the most exhausting for mothers. I didn’t quite believe him. But I’d now like to curl up at Dr Sears’ feet, sob, and ask him to move in with me.

The past two weeks have pushed me to what I now know is my threshold as a mother. I thought I had bumped up against it before, but no. Not really. Now, I have had two experiences that have very clearly reached beyond my limits.

The first experience was a day last week, after much whining and too much nursing and not enough sleeping, when I continually thought to myself throughout the day: I just don’t feel like being a mother today. I have no idea if that fact is alarming or totally expected, but I’ve never felt the desire to check out for a day so it felt new….and not so great.

The second experience was last night, after a long string of difficult bedtimes, difficult nights, and difficult mornings (that have had me up for the day between four and five a.m.). As Emerson began to make it clear that it was going to be hours before she closed her eyes for the night (yet again), I was filled with an intense level of frustration. I was fuming. I wanted to be so very far away as I felt the cumulative effect of 16-months of nursing, patting a tiny back until my hand goes numb, bouncing, rocking, singing…in my bedroom, in her bedroom, in the baby carrier. I felt exhausted and emotionally depleted and desperately wanted….no, needed…to be alone without anyone touching me or asking me for anything…or even talking to me, for that matter.

I felt angry and afraid that I was angry.

But, I am a mother. And mothers get angry. And feel pushed. And overwhelmed. And say things they wish they didn’t to their beautiful, amazing children that they really do love. Sometimes we have nothing left to give.

***

During the three hours that I was pushing during labor with Emerson, I found myself reaching a raw point when I could no longer access any sort of zen. All the positive, empowering words I had been reciting out loud, and in my head, for forty-eight hours disappeared. The meditative visualizations of lakes at sunset and mountains covered in trees vanished. All I could do was repeat these words to myself, over and over: get the fuck out of me. It was a beautiful birth, but I will never forget that little bit of ugliness that took place in the midst of it. Just as I will always look back on the first years of my first born’s life as the golden years…a time of great magic….the best ever….while knowing that on many a night all I could hear in my head, on repeat, was: go the fuck to sleep.

I know I can’t un-marry parenthood from its challenges. I know that I cannot be the only mother to not ever feel angry with her child. But man, I wish I could.

Instead, here I am, pushed to the brink. I have been giving, and giving, and giving for sixteen months, two weeks, and one day. And it’s wonderful, satisfying, gives my life meaning, and makes me feel totally grateful. But, it’s also frustrating, limiting, emotionally exhausting, and sometimes leaves me feeling resentful. It’s not pretty, but that’s the whole truth.

So, here’s to you (glass raised), all you beautiful mother warriors out there taking deep breaths, yelling into pillows if need be, and trucking on! You’re doing a great job!

Emerson loves putting together unique outfits. Underwear as a hat, a tie as a scarf, a tank top as a necklace, sparkly sandals with sweatpants. It’s incredible to watch her creativity and sense of individuality emerge. But, it’s not just entertaining, it’s inspiring.

The other day, Emerson asked to wear a tutu over her jeans. I happily obliged, and then we went outside for a walk. It was a cold day so I had to bundle her up, but delicate pink tutu still peeked out the bottom of her outerwear. As she strolled around the neighborhood and played at the library, I couldn’t help but notice how comfortable Emerson was with fashion her choice.

As adults, we are more reserved, more fearful, more aware of ourselves when we are doing something that feels “out of the ordinary.” But children have the freedom (if we let them) to be themselves, tutu and all. They do what makes them happy instead of trying to please others and they embrace their ideas instead of doubting them. In watching Emerson demonstrate all those things, I felt envious. I wished I had a tutu over my jeans…for all to see….without feeling the need to explain it to anyone…with a smile on my face. What a different world this would be if we could carry that state of mine into adulthood.