Exhausted And…

Exhausted and…

content || his blond mop-top nestles under my chin while his rhythmic breaths of sleep exhale across my chest, and if I take a deep breath I can practically smell the powder and lotion from his six-years-past baby days. He still snuggles and it is delightful.

Exhausted and…

frustrated || there. is. so. much. bickering. There is so much asking for stuff. There is SOMUCHYELLING!!!!!! Over the last year, I’ve become awakened to the unhealth of my idealism, especially how readily I resign myself to failure when my reality doesn’t match my idealistic expectations. Perhaps I should be thankful that my children’s interactions have sensitized me to an area of my life needing growth, but it is SO LOUD AND UNRELENTING and I just want some peace and quiet and maybe some knitting together around the table in candlelight while we sing kum-ba-yah and drink tea. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK??? 🙈

Exhausted and…

nervous || I’m making a visit to the breast specialist tomorrow. It’s all probably fine and I’m probably fine and all manner of things will probably be fine. But still…nervous.

Exhausted and…

trying || to be less exhausted. It’s a little haphazard, but I find myself trying to go to bed earlier and giving myself permission to be more ruthless in my prioritization. Nothing has gotten less important, but I’ve realized I have to do the most important thing first because I can’t do #allthethings. And in being perfectly honest with myself, I realized that more sleep is really one of the most important things.  I hope that with a few months of more sleep I won’t keep being chased by the monster of “Perpetually Worn Down and Depleted.”

Exhausted and…

wistful || given that it’s the end of September, it’s probably time to admit that fall is really here, isn’t it? Summer went fast for me this year. I’ll miss her and her warm breezes, open windows, and bare feet.

Exhausted and…

hopeful || I went to a counselor last year, just a trial visit. I didn’t love it—she was nice enough, but it just wasn’t the best fit. Naturally, my thought process went like this:

Me: well, that one person didn’t work so I guess I’ll just never be able to find a counselor. It’s not even worth the effort. I’m sure I’ll be able to figure out how to be fine on my own.

Announcer: Heidi could not, in fact, figure it out on her own.

In a recent 2AM fit of anxiety, I remembered the name of a second counselor someone had suggested to me last year when I was looking for the original counselor. I wonder what counselors think when they see 2AM time stamps on emails? Like…whew boy…better get this one in quick. She’s gonna have a lot to work with! 😅  Anyway, we met a few weeks ago and I looooooove her. Why did I wait???  She listened to me for A WHOLE HOUR and she didn’t interrupt me or yell at me once <hi kids>. And she didn’t make me feel like an overly crazy lunatic, which I have felt when talking to other counselors. So I’m excited about this development. I’m excited to be listened to. I’m excited to have someone help me sort out my frustrations. I’m excited to have someone who’ll help me remember who I am, just me—not me the mother or me the homeschooler or me the whatever. I’m excited to let the light in again.


Currently…the (mostly) ‘w’ edition (two months later…)


watching || Parks & Rec reruns. Again. I finished the series earlier this year and started it over almost immediately, I think about the time of Michael Cohen’s senate testimony? The government and the state of the world just seemed too messed up right about then, and I needed a little Leslie Knope inoculation.

wondering || about selling our house. Anyone have tried-and-true tips? I’m hoping we’ll list later this summer. We really need a 4th bedroom. Poor Isla–middle child, only daughter, and she shares a room with her little brother. She really needs some space! But the decluttering and projects that need to be done before that point…whoa! (Two months later update–summer? Maybe fall. Or…gulp…spring? Someday?)

waiting || for Tahd to come home. His next few months will involve lots of chaotic comings and goings, meaning a good dose of solo parenting. Tonight, Gabe asked me if he could go outside (in 20mph winds) and fly his drone.

To which I said no. Because a) wind, and b) when the drone gets broken in the wind, I can’t fix it.

To which he said, “I hate it when one parent is gone because then when the other one says no, you don’t have a second parent you can use on the appeal.”

Hashtag eyeroll…

walking || 40 miles in April–I hope! My mom and sisters and I set a goal to walk or run at least 40 miles in April. I made the kids come for a walk today and we did 0.8 miles. We’re going to have to up our games if we have any hopes of hitting 40! (Two month later update–I did it!)


worrying || about school choices for next year. I’d intended to keep right on homeschooling, but then several of my chicklets expressed an interest in “regular” school. So now I’m second-guessing myself, considering options, attempting to have meaningful conversations about it with the kids, and generally obsessing over the weight of life’s problems. (Two months later update–homeschooling it is!)

wearing || this 5 second messy bun (check it out in her pinned stories; you can see it a little in my picture above) and IT IS CHANGING MY LIFE. Which may be a slightly dramatic overstatement, but also maybe not. I’ve been trying to go longer between hair washes, and this messy bun + dry shampoo let me get to day 6 (!!!) without too much difficulty. (Two months later update–still changing my life. And she started a podcast this week. It is as delightful as is 5 second hair!)

welcoming || spring. Who remembers when the Real Feel temp was -50? Yeah, wasn’t that long ago! All our snow is gone now and the birds are out and it’s light past dinner!

and a few extras because it doesn’t seem right without them…

reading || Sweep by Jonathan Auxier. Actually, I just finished it and just loved it. Until homeschooling, I’d forgotten how much I love middle grade literature. But in my quest to find great read-alouds our whole family can enjoy, I’ve rediscovered this range, and it is delightful! Sweet, not overly complicated but not totally saccharine, inventive, and quick to finish. I’ve also loved The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place (series), Beyond the Pawpaw Trees, Tuesdays at the Castle, and the Green Ember series, and I have a few others on my nightstand to dig into soon. Sweep would be too old for my littles, so I read it alone. But Gabe picked it up when I was done with it and liked it pretty well, too.

Yes, I started this post in APRIL and am just now publishing it two months later. But I’m publishing it because better late than never? Maybe? Not sure about that, but I miss writing so I might as well start somewhere. 😉

At What Point Did I Become Qualified for This?

In the past month, several friends have taken their babies to their first years of college, dropped them off in a dorm.

And another friend said a different goodbye, a farewell to her father who’d lived a long, happy life but battled cancer toward the end.

Launching adults. Burying parents. How did this become my life stage? And who deemed me qualified to enter it?

They tell you adulthood is hard. It’s not that I feel tricked. But I think I thought I’d at least feel ready for each new phase, much like I was in childhood when I was chomping at the bit for each new thing…for the chance to start staying up late, to start wearing makeup, to drive a car, to be in charge of my own self…

At what point did I switch from begging to do things because I was old enough to wishing I was younger and didn’t have to be so responsible? Wrinkles be damned—I just don’t want to have to remember to pay all the bills! 😉

Kelly Corrigan wrote a popular memoir called “The Middle Place.” I haven’t read it because, well, see above. But I don’t think I actually have to read it to know—this must be the middle place. I think I’m in it right now.

And it feels weird.

What I expected to be a peace and self-assuredness actually feels like a place in which the guitar strings are strung very, very tightly. It’s tighter and less spacious than I expected, and I hope I don’t sneeze because everything might snap (and I might leak a little…thanks, kids…)

I didn’t expect the middle place to be so tender.

This is a word I’m using a lot lately—tender. It’s how life feels. It’s how I feel. I feel tender about the speed with which time passes. I feel tender about my growing babies. I feel tender about my marriage, about the things I thought would be different by now and about the ways I regret some of my interactions even still.

I remember bringing Gabe home from the hospital and clinging to the unspoken belief—it’s hard now, but once we adjust and get it figured out, it’ll be easier.

I’m realizing that was never true in the first place.

So I’ve been thinking about what’s actually true, not just what platitudes I’ve believed all along. And I think it’s this.

What’s true is that I only have this moment. Right now. The past was the past and I can’t go back. The future will come whether I’m ready or not. All that’s true is right now.

Stay in present in the moment. Breathing through the struggles. Maybe the mess, the busyness, the confusion, the fun, the adventures, the overwhelm will all seem more manageable if I’m looking at them one moment at a time.

Layers and Layers of Stories

I’m at Panera writing tonight, a little treat on which Tahd sends me around once a week. I call it a treat, but I think he calls is “my wife needs some alone time to regain the mental health she’s losing” time. Potato, potahto, am I right?

Tonight, across the restaurant from me sits a gentleman with whom I’d love to have a conversation. He looks gritty and a little tired, wearing dirty grey jeans and an old monochromatic t-shirt. A faded ball cap and a long, straggly white beard complete his look. But he has a laptop, which just doesn’t seem to go to me, on which he types with one finger at a time. It’s so curious to me.  What is he doing? What is he writing? What did he do before he got here? Why did he come to Panera to use his laptop?

In front of him—adjacent, not with him—sits a lady of a similar vintage. She looks friendly and grandmotherly, lost in a book and wearing purple pants, a peach sweater, and a winter coat slung over the back of her chair. It was 70 degrees here today, but it’s our first warm day and I’m betting she knows Wisconsin and that a 70 degree day means zilch and the weather can change on a dime. Also, she sports a hot pink swatch that wildly stripes her crown of white hair.  Another person for whom I have questions. Is it spray-on? Is it temporary? Who did it to her? And why?

Do you ever do that—wonder about people’s stories?

I was here a year or two back, at the same table, actually, and a pair of women sitting just across the fireplace captivated me. One in particular had the most contagious smile and positively exuded joy with her laughter, so it caught me especially off guard when I realized the purpose of the dinner was to share cancer stories.

I swear I don’t usually try to eavesdrop, but on this night, I couldn’t help myself. The older, mellower woman of the two had recently completed her treatment and their prognoses was exceedingly hopeful. They talked about health and energy and families and life in general with such honesty and hope.

I have a collection of anxious fixations, and getting cancer is one of them. Seeing these women face a terrifying situation with bravery and hope inspired me, and not just about the strength I might find if I every develop cancer. No, they seemed alive with purpose, like they’d been let in on a slice of the secret of life and weren’t going to waste a drop of it.

I’ve never forgotten them. Obviously I couldn’t know much about them from a short exposure, but they were special. That was clear.

I’ve long had a favorite article about memory-keeping and storytelling within families. But lately I’ve been thinking about stories in an even broader sense. We all carry stories with us, meandering through our everyday lives without noticing how they tumble out of us at unsuspecting moment, like while we’re at church or the grocery store or at Panera. Or we’re so stuck in our own stories and our own heads that we fail to notice the stories being lived out all around us by our loved ones, friends, and even strangers.

But stories are so powerful. The very best communicators have always shared through stories. Jesus taught through stories. How do you capture the heart and mind of a young child? Read or tell them stories.

Stories enrich. Stories make sense of. Stories mirror. Stories clarify.

I want to come more alive to these stories. I want to be the kind of woman who is generous with her story so others can connect with it how they see fit. I want to be the kind of friend who listens attentively to others’ stories, not just with my ears but with my heart. I want to be the kind of wife who empowers her husband to be confident in his story and the kind of mother who is passionate about helping her children tell their own stories, not the stories that she supposes they should tell. I want to be the kind of woman who isn’t so scared or busy or distracted that I live unaffected by the stories of the strangers around me.

The pink-haired woman is putting on a nasal oxygen kit, and I see there must be another part of her story of which I wasn’t aware before this moment. Layers, really, that’s what we are. Layers and layers of stories. That’s what makes a life. And those stories have power.

(Side note ~ I wrote this story a number of months ago, and it sat, unedited, in my folder of drafts. There’s more to this story now, much more I wasn’t expecting, but at the rate I’m writing it’ll take me half a year to get it down, so I wanted to share this part now. <3)

May All That Is Broken Be Healed

Eight years ago.

Right now, actually.

Weekend nights in an emergency room are supposed to be busy, but all I remember is how I arrived to a hush. I don’t even think I waited, walking right up to the desk and spilling my trepidation.

“I’m 13 weeks pregnant and I have a doppler at home and even though I can usually find the baby’s heartbeat, I can’t find it tonight and I’m sure everything’s probably fine but I just need to be sure because I’ve never not been able to find the heartbeat.”

I think they took me back right away–me, Tahd, and Gabe. Why we’d brought our 5-year-old to the hospital in the middle of the night makes no sense to me now. But there we were, three anxious souls a little bit (or a lot) battered from years of unfulfilled dreams.

“Your labor is not in vain
Though the ground underneath you is cursed and stained
Your planting and reaping are never the same
Your labor is not in vain”

That night usually feels like a distant memory of something I witnessed happening to someone else. But occasionally the rawness and actuality of it all fracture my tender surface and grief takes up residence–like a hundred ton boulder–on my chest, and I can barely catch my breaths between tears.

“Your labor is not unknown
Though the rocks they cry out and the sea it may groan
The place of your toil may not seem like a home
But Your labor is not unknown”

Tahd is in Italy this week. I don’t think he’ll remember this today, which is okay. Everyone but me remembers it most on Mother’s Day, because eight years ago, May 9, 2010 was Mother’s Day, a far more memorable occasion than a random date in early May. Tahd remembers and is tender for us then. But in my own head, I keep them a little bit separate so I can grieve quietly on May 9 and still be mostly okay on Mother’s Day.

“The vineyards you plant will bear fruit
The fields will sing out and rejoice with the truth
For all that is old will at last be made new
The vineyards you plant will bear fruit”

I didn’t have anymore losses after that last loss, my third and most monumental in a string of years of infertility and miscarriage. I went on to be granted two sweet souls, Isla and Jude, who I think I’ll tuck in next to when I finish writing this. Isla will crowd me out, but Jude’s always up for a sleep-mate and a snuggle, and there’s little grace more comforting than to drink in the breath of an innocent, sleeping child.

I feel unspeakably, undeservedly lucky.

“I am with you, I am with you
I am with you, I am with you
For I have called you, called you by name
Your labor is not in vain”

Early May and Mother’s Day are strange times for me, but I know I’m not the only one. I know hearts break every year because they long for a child, for a miracle of their own. Maybe you’re one of those people. Maybe you long for answers or solutions or a diagnosable problem or money to pay for treatments or relief from your debilitating sadness or to finally be picked by a birth mother or for a sibling for a child you already have.

I just want you to know that I see you. That I hold you in my heart. That I literally pray for you–by name for those I know and in spirit for those I’ve yet to meet.

“The houses you labored to build
Will finally with laughter and joy be filled
The serpent that hurts and destroys will be killed
And all that is broken be healed”

I heard this song tonight for the very first time and wept while I read its words. For my baby, for my own heart, and for you. And that last line…it’s all, really, I can think to say. May all that is broken be healed.

Much love.

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