Jam Bars and Keeping My Mouth Shut

You know what really stinks? I think besides eating (maybe playing sports) my favorite thing to do is also the thing that gets me in the most trouble. I love to talk. It’s a little hard to admit because it sounds annoying, but it’s true.

A walk with friends is wayyy more enjoyable than just a walk. A chat over coffee is far superior to a solo cup of joe. A car call can make the time in route go so quick. I once ran a ½ marathon, and the pacer I ran with told me that I should be a pacer someday…because I talked the whole time.

Of course I love conversing more than just talking. I don’t make a practice of talking to myself, but when given the option between silence and a chat, I choose the chat.

When you say a lot though, other things start happening. You’re far more likely to say words that pinch people in the underarm or finger poke them in the chest. Worse still– is when words slip out that stick like burrs in you little kid’s hair and stay in their minds for much longer than you realize.

I still remember some of the harsher words, the careless words, spoken to me or about me as a child. Of course, a child is pure magic. A child’s desire for connection supersedes all, and forgiveness comes easy. But not so much for adults. I think that’s why we’ve learned to hide from saying the hard thing, the true thing. Unwanted words can wreak havoc on relationships, even if they are true and fair.

Sometimes, I’m proud of myself for saying the hard things. Sometimes, my friends say, “it’s so good you can be honest,” but sometimes I just need to stuff some chocolate in my mouth and be quiet when I’m feeling grumpy. And online, I don’t need to share an opinion and sometimes I don’t know enough to form one (and that’s ok)!

So even though I tell myself this isn’t a food blog…today I made jam bars, and I kept my mouth shut.

There were things… angry words I wanted to send out of my head into phone of someone I love. I took time. I thought a little and even though they’d feel good taking shape on that bright screen, they are the sort of words that linger like a bitter taste, infect the whole space around you.

So instead, I moved my body. Instead, I made hot crunchy bacon for my kids. Instead, I simmered last summer’s strawberries (from my freezer) until the dense, sugary smell filled the entire house. I slathered that jam on an oat-y crust from some internet recipe and sat there in the kitchen eating one giant jam bar, writing this.

I don’t know if I should make a practice of eating instead of saying something mean, but gosh, it was great.

I filled my home and mouth with sweetness instead of bitterness. I forked up a big bite of something lovely instead of forking my loved-one in the ribs.

I hope I do this more. I hope you do. With your people, your community, your little corner of the internet. Be sweet. Or if you can’t be, make sweets, and be silent.

Thanks for reading friend.

Verses that came to mind:

Be slow to speak, quick to listen, and slow to anger James 1:19-20

Can fresh water and saltwater come from the same spring…? James 3:11-12

The Grief Invitation

When we were in the hospital, shortly after learning that our daughter would likely never come home, I remember having a conversation. My husband and I stood in the muted colors of the Ronald McDonald asking each other.

Should we let them in?

Neither of us wanted to. Letting in our small group from church felt too raw, too personal. Not because we didn’t love them or know they loved us, but because it was absolutely terrifying. They’d never seen us this way. We had never seen ourselves this way: utterly broken, completely stripped to the barest most vulnerable version of ourselves.

The past week in the hospital, we couldn’t eat, barely slept. My entire body buzzed with adrenaline and yet felt hollow with fatigue. I was weak with heartache and physical pain from surgery. Our eyes were bloodshot from constant crying. Our bodies physically shrunk; our strength paper thin.

In this place it felt (feels) easiest to hide. Yet despite all this, a thought came clearly into the fog of my mind: to invite them in—literally, putting their names on that front desk list—and of course, figuratively, was the only way we wouldn’t walk alone.

These are the people who are going to walk with us…after.

That night some of our friends came to meet our daughter for the first and last time. They saw her covered in tubes and connected to machines and somehow still beautiful. They came and wrapped themselves around us and saw our tears and cried their own. They filled the hospital chapel and prayed. They touched her sweet face. I wish I could say it was wonderful, but it was also terrible. It probably would’ve been easier to hide, to be alone, to stay concealed in our own bubble of fear and pain. And yet now we had a small army of people who could fathom a slice of our grief.

We left the hospital a few days later without our daughter. She was gone from this earth. We will never be the same.

I don’t know what would’ve happened if we’d decided to do it all alone. Yet, I believe that somehow letting them in became essential to keep on living. These friends knew they were on the metaphorical list. So after, they wouldn’t let us walk alone; and they didn’t let us walk alone.

I tell this story today with the sky white with clouds and the ground wet with rain. It’s cold and quiet. It’s a day for remembering. I tell this story because I think I needed to and because I sincerely believe we are not meant to hide in our deepest pain.

Even in the darkest, most confusing moments, when truly no one can truly grasp what is happening inside us, we can invite someone in. Not only to see the vulnerable and hurt parts, but to allow them a chance to comfort us, to be Jesus to us—”to be near to the brokenhearted and the crushed in spirit.” They will not do it perfectly, but if they are true and loving, they will accept the call to walk with us in the years of grieving and healing to come.

Bee Breath

An excerpt from my *hopeful* book

It’s summer. Hot and sticky, and I am lying in the yard because both the kiddos are napping, and I want the sun to touch some of the less-loved parts of my body. But, as it turns out, bees love all the parts of my body. And this time of year, while August drones on into September, they spend extra time collecting their booty and bothering us while we sun ours.

I am lying here feeling myself grow less comfortable and more anxious, when I think of Rudy.

Rudy is our Brittany spaniel. A copper and white, middle-aged and mid-sized creature. Our fuzz baby. Rudy exists assuming all his passions are purposeful. A hunting dog, a squirrel patrol, a crumb-cleaner, a deer chaser, a car announcer. He lives life completely comfortable with in his own skin, like all dogs do.

When Rudy is hot, he takes a swim in the pond; when he’s tired, he lies with his muzzle to the ground, feet splayed to one side as he snoozes. When Rudy’s hungry he’s especially present, gobbling up his food in less than three minutes. All day he runs and swims and hunts any living, fur-clothed thing until he’s tired or hungry or needs to go. He laps at water wherever he finds it, lies in the sun if he wants to be warm or pants in the shade to cool off. He forces unsuspecting souls into endless hours of fetch and comes to receive a scratch on the back whenever he has an itch.

Also, Rudy eats bees.

Bees really bother me. Maybe because they’re an insect, and most humans don’t like most insects, but more likely because of their pointy butts and the unsuspecting way I’ve been stung several times in my life. It’s not like I’m swatting at them or drop-kicking their hive when they get me, so, naturally, I think they’re all little b-words.

But when they’re buzzing around my pup, he turns his head like one might lazily shoo a fly, and then, he chomps the air. If he can catch it, he eats the bee. I don’t know if it buzzes in his mouth or stings him while he swallows or if his acrid breath kills the thing on impact, but he survives, and the bee does not. Sometimes, he even seems to hunt them, standing up from a nap to scan the air and chomp, chomp, jitter. He got one. It’s really, really weird.

One year, there was a terrible tribe of yellow jackets humming around in the yard, and I suspected they had a hive somewhere close by. I looked up the specific coloring, and discovered it was the type that is especially cruel and will actually chase humans down (Lord help us) and attack, stinging over and over. Instructing my people to avoid that portion of the yard, I started wondering how we were going to eradicate this problem.

The next morning, I cautiously walked to the area I’d seen them occupying to discover a large, deep hole. A Rudy-hole. He’d completely dug up their underground tunnels, exposing them to the hot summer sun, and I never saw another yellow jacket in our yard again.

Today, lying in the sun. I think of Rudy. I try to be Rudy. He wouldn’t get up or move because of some tiny stinger buzzing by his ears. He would stay lying in the sun, occasionally chomping the air. Maybe he’d change position to get a better angle to eat them, but he certainly wouldn’t stop resting unless he wanted to.

And even though he rolls in feces and occasionally eats something long-rotted, he’s not just an idiot, he’s brave too. Yes, his bravery stems from stupidity, but I think most bravery looks a little stupid at first.

I think this isn’t such a bad way to live. Brave enough to keep existing in a world full of bees and viruses and even death. Brave enough to laugh and cry when both feel ridiculous.

Today, I will keep lying in the prickly grass, with the sun burning the crepe-y-looking skin on my stomach and not care who sees. I will show my kids that amidst a world of strangers, stingers, sickness, even death, I can still sleep in the heat of the day, bees all around me, this upside-down world still spinning.

Muffins for Prez

It’s been a long time since I entered this space, but somehow the urge was too strong to ignore this time. The thing that finally did it for me? Muffins.

So much is going on right now (as it always is) but it seems like there’s more to argue about than ever. People pick their sides, draw their lines in the sand, ‘cancel’ and condemn. So what can be the great equalizer in all this division and madness?? I offer you muffins.

Our friend, food
I’d like to offer this as well: food is our friend. It’s possible that food does not need to be a plague, a struggle, an altar on which to sacrifice health or happiness. It can just be.

I love food in the sense that I love a good brisk walk, a cuddle with my babes, a cool lake on a hot day. It’s enjoyable. It feeds me.

I hope for today, you can enjoy with me.

A muffin story
Long before muffins, today we are outside, the dew on the grass is gently warming. We walk up to the field and plant a few experimental seedlings. Breaking up clods of grass from dark soil with spades, our hands. We clear a small little row of bare earth. The kids argue about who will ineffectively use the small shovel, and then we tuck seedlings in and leave them to the elements, hoping.

When we walk back to the house something about the downhill slope, the cool air, sends us all to our own peaceful place. Me to the garden to plant more seedlings, the kids to their own nature adventure. It smells everywhere like growth, like cocoa shells and worms.

All the movement and activity makes us actually hungry and we go inside for fresh eggs and half a piece of toast, a strawberry each.

The kids run back outside while I clean up the kitchen.

It’s almost midday, getting warmer so I don’t know if I should bake. But here they are. Sitting on the counter are two glossy apples as green as the new grass. I take mental inventory. Whole carrots, oats and raisins, baking soda. Out comes the recipe.

Morning glory muffins.

I don’t remember when I first had these muffins, but clearly they left an impression. My recipe is so loved, I’m not quite sure what color the paper was when I first wrote it down.

Many a friend and family member has requested these muffins to comfort their soul or feed their healing body. Many a morning these muffins have brought me back from wandering mental spaces.

First the carrots. I peel off the outer layers of dirt and ribbing into the scrap bowl. Now long, bright-orange ribbons form a pile on my cutting board. Can you see the green apples loose from their bitter shiny skins and become wedges of porous white? Can you smell the aromas lifting from the wood board? Lemon soap, eucalyptus, apple’s tang and carrot’s earth.

The fruit and veggies wait on the board as I wash three brown eggs, warm as my skin, and crack them into a bowl of measured olive oil. Vanilla makes the liquid rich yellow

Now the dry ingredients go into their own bowl. Oats, flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon– all their own beautiful neutral. It’s almost a shame to mix it together, but we must.

Then, I chop the carrot ribbons into confetti and the apples become imperfect cubes. All go into the dry ingredients (raisins too). I mix and coat the sticky fresh things, ensuring they wont sink to the bottom of the batter.

Finally the wet ingredients flood the dry. We (I have a helper now) mix it all into a sticky mass. These muffins will be anything but dry.

I paste the sides of the tins with butter and fill each tiny cave to the brim with batter. One spoon scrapes another, dropping in a sweet mound of mix– a motion that I’ve known since childhood. When it’s done, kids lick the sweet spoons clean.

Into the oven they go, and soon the house fills with smells of cinnamon cake and baked apples.

Later, when we bite into these muffins, we get all the moisture and tang of the apples, the sweet bursts of the raisins and cake-y smack of cinnamon batter. We lather our muffins with butter and eat more than one. We give them to neighbors and friends and sometimes freeze them for later. We eat them and remember that life can be simple and good.

These muffins don’t solve world problems and won’t run for president; they don’t even satisfy hunger for long, but their simple goodness is worth sharing.

I hope you enjoyed this little muffin story.

xoxo
Meg

Happy Birthday, Baby

I can’t believe it’s been a year. What grief and trauma do— it’s almost like an alien abduction, a trip to a different dimension. We have lived a lifetime, yet it feels sometimes like we are right back in that room, hearing the words we prayed we wouldn’t hear.

I wish I was exaggerating.

I have thought many times about what I want to say to all of you, the people who hoped and prayed and donated, sent gifts and texts and letters. Some of you we know and some of you we don’t, but we are thankful for all of you. Every single soul.

I wish, wish, wish that today I was thanking you and talking about miracles, showing you pictures of our one-year-old daughter. Instead, I am thanking you and saying YOU were and are the miracle. You showed up as an army of supporters holding us during those dark hours and throughout this past year.

You loved us. You showed incredible love to our baby girl. I believe she knows this. I believe she felt your love.

I want to share a few things with you.

When someone grieves, they really do want the world to stop.
Somehow, strangely, Covid stopped the world, and for us, it was ok. Sure, it made some things difficult, and I’m by no means downplaying the hurt and fear that came with it, but the unexpected gift was a slower pace, zero expectations. That is what grieving people need from you: zero expectations.

Laughter and silliness and hope don’t have to die too. Our kids make us laugh every day, and sometimes we do that for each other. We have hope for this place to get better and hope for heaven, the place where we’ll all be together again someday.

Hurting people are everywhere. I can never know what the person next to me has gone through and they don’t know what I’ve been through. Our everyday words matter. Our everyday actions matter. Kindness goes a long way.

Loss of a child is not something you get over. It stays with you because love for your children is both powerful and eternal. We’re not climbing some grief mountain to get to the other side. We’re carrying her life and death with us daily; some days the burden is light, some days heavy. Everyday we appreciate those who carry it with us.

Finally, to my sweet baby girl, Happy Birthday.
I wanted you. I prayed for you. I hoped against hope you’d stay with us.
We miss you always, but especially today.

Sending oceans of love to you from all of us.
We love you; we love you; we love you.

Save a spot next to Jesus for me.
xoxo, Mama

Fear & Hope: United by Both

Photo by Kristopher Roller on Unsplash

As many of you know, our youngest daughter recently passed away not quite two months ago. Her brief life and death marred us, messed with us, is still not a puzzle solved or mountain climbed. Considering this monstrous life event and alllll that is happening globally with coronavirus, I’ve been thinking about many of the things that happen behind the scenes of grief and as a result of awful life events. One such thing is fear.

How is fear first conceived? What makes it grow? How does fear develop into a fully formed, living thing with fists that can grip us, rip us to and fro, nearly control us?

I’m not talking about the fight/flight response we need when there is imminent danger like a fire or car coming toward us. I’m talking about the fear that lingers there long after any imminent danger is present. The anxious, constantly-present fear. The dormant yet- strong-as-ever fear.

I think these types of fears are founded on something true or partially true. Some piece of scientific or historical (even personally historical) information. A few facts or events that we can point to. Then, to become a fear and not just a factoid or two, our emotion comes into play. Our own sadness, anger, regret, confusion, shame. The fear grows.

But as I thought about this, I realized that beneath it, or maybe if we follow it to its end, most fears are not really that different. We may fear the rising sea levels, the pollution, the natural disasters, but the base layer of this fear is existential: the ending of life as we know it. We may fear different people groups with very different, sometimes backwards ideals coming into our cities, but the base of this fear is once again, the ending of life as we know it. We may fear our loved ones or ourselves getting hurt, sick, even dying and, once again, following that fear to its end is also the end of life as we know it. We may fear what we are taught to fear by our parents, politicians, teachers, media-outlet-of-choice, but I challenge you to follow that fear and it will most-likely end in the place the rest of these fears do.

I don’t know if thinking this way brings you any sort of comfort, but for me it’s kind of refreshing. Maybe we are not really that different after all. We all are united by our deepest fear. Perhaps that’s a bit unpleasant for you. Fear is not something we want to own. We’d rather own logic, wisdom, morality, knowledge. We’d rather think an emotion like fear has nothing to do with us. Maybe you think you just care. You don’t fear. But if this ‘care’ leads you on to the same destination, this end to life as you know it, it may still hold a pinch or even gallon of unseen fear.

One of my greatest, most unlikely fears came true. One of those dormant-swirling fears. The kind you have automatically and must always always fight. Death. My daughter died. My physical flesh and blood, my ethereal hope and love was in this person, and she died.

The worst happened. Fear became reality.

But I don’t want to live in fear that the worst will happen again and again just because it did. Because we can probably all agree, that fearing all the time is a horrible way to live.

My fear came true. There is an end to life as I knew it. But there is something else there too: hope.

Hope that THIS isn’t it for us. This death, this imperfection, this virus, this iffy science we worship, this messy morality we cling to, this failing humanity and flailing earth. There IS something greater, more perfect, more lovely, more kind, more lasting than THIS. Or why and how can we know it deeply–feel it in the unseen places of our soul? We are built for it, and I have hope it’s still coming.

Hope. Hope can unite us too.

Lord I pray that during this tumultuous time, we are united by the hope. That fearing sickness and death is not our calling and brings no change to our lives. Take our fears that we grip on to and those that grip onto us. Replace them with hope.

Romans 8:24
For in this hope we were saved; but hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he can already see?

2 Corinthians 4:18
So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 5:7
For we walk by faith, not by sight.

Reflections on becoming a mom of two (and counting)

When I first became a mom, I think I was a lot like other first-time moms, dumbstruck in love. Like, heart torn in two and half gone. And it wasn’t just the love-at-first-sight thing, everyone describes. When I first set eyes on that red and wide-eyed little bundle, yes, I loved her, but I wasn’t expecting that feeling to grow so exponentially, so quickly. As the days passed, I found I could look at her, just stare, for way longer than considered polite and kiss her more in one day than I’d kissed in my entire lifetime. I would wake up in the wee hours to nurse and rock my squishy, little red-head half-awake, but fully in love. She would wake up early, and we would side-lie nurse, falling asleep, more as one body than two. In the hours while she slept during the day, I would lie outside and journal and write her letters and reflect on how full of purpose and happy I felt. Elated really. And the surprise at that feeling was sweet as the buds just starting to blossom.

Then, when she was about three months old, my husband became very ill. It started as a migraine that would not go away. Not a drink-a-coke-and-take-an-Advil-migraine, but a throw up, lay in a dark room for days, can’t eat or sleep migraine. From there, he had intense waves of pain and pressure in his head that would often cause him to lose his balance and fall down or not be able to speak. I called 9-11 on multiple occasions and witnessed my larger-than-life partner fall like a toddler learning to walk. Doctors, even brain surgeons, couldn’t figure it out. Test after test came back negative. We began to wonder if trips between hospitals was our new normal. Finally, about two months later, he was diagnosed by an eye-doctor of all people, with hemorrhaging behind his eyes caused by excessive spinal fluid in his brain. To correct it, he’d need a spinal tap. Just as we had answers, it seemed, miraculously, symptoms were beginning to subside naturally. It was bizarre.

After missing out on nearly three months of his daughter’s life, he was back in it, and we were back to our normal groove. But the whole thing shook me pretty hard, and I found myself struggling with residual anxiety and illegitimate fears. I longed for those days basking in the sun and enjoying my newborn baby. I can’t say it was this longing that caused us to try for number two or our general understanding that multiple kiddos was always the ‘plan’, but I was getting those little itches to have a wee one in my arms again.

A few months after my daughter turned one, I found out I was pregnant. As we began to spread the news, we were met with a whole different set of reactions. This time around, instead of excitement and pleasant trips down memory lane, people seemed to smile knowingly and say things like “get ready” or “two is a game-changer.” I began to have flashbacks of older friends and acquaintances with multiple children who walked around like the half-dead, pale skin, dark under-eyes. It freaked me a little. On top of it all, I was still dealing with residual anxiety and learning how to cope with and conquer unwelcome thoughts.

When our son was born, a huge, cheesy babe, I was just as excited to meet my new baby as I had been the first time. But new feelings and thoughts were present too. I was concerned about my first-born, how she would feel, what she would think. Would I put too much pressure on her, would she still feel loved? How could I love this new baby with the same attention and fervor as I’d loved my first? It was like my heart, already half gone, was parceled out again and my brain scrambled with a fork.

And boy oh boy, was the second time around different. No more sleeping-in with a newborn snuggled against my breast. No lying in the sun reflecting and journaling during day naps. No leisurely strolls through the market for groceries. With a rambunctious toddler and less-than-ideal little sleeper, we were the undead. We were the zombies walking around crabbily with coffee in one hand, daydreaming of a night-cap to (hopefully) usher us into a full sleep cycle before the first siren-like cry. I remember looking at my Fitbit several times in the morning and seeing only minutes of “deep sleep” recorded. With our first born now blossoming into a willful human being, we were also trying our hand at the art of actual parenting. It was bumpy and uncertain and confusing and maddening (and still is!) And with the little sleep and irregular nutrition, my entire personality evolved into a survivalist. I would eat and sleep whenever I had the chance. I would lock all the doors and set the alarm while my child watched television so I could sleep when the baby did. I would shower…when I could. I would work out almost never and lived for the nights when relatives or babysitters took my children, and I didn’t have to think about anyone else for an hour or two. I look back at that time now with hardly any memories of my son’s first three months of life.

But we got through. Yes. We all did. My children were nourished and grew in life skills and abilities. They even began to play together. I learned to tackle Target, go on walks (with the dog), cook dinner, road trip to my parents’ and back, and do so much more with only myself and my multiple young children. Though not yet the ‘mini-van- mom’ I channeled her inner calm and learned to do life with screaming and food smears in every scene. Though my son is not yet two, the months between his arrival in the world and where we’ve landed today are as different as Earth is from Jupiter. And I’m proud. Not just of myself, but of all the mamas (and dadas) who have made it through too.

As I tell this story, I know some dear friends getting ready to embark on the journey into multiples. I myself am about to add another little babe to our clan (which has really ushered in the interesting comments!) And I want to leave some sort of encouraging note. But instead of advice, I’ll just share what I know. I know there will be the dark months—the ones I won’t remember, and maybe shouldn’t, — there will be the curveballs and power struggles. The who’s turn battles, the reorganizing of vehicles and schedules and priorities. There will be the moments when prayer is the only way I stay sane. But I also know that in this dark and freaky tube-slide there’s little pinpricks of light and laughter along the way. Just like I was surprised at first, I am still surprised to feel flooded with love without warning, as my daughter muddies her entire outfit and my son runs awkwardly through the lawn, white hair bouncing like a halo above his head. I’m so thankful for my children and this wild and terrifying journey. And from what I’ve heard, these years go fast (but the days sure are long!!)

Xoxo

On loving your neighbors (and actually knowing their names)

Besides the back of my dog’s head, you are looking at a shoveled driveway. But it wasn’t shoveled by me or my husband. And nope, not by our dog either.

The story behind it:

It’s about half past one and my dog starts barking at the front door. I’m shushing him, as usual, because I just got the babe down for nap, and I’m working on the toddler now. But then I hear voices. I look out the window and see a troupe of middle school to high school-age girls in my driveway. Actually they are shoveling my driveway!!

I watch for a second, dumbfounded. Is that really my driveway? Am I so sleep deprived that I’m seeing things? The girls are nearly done, so I open the door and call out to them. I recognize a few of them as direct neighbors and a few others from summer bonfires. I thank them profusely, offer snacks and ask if they’re a Girl Scout group or something of the sort. Nope. Just doing this for people who need it done. Just walking through our hood and spontaneously blessing the woolly socks off people.

I snap a picture, thank them again and text one of their moms. What a daughter. What a blessing.

This has officially made my day.

I hear “love your neighbor” a lot in the circles I run in. It’s a catch phrase and a catch all for people trying to convince you to be kind to that guy you don’t like. Or thoughtful of others’ struggles and perceptions half way around the globe.

But half the time we don’t take it literally. Half the time we don’t even know our actual neighbors by name.

I’m lucky enough to be part of an amazing neighborhood where I know most of the people I live by. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make it even better. I’ve been a little stuck in my own world of raising little humans and hanging with mommies that go with them.

But my hood is where I live, the people who quietly (or loudly) exist nearest to me. People with basic and complex needs. People with families and drama and struggles. People like me.

These girls reminded me that loving my neighbor starts with knowing my neighbors! With saying hello.

And it continues with simple things. Homemade cards and hand-me-downs. Shoveled driveways and mowed lawns.

And an extra large batch of blueberry muffins.

Comin at ya, neighbors!

101 things

My kids are napping. At the same time.

This is the result of both tedious planning and dumb luck. I aim for this goal each day, but it is ultimately out of my hands and in the pudgy fingers of my littles.

One is snuggled in his crib, the other taking up residence in my bed. And, because I can’t be in my bed, I am now on the couch, draped in the sunshine coming through my window. thinking.

Of the 101 things. The tasky-things. The to-dos, must-dos and should-dos. And I don’t even have to really think because I look up and my to-dos surround me.

But I’m not doing them.

There is a conveyor belt of never-ending _______. Especially when you’re a parent of littles. They spew their toys and clothes (and fluids) everywhere and don’t give any poop emojis about it. They go through outfits like they’re working a runway. They ‘help’ and undo whatever you just did. It’s maddening. If you let it be.

But maybe we don’t have to do so much. Maybe choosing a thing or two each day that we enjoy might be more satisfying than another check mark. Maybe we could stop acting like martyrs (admit it, we do this!) and start enjoying life a little more.

My babe is awake already, and because he’s erupting snot like Old Faithful, I’m going to bring him out and cuddle his boogery-butt.

But I’m also going to finish this paragraph.

Because I don’t have to let to-do’s rule me. Because sometimes writing makes me happy. And because I believe that happy parents are better parents.

But even more than that, truly happy people are better people.

In joy,

Mama-megs

**Inspiration via my mommy friends at ECFE and a MOPS talk about throwing away your to-do list for one month

thank you, _________

Who doesn’t love Jimmy Fallon? I mean, he’s got this spark and yet very peaceful vibe with his humor, unlike so many comedians today. Everything he does is pure magic, so I decided to steal/adopt his idea of thank-you notes because I am just full of sass. And since Jen Hatmaker stole it first (#WWJHD?) and I share a certain kinship with her, I decided that it’s sort of my destiny to write these satirical ‘thank-you’ notes too.

Here goes– my thank-you’s round one.

Thank you Urban Outiftters,
for reminding us just how bad high-waisted shorts look on all but 2 percent of our population. Due to your utter disregard for normal body types and shapes, we are now given the honor of once again having to face the entourage of teens sporting impossibly long cracks and crotches, while somehow simultaneously showing us the very beginnings of their buttocks. As an added bonus, apparently the no-bra phase of the 90’s is back. Awesome. Hats off to you!

Thank you iPhone news alerts,
for your constant reminders that there is incredibly important world events happening, such as Anderson Cooper rolling his eyes and baby animals being born and President Trump “lashing out” at this person or that publication. I don’t know what I would do without these completely unbiased and factual current events. I mean, forming my own opinions would be nearly impossible and, dare I say, uneducated. Without the stunning insights of our nation’s most sought-after news sources, what kind of terrible person would I become? Oh news alerts, you keep me grounded, informed, a small step ahead of my loveable yet ignorant peers.

Thank you greeting card industry,
for forcing my hand into creating bulky and poorly glued homemade cards and envelops for the people I love. Whenever a holiday or birthday rolls around, put off buying cards I cringe at the thought of what it will take to avoid buying. If I wanted to spend 4 plus dollars on paper, I would buy a coffee at Starbucks, dump out the water and fill it with my tears. You drove me to this poorly drawn stick figure. You drove me to this.

till next round….

image via unsplash: @aaronburden.

Meg Writes Life

stories & essays on life and living with loss