Mamas, sweet mamas. I think I’ve discovered the secret to enjoying your kids. So I want to share it with you today. But let me step back, just for a minute.

This unraveling of motherhood to discover the ways it brings joy, fulfillment, and peace has been a 11 1/2 year journey for me. Motherhood was different than I expected from the start. Yes, I’d been an achiever, in fact, an overachiever. And once those children had been birthed, motherhood was no longer something I could achieve. Motherhood was something I had to learn to enjoy and appreciate – day, by day, by day. Because the truth is, motherhood isn’t all rainbows and butterflies, unicorns and puppy dogs.

I’m not saying motherhood has been horrific. I’m not saying motherhood has been terrifying. And I’m not saying that motherhood was a bad decision.

I’m just saying that motherhood has to be one of the most life altering experiences you can ever have as a human being.

Right?

I fumbled from the earliest of days. I had no clue what I was in for. I stumbled through motherhood feeling like I was totally missing the mark, like I was failing BIG TIME. I wondered what I’d done wrong. I wondered why nobody told me the truths about motherhood – before I’d become a mother.

The task of motherhood was so much bigger than me, so much bigger than I ever imagined. It felt weighty. It felt real. This realization that I was raising human beings? I wasn’t so sure I was going to be good at it. In fact, I’m still not so sure I’m going to be good at it.

But here’s the thing, mamas.

You might always feel like you’re fumbling, at least a little bit.

You might always wonder if you’re really up to the task of raising human beings.

It might take years for the fruits of your mothering to appear.

And it could be years before you realize that motherhood was the best thing that ever happened to you.

So mamas?

I think we need to lighten up. Because motherhood isn’t something to be achieved or accomplished.

Motherhood is a journey.

As mothers, we choose. Will we feel stressed out, burdened out and frazzled out? Or will we be peaceful, joyful, and blessed?

In light of that, let’s move on to the reason I wanted to write today.

It’s time to share that secret I discovered about being a mother, the secret to enjoying your kids.

It’s taken me all these years to learn this secret, 11 1/2 to be exact. And I didn’t even work hard to discover this secret, I just happened upon it. So let me share – so you don’t have to wait and wonder how to make this motherhood thing a little easier, a little more enjoyable for you, too.

Here’s what you need to do…

1. Turn off the world. Yes, turn off the world! Put away ALL barriers between you and your children, including books, checkbooks, cookbooks, newspapers, televisions, computers, iPhones, iPads, iPods, and paperwork. Whatever that barrier is? Get rid of it. Take away the barrier for yourself, and take away the barrier for your children. Just put it away. It needs to go.

2. Now. Get quiet. YOU need to get quiet. And the KIDS need to get quiet. You might need to be in separate rooms for a while, or at least in separate spaces within a room. If you feel it’s necessary, intentionally set your child up in a space that will allow them to flourish creatively, or maybe they need space to feel bored, or maybe you just need to put something new in front of them.

3. Let this be an organic moment. See what happens. Busy yourself with something quiet just a bit. (But NOT one of those barriers!)

4. Then, carefully and quietly enter in to whatever it is your children are doing. When you first arrive on scene, do not talk, do not engage. Just watch. Enter in to their space. In fact, may I suggest that you continue to remain calm, collected and quiet during this entire process. Continue to enter in to their space. Do not engage to teach, suggest, or rebuke. This is very important. There’s a quiet to this process that is essential.

5. Allow yourself to get lost in the moment. Position yourself in a way that allows you to see differently. See what your child sees. Feel what your child feels. Open your eyes to a whole new world. Believe it’s possible they’re here to teach you something as much as you’re here to teach them. Forget about time. Yes, forget about time. If you’ve gotten this far, you’ve really, truly gotten this far, you WILL forget about time. You WILL be lost in the moment. And you WILL be enjoying your kids.

So I challenge you, mama. Try this. Try it for you, and try it for your kids. Because this could translate all sorts of ways in your life.

I’m no expert. In fact, I’ve only been really, REALLY successful at this a handful of times. But every time I try, it gets easier and easier, becomes more and more natural.

So do it mama, do it. Enter their space. Open your eyes.

Forget about time. Get lost in the moment.

Enjoy your kids.

Amy

*This post is part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!

Some days, you just have to admit it. Your patience for motherhood has limits.

The day’s been long and you’re in desperate need of some quiet time alone.

Night falls. The kids’ bedtimes near.

As each minute passes, it becomes more and more clear – you’re not supermom, you’re human.

Yes, a lot of days you’re not anything close to supermom, you’re just mom.

And some of those days when you’re just mom? You’re not even sure you’re equipped to be mom anymore.

You just want to be human…

When it’s 6:58 p.m. and your toddler begs to read a whole stack of books instead of the standard two.

When it’s 7:15 p.m. and she wants to say goodnight, face-to-face, to everyone in the entire household instead of just you. It’s sweet and endearing, and you love this routine dearly and you know you’ll always remember it with fondness, but you are oh. so. tired.

When it’s 7:34 p.m., you hear kids playing outside. Your super extroverted middle one is tempted to join them and start a brand new day of play at 7:34 p.m. You sigh a sigh of relief when she comes back in and decides to roll herself in her furry blanket instead.

When it’s 8:02 p.m. and that middle one says, “I want to stay down here tonight and play iPad instead of having quiet time in my room.”

When it’s 8:20 p.m. and the two school-aged kids are humming some Mozart tune “do do do do do do do do do” in harmony on the couch. It’s hard to complain a second about two kids humming Mozart, but hey, it’s still noise at this point, which makes you remember how desperate you are for complete and utter silence.

When it’s 8:23 p.m., the NBA playoffs are on, and the oldest says for the 20th night in a row that he wants to stay up until this game is done. And you remember how you agreed to that one week of staying up late, and now it’s turned into three weeks, but you can’t quite pull him away from that passion dad’s happy to have him pursue.

When it’s 8:25 p.m. and they’re still humming “do do do do do” in tandem, only this time one’s batting the other “Stop! Stop!” while they argue about how to best get more points on a video game.

When it’s 8:28 p.m. and there’s no sign either of those kids are tired. Did I mention, you have no idea how you’re going to get them to transition to bed anytime soon? Did I mention, it’s still bright as day outside?

When it’s 8:29 p.m. and the oldest teases the middle – “It’s 8:29! It’s almost time for you to go to bed! Ha! Ha!”

When it’s 8:30 p.m. and the oldest grabs the iPad from the middle – “Give it to me. You have to go to bed now!”

When it’s 8:36 p.m. and the middle decides now’s the time for her to brush her teeth the most thoroughly she’s ever brushed them before. In fact, she inquires as to why she doesn’t have white strips. For goodness sakes, because every just turned 9-year-old needs white strips?!

When it’s 8:37 p.m. and you’re already hiding away in your bedroom because you’re long done being supermom for today. You’re just waiting, patiently waiting for this tooth brushing and bedtime preparing to be complete.

When it’s 8:38 p.m., she calls you and says she’s ready. Glorious day, oh glorious day, she’s ready for bed. But as you walk towards her bedroom, she says “Oh, can you braid my hair so it can be curly tomorrow? So you braid her hair. And while you’re braiding you look in the mirror at that 9-year-old and then at yourself, and you realize you look WAY more tired then she does. You yawn. You bind up that braid and head to the bedroom for tuck in. But oh ya, she has to get her pajamas on. So she dilly dallies around a while until you kick up her pajama shirt from the ground and remind her to put it on. Yes, oh yes, it’s finally time for bed. But as she gets in, she remembers “My furry blanket is downstairs.” She asks you to go get it, but you politely decline – “You go get it if you want it.” So you wait and you get all the covers pretty and ready in the minute it takes her to go down and back up to her room. Finally. She’s all tucked in. And then, of course then, she says “Oh, you forgot to get me a glass of water.” So you walk to the bathroom, get a glass of water, and bring it to your sweet one. She mentions, just in case you’ll fall for it, that the water’s not cold enough. “Oh well, drink it anyway,” you say. You give her sweet kisses and hugs, and you’re not really sure why, but she’s hissing like a snake “sss, sss, sss, sss, sss, sss” the whole time you’re kissing and hugging her goodnight. And then she starts laughing and singing some song. You realize for the millionth time on this parenting journey that she’s far more awake and alert than you are, even at bedtime.

When it’s 8:45 p.m., you finally get back to that safe place, that quiet place – your bed. You just sit there for a while and unwind. You made it. You made it. You take a deep breath. You look out the window. There are probably only a few minutes of daylight left, but hey, you made it to see the remaining few.

When it’s 8:52 p.m., you hear her humming in her bedroom. You can’t pick up the tune, but it’s sweet and there’s a part of you that wants to go back and just lie down with her and let her hum the two of you to sleep. But you just keep staring out that window. You stare. Because you’re exhausted. And it dawns on you – she wouldn’t hum like that unless she was happy. So the mama guilt you’ve carried the past hour and a half for needing quiet time alone drifts away, well, at least a little.

When it’s 8:54 p.m., you realize the oldest is still downstairs watching that NBA playoff game. So you decide you need to go downstairs to verify the situation, see how much time there’s left in tonight’s prime time game.

When it’s 8:57 p.m., you “wake up” to realize you just zoned out for three. whole. minutes.

When it’s 8:59 p.m., you check on that NBA game to discover 5 minutes 50 seconds remain, which means it’s going to last another 30-45 minutes in NBA time with all those time outs and commercial breaks.

So you decide that it’s 9:00 p.m. You’ve had a long day. You’ve given everything of yourself as a woman, you’ve given everything of yourself as a mom. It’s time for you.

So you forget about that NBA game, you forget about the third bedtime that’s still to come, and you hop in a hot shower.

Because you’re done, done being a mom, done being responsible. Just done.

When it’s 9:27 p.m. and you get out of the shower, it dawns on you. Man, you really needed that shower. 27 minutes? Really? Okay?!

When it’s 9:28 p.m., you go downstairs to check on your oldest who’s still watching that NBA playoff game. And it’s then that he informs you – there weren’t 5 minutes 50 seconds left of the game, there were 5 minutes 50 seconds remaining in the first period! He tries to talk you into an even later bedtime – “I’m going to watch it until 10:00, 11:00!” But it doesn’t work.

When it’s 9:34 p.m., you finally get that oldest one to his bedroom. He makes one last basket in the mini hoop attached to his bedroom door. You pick up random things covering his bed and do whatever it takes to get them out of the way, all the while sort of arguing with your son, trying to persuade him to put pajamas on. He says “they’re just clothes, it doesn’t matter.” And you realize as much as you’d like him to wear pajamas, it really doesn’t matter. So you kiss him and hug him. He tells you he loves you and you tell him right back.

It’s 9:41 p.m. by the time you get back to that living room, into the quiet adult space you’ve been seeking for nearly three hours now.

You break out that box of Lemonheads your middle one couldn’t eat because of orthodontia. And as you lie on the couch with your legs up and grandma’s afghan wrapped around you, you pop Lemonheads one by one. They remind you of childhood, when life was simpler, easier to navigate.

In all your Lemonhead loveliness, you resolve. I’m going to cut myself short of sleep by an hour or two just to get some quiet time in, and then tomorrow, I’m going to do this all over again. It’s exhausting, but it is glorious. You resolve. Tomorrow, I’m going to love these kids the way I’d want to be loved if I was a kid all over again.

So you do.

The clock resets.

And you begin, again – as supermom, as mom, as woman, as human.

Amy

*This post is part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!

Dear Mom:

I’ve had something on my heart. I’ve wanted you to know.

These words I’ve been desperate to share with you? They’re life giving.

So today, I wonder if anyone’s ever told you…

You are a good mom.

Yes, you.

You. are a good mom.

Remember when you were pregnant and everyone said you were going to be a great mom? You believed it, you really believed it.

Baby arrived.

You loved, and loved on that little one some more. It was awesome and it was fulfilling and it was almost everything you were expecting, but there were plenty of days when it was really hard, too.

At some point along the way, you woke up to the realities of motherhood, you realized important truth – ongoing verbal praise doesn’t come pre-packaged with motherhood. Sometimes, simple words of mom encouragement become near extinct after those hope-filled days of pregnancy.

All those people who rubbed your belly, said you were glowing and gushed on your every pregnant move? All those people who said you were going to be a great mom? Well, let’s just be honest. They still love you and all. Nothing’s changed. In fact, they’ve seen you in action, and if asked, they’d all say you’re a good mom.

But here’s the thing, mom. Life’s too busy. People take motherhood for granted. Because the truth is, none of us would be alive without a mom. Everyone just assumes – mom will be there. Everyone just assumes – mom’s going to take care of it. Everyone just assumes – mom’s doing fine. No one’s to blame, it’s just the way it is. It’s easy to take moms for granted when they’re everywhere, all the time.

So today, I want to acknowledge the void that’s longing to be filled in your heart.

I want to affirm and love on you, more than just a little.

Mom, I’m here to tell you once again.

You’re doing a great job.

You. are a good mom.

You were good from the start. You nurtured that babe way back when. You took vitamins, eliminated caffeine, made diet changes – all before you ever laid eyes on him. Your willingness to tolerate back aches, heartburn, and weight gain signified your greatness from the earliest days. You knew the gender, or maybe you decided to wait until birth – whichever way you chose, you did it for good reason – because that babe was one-of-a-kind and you wanted him to know he was treasured from the very start, whoever he was. You prepared your heart, you prepared your home, you made the place perfect for that babe.

You were a good mom.

You were amazing in delivery. Let me just tell you again. You were amazing. Whatever way you welcomed that little one – vaginally, via cesarean section, vaginal birth after cesarean, foster care, domestic adoption, international adoption, whatever – you were phenomenal, mom. Your heart spilled open wide for that child, loved in a way it had never known before. You promised yourself, now that she’s here, I’ll do anything. I’ll be the best mom I know how.

You were most definitely a good mom.

Boy oh boy, you sure paid your dues those early days. You sacrificed sleep, sanity, and just about everything else in-between. Remember when it really didn’t matter if it was light or dark outside? It was all the same to you. Day was night. Night was day. You needed to acclimate to this new child, and there was no getting around it. You rocked him, and he rocked your world. Nursing and bottle feeds, pacifiers and pumps, diapers and bibs, burp cloths and onesies – it was all new language and you managed to become fluent in days. How was that possible, mom?

Because you were a good mom.

Your baby changed to toddler, then preschooler right before your eyes. Sweet mom, you ran and chased after that little one like mad, didn’t you? She ran and ran and ran some more. You barely kept up. You picked up the toys? She dumped them out. You washed all the peanut butter off her face? She smeared it right back on. You put her back in her bed? She got right back out. Yes, those were beautifully busy and messy days, but you loved your babe to pieces despite her snotty little nose. Tonka trucks and Little People, princess dresses and peeing plastic baby dolls ruled your world. Yes, those were the glory days of color crayons on walls, daycare, preschool, ABCs and 123s. You kept on mom, you kept on. At night, you fell to the couch, pondering serious mothering questions in silence…I’m exhausted, am I doing this right?

I’m here to tell you mom, you were doing it right.

You were absolutely doing it right.

You were a good mom.

Then came the elementary years, the kid is growing like a weed years, the part baby, part grown-up years. Ya, these were the years you learned to do it all, mom. He changed wardrobes a million times and got holes in his pants the first day he wore them. Reading and math, ecosystem dioramas and homemade musical instruments, you named it, you helped him with it. Your days were filled with butt jokes and poop jokes and just about everything stupid is funny jokes. You transported like a maniac to ball practice and hockey practice, dance practice and gymnastics practice. When the principal called, you responded with as much grace as you could muster, and when he needed extra help with this and therapy for that, you agreed and obliged, all the while your heart pulling, resisting your babe’s humanness. All in all, you found relative predictability in the craziness of these in-between years…

Because you were an awesome mom.

Those teenage years crept up on you. One day she was 9, the next she was 13. One day she asked you to do her hair, the next she didn’t want you to step foot in the bathroom. One day she wanted you to tuck her in, the next she didn’t need you to help at bedtime anymore. These were the years you waited up late until she was safe back home. You didn’t pry, but when something seemed off, you weren’t afraid to follow your mama intuition and ask what’s up? You guided her well through those tumultuous years, mom, teaching her to do laundry, insisting she make her own appointments, and helping her navigate a world of peer pressure, even if she was outraged you didn’t let her go to that all-night party. And let’s not forget all the ways you got creative for the sake of your family, because you were wise enough to know that kids need boundaries and room to grow. As each year passed, you became more aware that your baby would be leaving the house, so you began teaching her about weighty matters like work, money, goal setting and faith.

Because you were a really, really great mom.

You thought your job as mom would end when they left the house, but you know better now. Because once a mom, always a mom! Maybe your daughter transitioned swiftly and seamlessly into adulthood. Even so, your support was critical, mom. You sent care packages to college, hosted the grandchildren for special weeks during school vacations, offered advice when she called for help, and gave special financial gifts that left a legacy. Even when your baby was 39-years-old, you carried her immunizations in your wallet, because hey, you carried them all those years, why not now?! But mom, I’m aware of you, too – your son’s transition into adulthood didn’t go as smoothly as you’d planned, did it? You lay awake at night with tear-stained pillows, prayed and pleaded to God – restore my baby, guide him to a life that has purpose, help him find direction, take away his struggles, his pain. Maybe you suffered in quiet, maybe the whole wide world knew every ounce of your pain. Whatever your battle was, let’s get real, it was dreadful, mom. But eventually, he overcame, you overcame. You finally breathed that sigh of relief, because even though he was all grown up, he was still your baby.

Yes, you. You. were an amazing mom.

These words, they’re for you, mom. Because you’re worthy. You’re one in a million.

And you need to know, wherever you are, whoever you are…that you are a good mom.

Amy

*This post is part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!

Sometimes life as a mama doesn’t feel compatible with your dreams as a woman.

Maybe you’re late to the game. You stayed home with the kids all those years only to discover that when you arrived to interview at the workplace of your dreams, everyone else was in line ahead of you. Or maybe they were already seated at the table, and you feel like there’s no way you’ll ever get a seat. It’s hard to imagine how you’ll ever catch up. How will you get to that place you imagine for yourself when all you’ve ever done is give everything you have to your kids?

Maybe you were already in line, maybe you were already seated at that table. You were on your way, but motherhood called, and you had to step away from the hopes and dreams you had for your life as a woman. You got up from that table, left that place in line. Tears sprung forth from your eyes the second you walked away. You knew you had to do it, you knew it was time, but something tugged at your heart saying stay, stay.

You walk beaten paths with chocolate milk bottles, straws that fell on the ground, and dirty napkins. And when you look at that partially eaten double chocolate chip cookie your baby finished along the beaten path, you think yep, this is my life right now. Chocolate chip milk bottles, straws, dirty napkins, and partially eaten double chocolate chip cookies.

So you keep walking.

You keep on walking and you keep on walking.

You keep on loving and you keep on caring for those beautiful kiddos the very best you can.

You’re keeping on, keeping on.

Because you know – you’re mama, but you’re woman, too.

Your hopes and dreams for your life as a woman won’t be trampled on – just because you’re mama.

For once upon a time, God laid dreams on your heart to become a mama. He made those dreams beautiful in their time. Those little ones you hoped for all those years? Now they’re yours, gifted to you, for such a time as this.

Those little ones that needed you all those years? Your time with them was precious, the days fleeting. You loved them dearly, for such a time as this.

Those tiny ones that beckon you to come, be with them now? They’ll remain tiny for only so long. So love on them, be with them, for such a time as this.

Rest assured, sweet mama, that God’s dreams for you as a woman will be fulfilled. He’ll lead you to that perfect spot in line. He’ll make space for you at that table when your time has come. Rest, assured.

You need not be afraid, tears need not spring forth from your eyes.

For God makes all things beautiful, in time.

You’ve been in a season, mama. You’re in a season, mama.

So walk on, walk on.

Press on, press on.

Love on, love on.

You’re not just mama or just woman. You’re mama and woman.

Rest assured, mama.

Time’s in your hands, time’s in God’s hands.

As hard as it’s been to find a seat at that table, as hard as it is to step out of line, as much as it seems you’re surrendering your womanhood for motherhood – just know, it’s all compatible.

Because you’re mama and woman.

Be brave. Love big. Press on.

Because you are amazing, just as you are, right where you are.

One day, when the time is right, when the season’s turned, you’ll find yourself seated at that table, you’ll find yourself at the front of the line – and you’ll wonder, how in the world did those days of partially eaten double chocolate chip cookies escape me?

Amy

*This post is part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!

Inch by inch, he grew in your womb.

You nested and prepared days, weeks, months ahead.

You knew he was coming. You knew it was time.

Tiny and precious, he rested in your arms.

Your mama heart was overjoyed. This tiny bundle was yours, a gift bestowed upon you by God himself.

Time passed – minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.

But his time to pass came far too soon.

Your baby boy was sick, his remaining days on earth, few.

Your heart filled with sorrow. The pain was consuming, overwhelming.

You pleaded with God in desperation. Take me, not him.

And why God, why?

In all that fear, in all that pain, a wave of peace miraculously surrounded your heart.

You surrendered.

You prayed.

“Okay, Lord, you can have him. But if he must die, I want it to be for something big. I want someone’s life to be changed forever.”

After all the pain, after all the sorrow, after all the last moments together, your baby went home. Up in the clouds he went, up a little higher.

You sat in the silence.

Your mama heart ached.

Your mama heart wept.

Your baby was gone. Your baby. was gone.

You gathered up all the pieces of your grieving mama heart, brought them to the only One who knows the true meaning of life, and asked…

How can a mama bear bare to live when her baby passed before her? How does a mama move on? Now what, God, now what?

He answers your prayers in the gentlest of ways. Take his life, mama bear, bring forth life from death. Enter in to others’ pain. Enter in to others’ joy. Speak of your son. Speak of his life. Speak. life.

That blanket of grief and pain’s been wrapped tightly around you, but you do what you’re called to do when you want your baby’s life to count for something big. You begin, oh so slowly, unraveling the threads until you find hope, until you find possibility, until you find the place where your son’s life, your son’s light, begins to shine through, again.

Because you’ve learned – that place where hope shines is holy, precious, sacred space.

So you bring forth life from death. You bring forth purpose from pain.

You honor your son’s life by sharing his story.

You honor your son’s life by letting everyone know – hope is within grasp, even in the midst of pain.

You honor the hope that sprung forth from his life by ensuring everyone understands – the purpose of your life will be revealed, even in your last days, even after your days on earth have passed.

You honor the brevity of his life by encouraging everyone to live more fully –  as if this minute, this hour, this day is your last.

After a while, truth becomes impossible to deny. Your baby boy made a mark. His life wasn’t for naught. His life was short, but your prayer had been answered. Your baby’s life counted for something, something big.

Perhaps your baby was an angel, sent for such a time as this.

And slowly, little by little, you begin to believe with all your mamma bear heart, that joy comes in the morning, even in the mourning.

Amy

*This post was written for mamas whose babies have gone before them, and is in honor of Laura Sobiech, who lost her 18-year-old son, Zach, one year ago in May 2013, after a four-year battle with osteosarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer. When Zach found out he only had a short time to live, his mom suggested he write letters to loved ones he’d leave behind. But instead, Zach chose to use his love of music to write a farewell song, titled “Clouds.” As a result, Zach’s story spread worldwide. His song went viral, with more than 10 million hits on YouTube. In her memoir, Fly A Little Higher, due to release tomorrow, Zach’s mom, Laura Sobiech, shares her and her family’s journey with Zach, through cancer. Laura’s hope is to build awareness, help fight cancer, and to provide hope for people facing similar battles. The Zach Sobiech Osteosarcoma Fund has raised $746,917.14 to date, and “supports leading-edge research to find out why children get this rare cancer, and to discover life-saving treatments.” To read more about Zach’s story and purchase Laura’s book, visit the website www.flyalittlehigher.com. It’s a true honor and privilege to be a part of the Fly A Little Higher Blog Tour.

*This post is also part of a month-long series titled Motherhood Unraveled. To read more from this series, click here and read to the bottom where all the posts are listed and linked!