For 14 1/2 years, I carried a loaded trunk full of toys and materials for speech-language therapy home visits. The rotation was constant. With the exception of family trips to the mall, zoo and grandma and grandpa’s house, the stuff was always there. Neighing horses and beeping timers sounded at every bump.

But now, once and for all, it’s time to unload the trunk. It’s time to bring it back in. It’s time to bid farewell to friends who stood the test of time. The great ones, the loved ones, the classics, the ones that worked for every kid regardless of their disorder or delay. It’s time to say good bye.

Dearest toys and materials, I’ve known you all too well. What works, what doesn’t, the words I’ll need, the response I’ll receive. I’ve loved you, grown fond of you, and relied on you. It’s been a good ride, friends, but it’s time to say good bye. Perhaps later we’ll play. Perhaps later we’ll learn together. Perhaps later we’ll grow together. But for now? You’re heading back to the closet.

Hopping Frogs, you always served me well a minute or two. Hop goes the frog across to the log. Green frog or pink frog, which do you choose? Mom’s turn or Sam’s turn, which will it be?

Stringing fruit (a.k.a. beads disguised as fruit), you’ve seen your days. The frayed edges of your box prove you were well loved. Yes, your fruit shape distinguished you as most clever, most interesting to toddlers and preschoolers. Swooshing down the line to mom or dad, and swaying in the breeze were your specialities.

Oh train. I can’t bear to throw you away. You were tried and true for so many years. Your $10 price tag was long ago worth it. And now, you barely move. New batteries won’t do a thing for you, Mr. Train. I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what to do. So there you go, back in your closet where you’re free to stay a lil’ while longer.

Sweet Nestle Quik boxes, I never really knew your name. Who knew you’d be a hit?! The kids did, that’s for sure. Pull, pull. Up, up. Then shake those eggs and wave those scarves. Your simplicity was golden. Your fray-edged ribbons show your wear. Good bye, dear one. Good bye.

Seek-n-Find puzzle, you were amazing. Absolutely amazing! You were, without a doubt, a tried and true. Your box is held together with layers of clear packing tape. I put together your edges, corners, and middle pieces countless times. Out of your 24 pieces, only 1 wasn’t optimal for speech and language. That means you’re reliable, Mr. Puzzle. You’re dandy. There’s no way I’m getting rid of you.

Dear picture cards, this is just the beginning of your collection. How many times we flipped through, set up, chose which ones we were going to do. I have a hunch you’re becoming obsolete, but to me, you made life complete. You’re as good as a guarantee to me. Pair you with any game, and we are good to go.

Magnetic ice cream and cutting fruit and veggies, you’re awesome, a wooden delight for all ages. You were so useful, I bought four versions of your Melissa & Doug goodness. Thank you for the days of velcro-ing, cutting, and velcro-ing some more.

Lids ‘n Lizards, Jeepers Peepers, and Grammar Gumballs. Who knew you’d be so popular? Who would’ve ever guessed? Super Duper knew what they were doing when they made you. Your catchy rhyme-y names suggest your creators were speech therapists, proving simple + clever is definitely best.

Oh tried and true board games. You’re my faves. Your boxes are torn, taped and ripped to shreds. Zingo, Don’t Break the Ice, Caribou and Counting Cakes. We’ll never forget you, Bunny Hop. You were the fave of the faves, the best of all, my most prized possession as a speech therapist, the toy that worked for everyone, every time. Those bunnies, they never stopped surprising. Rest in peace for now, dear friends. You played well.

Little bears, oh how I loved and hated you. One thing’s for sure, you made my job a lot easier when it came to following directions. Who knew tiny colored bears would do the trick? But you ticked me off more than once when you fell out of the trunk onto the icy, snowy ground and spilled all over driveways. Oh, how you ticked me off. I knew that was it, once and for all, when that box of yours broke into tiny pieces, strewn all over a driveway on the coldest of winter days. Oh, how I hated you then. I didn’t hold my tongue as well as I should have when I went into that house. “Oh, what a blessing it is for you to come so families don’t have to travel in this cold.” But my mind kept spiraling back to that icy driveway and how naughty you’d been just minutes ago.

You’re a little bruised, too, gears. Your corner broke off when you slipped out of the trunk onto the cold, icy driveway. My use of you waxed and waned, but only because you were so good. I used you so much that I fatigued of you. I simply had to get a break. I didn’t bring you much those final days. Your C batteries were all used up. I intended to refill you for sweet “T’s” play, but never got you back for that one last day.

Oh, Fisher Price Loving Family and Snap ‘n Play babies, dogs and dolls. I bought up every Snap ‘n Play before you left stores. You were so good, oh so good. Every mama and grandma wanted to know where I got you. Who knew you were a great gift, too?! But I was never sure of you, Fisher Price Loving Family. You were hit or miss, never in-between. So you came out and stayed to play, or got put away right away. Good bye friends, I’ll bring you back out for the grandkids.

Random bag of trinkets, nobody told me about you in grad school! Who knew these tiny treasures could entertain for 45 or 60 minutes? I wanted to buy more of you on eBay, but never got to it. I just kept on collecting you, one by one, until you added up to two bags full. I’ll never forget the seconds of fun you brought to the tabletop.

And then there’s you, oh you. Connect 4. Deluxe Version. How many times did we play? You never got old, you never wore thin. Never. Ever. We could’ve played all day. You served as a distraction between bouts of super hard work, a reminder that we’re human, a reminder that kids who have speech and language delays possess certain brilliance beyond measure of standardized tests. Connect 4, you’re perhaps the most memorable, impactful of all games, toys, and materials. Because you showed me that these special kiddos are more than their speech, more than their language. They’re human. They want to win the game of life, too.

He won nearly every time. I had to concentrate hard to win. It was clear he was genius with his hands and just about anything visual-spatial. 

That last day, I lifted Connect 4 out of the bag and sat it on the table along with some picture cards.

We were about to start playing and drilling one last time, but tears welled big in my eyes.

I told him I was proud. He’d worked so hard. He’d come so far. We’d done this together.

Then, after we played, after we drilled, after we worked hard all over again…

Back in the bag you went, back in the trunk, then back in the closet. 

I packed you all nice and tight. I’m closing the closet. For now, good night.

With gratitude and love,

 

 

 

To All the Dads, Mamas, Siblings & Special Ones:

You’re on my heart this week. You’re on my mind. 

For 14 1/2 years, I’ve visited your homes, entered your sacred spaces, assessed and treated your special little ones. My days as a speech-language therapist are coming to an end. At least for now, maybe forever. Only God knows.

But you, you will never leave my heart.

You’ve made a lasting impression. You’ve changed who I am. You’ve molded me into a better person. You’ve altered my heart for humanity in a way no one else could.

You see, you are special. You are like no other.

Special dads, I’ve seen you. All the varieties of you. The worker dad. The business dad. The hands on, loves like a mama dad. The dad who’s not sure what to think. The dad who’s not sure what to do. The dad who knows exactly what to do. The dad whose eyes tell it all. The dad who knows his son, his daughter’s like no other. The dad who looks his child in the face and sees it all. And loves anyway. Even when it’s hard. Even when being a dad’s nothing like you expected it to be. I see you longing to do something, anything to help. I see you doing all you can, everything you can. I see you working hard for your family, with your family, providing stability and hope, even when the needs seem endless. I’ve seen you, dear dad, you’re a light, a strong presence in your household. Your child needs you. Your child thrives on your presence. You might not think so, but you know just what to do with that special child of yours. You are man, yes man. Still man, even though life’s thrown you a curve ball. Man, even more so. Man, because you stay, you stick with it, you do what’s right and honorable. And you love your family quietly, humbly. Because you know life’s course can change in an instant. Yes, you are a special dad. I see you. Thank you for who you are.

Special mamas, I’ve seen you. Take heart, mama. Take heart. You’re unique. You’re extraordinary. There’s no one quite like you, mama. What a lover you are. You love to no end. You fix boo boos and kiss cheeks, burp and clean spilled milk, pack lunches, transport and balance work and home life like any other mama. But you manage much more, mama. Therapies and visual schedules, meds and IEPs, evaluation reports and flash cards, you’ve seen it all now, haven’t you mama? You never knew motherhood would be quite like this. You wonder when your mama bear heart will be at peace, at ease with this special one’s needs you’ve been entrusted. Mama, you’re so good, you don’t even know how good you are. You’ve cried tears and held them back. You’ve worked like a dog. You’ve pushed and pulled back. You’ve prodded and been patient. You’ve known when hugs are today’s prescription. And you’ve known when hugs are an escape from the work ahead. Mama, you’ve done everything you can. Mama, you’re doing great. Mama, you are awesome, irreplaceable. Take care, mama. Make sure you’re doing something for you. Take care, mama, for you’re the cornerstone of your family’s heart and soul. Mama, you’re special. I see you. Thank you for who you are.

Special siblings, I’ve seen you. Oh, how I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you in the corner, on the side, by the wayside. I’ve seen you waiting, wishing to enter in. I’ve seen you play, and I’ve seen you disappear. I’ve seen you ask and be turned away. I’ve seen your brilliance and your beauty. I’ve seen every bit of your potential flash before me. Don’t forget you’re special, too, dear one. I’ve seen your heart shine bright on the darkest of days. I’ve seen you help and teach and reach out and love unconditionally, like only a sibling of a special knows how to do. I know your heart, special sibling. I understand your position. Who are you? What’s unique about you? What makes you tick and light up? What causes you to keep on keeping on when everything feels impossible and forever? Cling to those truths, dear sibling. The years may be long, or they may be short. Whatever your truth ends up being, shine your light, special sibling. Your life is precious. Your life has purpose. There’s no mistake about your place. There’s a reason you’re there, right there, with that family of yours. Let your voice be heard, special sibling, let your place and your purpose be known. And don’t forget, you’re not alone. Yes, most definitely yes, you’re special. I see you siblings. Thank you for who you are.

Special ones, I’ve seen you. Oh yes, I’ve seen you. Consider your position an honor. You teach us how to be gentler, kinder, more respectful and honoring of diversity in a world that feels monotone at times. You teach us how to be patient and tender, loving beyond measure. You know what it’s like to be poked and prodded, tested, drilled and worked hard. You’re constantly striving to live up to the measuring stick of “normal,” “typical” and “neurotypical,” but truth be told, you’re anything but typical. There’s no need to measure up, special ones. You’re you. Work hard, yes. Do what you can, yes. Exceed their expectations, yes. Listen to your dads and mamas, your special siblings and teachers, your therapists and your doctors, but know this, special ones. God sent you, created you just as you are, to reveal love, to show grace, to bestow blessing. You’re an angel on earth, here for reasons most can’t fathom. You’re more than a number, score or position on any standardized chart. You’re a treasure, a gem, one to be remembered for all the ages. Forgive us if we neglect your humanity. Forgive us if we ignore your limits. Forgive us if we don’t know, if we don’t quite understand what it is you need. You are accepted, as you are. You’re loved, whether you progress or don’t progress at all. Whether you eventually achieve scores “within normal limits” or continue presenting with “significant delays,” you’re deemed worthy. Because you are worthy. Yes, you are special. I see you. Thank you for who you are.

Dear special family, I’ve seen you. We’ve worked hard together, we’ve loved together, we’ve faced trials and tribulations. We’ve sat in silence, laughed and cried with joy, wondered and wandered a time or two. We’ve known and we’ve not known at all. We’ve succeeded and we’ve missed the mark. We’ve fought for what’s best, for what’s right, for what’s needed and necessary. We’ve made calls, referrals and investigations into the causes of these needs. We’ve drilled and done the same things over and over and over again. It’s a fight worth fighting. It’s a cause worthy of care. It’s a life worth living. Every bit of our work together has been worth it.

But now, yes now, it’s time to say good bye. It’s time to set your family free to someone else who will do the therapy.

I may return, I may not. But this you must know. My decision’s not been easy. My decision’s not been light. My heart’s heavy and light all at once this week. For I’m leaving you, but following the call God has on my life to write, photograph, live, love and be an advocate for the voiceless of this world.

This, I promise. I will not leave you. I will not forsake you. I will not forget you and your special family. I will be a voice for you. I will help the world see your beauty for what it is – pure, raw, lovely, extravagantly and exquisitely unique.

What God has in store for the days ahead, I’m not exactly sure. But I know one thing for sure. I will continue to be your advocate. From this day forward. You can count on me to see you, to remember you, to acknowledge you and constantly remark that you are created beautiful, wholly unique, special like no other.

Thank you, special family.

Your place in my heart is permanent and prominent. Your story, it’s a beautiful treasure I honor like no other.

 

 

 

NOTE: The two beautiful photographs of the girl who has down syndrome are courtesy of Andrea’s Photography on Flickr’s Creative Commons.

God began calling me to write all the way back to 2003. But I didn’t launch my blog until July 2012.

I wasn’t blind and deaf to the call at all. I was busy working as a speech therapist, buying houses, taking vacations, and having babies with my college sweetheart. I was busy living the American Dream.

The call to write continued. It was quiet. Nobody knew but me. But God was persistent.

After many years of feeling called, I began to wonder if I was imagining things, if I was daydreaming crazy visions out of thin air. To remind myself of the events I considered signs of the call, I combed through old journals and pieced together proof through the years. It was obvious. A story had unfolded. So I put it together tidy and titled it the only way I knew how.

A Possible Calling.

I’ve debated this calling. I’ve doubted it. Believe me. It’s been a journey.

I’ve sought wise counsel. I’ve prayed. I’ve thought, then thought some more. And bless his soul, I’ve talked to my husband about it hundreds of times.

I have a tendency to be a people pleaser, to do what’s “right” and “good” by all-American girl-next-door standards, so ultimately, I had to step away from all the voices, be still, and sit with God.

Yes, it was then that I knew. This is what God has planned for my life. This is what He wants me to do. This isn’t the American Dream, it’s a God-Sized Dream. All was good between me and God. He’d called me to write, and now, I would write even more. The dream was ready to take flight.

But making dreams reality hasn’t been a walk in the breeze. I could have given up by now, I could have given in. I could’ve said forget it, because all this wonder and worry isn’t worth it a bit. There’s no degree, no guarantee, no paved path, no pay for this way, at least for today.

When in doubt, I returned to the peace I experienced between me and God. I couldn’t ignore that. I couldn’t pretend those pieces of proof didn’t exist. I couldn’t disregard every pull of my heart for the last 12 years. I couldn’t deny this feeling I was supposed to transform my work life completely.

I knew very clearly, all the way back to August 2012, that changes were coming. My husband and I began discussing options. But it wasn’t until August 22, 2014, that we made our final decision.

My last day of work as speech-language pathologist will be December 18, 2014. 

I realize that statement is dramatic, feels permanent, and might concern people who believe I’m wasting my master’s degree and 14 1/2 years of on-the-job experience. Here’s what I want you to know. I’ve pondered each word of this post carefully. My husband and I have thought through this decision extensively and exhaustively. Rest assured. There’s always a chance I’ll return to speech therapy in the future. This may end up being a sabbatical. Or it may end up being permanent, an early retirement from speech therapy. Time will tell.

Here’s what I know for sure.

I’ve been working as a speech therapist for 14 1/2 years. I strongly believe that my work as a speech therapist has been training grounds for what’s to come. Nothing has been wasted. I’ve served my patients and families well, to the best of my ability. I’ve given them my 100%. We’ve worked hard together, we’ve loved together, we’ve been patient together, and we’ve made progress together. I’m grateful beyond measure. And I’ve learned oh so many things.

Who’s to say I won’t be called back to speech therapy someday?

But now, it’s time to take what I’ve learned and apply it elsewhere.

This is my life. Part two.

HOME AND FAMILY

I’ve never considered myself a full-time stay-at-home mom type. I’ve worked the whole range of 1-5 days per week since we had our first child 12 years ago. But now, I’ll be dedicating more time to our home and family. I’d like to declutter and get life in order. I need whitespace to breath, be and create. I want to live more freely and love more deeply. I want hot homemade dinners, chocolate chip cookies after school, and summers free to roam with the kids while they’re still somewhat small. I want to hear my husband out when he comes home from work instead of tuning everything out because I’m so stressed out from the day. It’s time to inch my way through the ridiculously high stacks of books in our bedroom, and maybe I’ll finally have time to check out the women’s bible study I pass every Thursday morning on my way to work. I’d like to keep an even closer eye on our family finances. And I’d love to invest in friendship because it’s been on the back burner far too long.

SPECIAL NEEDS PHOTOGRAPHY

In early June, it occurred to me that I’ve LOVED taking pictures my whole life, but constantly stuffed the dream of becoming a photographer down deep. So I’m pursuing this passion to the next level. I purchased my dream camera in September. Its capabilities are beyond my current abilities, people. And that’s a good thing. That’s what I wanted. I wanted a camera I can grow into. So I’m going to EXPLORE special needs photography. I’d like to use the skills I’ve gained in 14 1/2 years of speech therapy and take them to the next level. Instead of focusing on fixing deficits, I’d like to focus on the inherent beauty of special needs. I’m skilled at developing rapport quickly, and I’m comfortable in just about any family’s home. So I’d like to give this a whirl. My short-term goal is to give away a bunch of FREE special needs photo shoots so I can gain experience, build a portfolio of work, and determine if a part-time business is viable.

WRITING

Writing will become my primary work focus. I’m currently publishing blog posts at a rate of 2x/week. My publishing frequency will likely increase to 3x/week by early to mid-2015. In September, I launched a new long-term vision for my blog. I’ll be writing content even tighter within that vision. I’d like to connect deeper with other writers, and I’d like to attend more local and national writing conferences as finances and schedules allow. I’ve been asked to lead and join writing groups locally and online, I’ve been encouraged to write books, and I’ve crossed paths with a few people who have indicated interest in partnering for special projects. Ultimately, I’d like to use my gift of writing to advocate for people whose voices need to be heard more loudly, and to encourage others to live out their purpose.

So these are my dreams.

This is my life. Part two.

From here on out, I’m leaving a lot more room for God to work. There’s no specific path I can take that will ensure success at home, with my family, in writing or photography. There’s nothing I can do to make any of these things happen the way I’ve envisioned. All I can do is trust God’s leading me in the right direction, use my gifts to the best of my ability, wait, and trust that in the end, it will all piece together into a beautiful life story.

This is the biggest leap of faith I’ve ever taken, by a landslide.

I’m living with the end in mind. So while part of me is scared to death because this is not perfect or certain, expected or known, a bigger part of me is excited and humbled beyond belief. Because I know I won’t regret this. I know it’s going to grow my faith by leaps and bounds. And I know God’s going to prove He’s greater than any dream I ever imagined.

So here I am. On the edge of something new. My part two.

 

 

Meet Lisa.

She was volunteering at the Autism Speaks booth on the first floor of Mall of America when I passed. I have a special heart for all sorts of special needs, so the opportunity to connect with another individual from the autism spectrum disorder community was an honor.

I asked Lisa one question. “If you didn’t have to worry about money, what would you do with your life?”

This was her response.

Lisa was receptive, but wasn’t quick to answer. She was thoughtful, contemplative. This seemed to be a loaded question for her.

As I chatted with Lisa, I discovered she’s a lot like me. The way she responded was similar to the way I’d respond if a random stranger approached me with such a deep question. We spent 20-25 minutes together, which was the longest I’d spent interviewing anyone for the series at that point. I’m not a surface level person, nor is Lisa, so our time spent connecting was good. Every minute, a pleasure.

Lisa wanted to know more about me before we dove deeper into talk about her. I didn’t plan on diving deep or long with anyone when I conceived the series, but it’s in my nature, so how could I decline? I shared with Lisa, this “random stranger,” bits and pieces of my own dreams. Perhaps this helped her see me as a real person rather than some random blogger asking a random question? The truth is, if you’re willing to be completely authentic and go deep with me, I’ll go deep with you. Period. So, thank you Lisa, for your heart, for your contemplative nature, for your sincerity and sensitivity.

When Lisa and I got around to addressing the question “If you didn’t have to worry about money, what would you do with your life?,” Lisa shared this.

Her son has autism. He’s 15 years old and was diagnosed when he was two years old. If she didn’t have to worry about money, she’d “get him all the therapies he needs,” and “everything he needs to support himself and be independent.” Lisa would “do what [she] could to make life easier for her family.”

I asked Lisa one of the most sensitive and difficult questions you could ever ask a parent of a child who has special needs. “Do you feel like you had to forgo or change the dreams you had for your life because of your son’s special needs?” Lisa responded simply. “It is what it is.” Sometimes, yes, you feel like a prisoner. It’s “just challenging and hard and different,” she said. She’s not looking for pity. She’s looking for “understanding and support.”

Lisa recognizes that she’s not alone in parenting a child with special needs. She’s aware of all the parents who face similar, even more challenging situations than her own. So she doesn’t feel sorry for herself. She loves her son and wouldn’t trade him for the world.

As Lisa said, it just “is what it is.”

Lisa’s husband is self-employed as a contractor, so fortunately, “they don’t have to rely on her income” for the family’s finances. Before her son’s diagnosis, Lisa was home, but she “never intended to be home so much.” Lisa works in direct sales as she’s able. Her hours are flexible. It’s been hard for her to commit to a regular full-time job because of their son’s special needs. If she had her choice, she’d rather do something “more consistent” that “pays every week,” but direct sales allow her the flexibility she needs to change her course at any minute to be with her son.

Lisa and her husband chose to have one child only. They’ve committed to their marriage and want to do everything to keep that strong.

Lisa would do “a ton more traveling if [she] could.” Recently, she had the amazing blessing of traveling to Africa for a month. This was something that had been on her bucket list, so her husband modified his work schedule for the month so he could care for their son after school and during evenings and weekends, and they committed to making this happen for Lisa.

I loved the way Lisa’s eyes lit up when she spoke of Africa. I knew it had moved her heart. I knew the trip had touched her in ways she’d always dreamed of. I knew that experience would stay with her for a lifetime.

My biggest prayer for Lisa is that she’ll find creative ways to check off more of those bucket list items in years to come.

So what can we learn from Lisa?

Life doesn’t always go the way we planned. The hopes and dreams we have for our lives can change dramatically, in the blink of an eye. But we must persist. We must make the best. We must love, anyway. We must trust, anyway. That God works all things together for those who love Him. That He will bring bits of beauty up from the ashes, anyway. That He can make our littlest and biggest dreams come true, anyway. Even when life’s not easy. So get out that bucket list. And don’t forget it. Because God can make a way, even when the way seems impossible.

I’d love to know. Do you connect with Lisa’s story? Is there some nugget of wisdom you can take and apply to your own life? 

 

 

 

*This post is a part of a month-long 31 Days series titled Dreams from the Street. If you’d like to read more from my series, click here and you’ll be brought to the series landing page where all 31 posts are listed and linked! You can follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/AmyBPederson where I’ll tweet links to all 31 posts using hashtag #write31days, and I’d LOVE to connect on Facebook at facebook.com/AmyBPederson! I’m so glad you stopped by. Make yourself comfortable and take a peek around the place. You’re welcome back anytime.

My dream to connect with moms about real issues and impact moms’ lives through the written word goes way back to 2003. I’d already been dreaming for months, but on that day, September 29, 2003, I began writing some of those visions in a journal I stored away all these years.

The visions were plentiful. The topics I brainstormed about moms, for moms? Boundless.

Time passed.

And there were lots of journal entries in-between.

Four years later, on March 11, 2007, appeared another journal entry with clarified vision. If I could show you those three pages, you’d see, the vision continued to be plentiful. My goal was still the same, but it was taking shape. I wanted to get real with moms, I wanted to tap into their deepest needs, their deepest longings, their deepest joys and sorrows along their mothering journey. I wanted to be an advocate for moms. And I had a million ideas how I’d do that through writing and other means. (Well, maybe not quite a million!)

Among the “millions” of ideas was this…

Special Moms

I listed a whole host of who those special moms might be – single moms, special needs moms, moms of multiples, moms living in poverty, immigrant moms, moms with husbands who travel a lot – you name it.

Fast forward to January 2010. I was tired of dreaming all this up and never acting on it, so I bought a domain and started a blog titled Perfectly Unbalanced Supermom. There was just one problem! I spent hours getting the blog ready, but never once published a post. It sat empty for two years before I finally let the domain expire.

Somewhere along the way I’d realized – the vision was broader than moms. Not to mention, I’d grown a strong hatred of anything Supermom, so I couldn’t bare the thought of having it as my permanent blog name!

So I moved on.

I launched this blog, which was much more in line with the broader vision, and let Perfectly Unbalanced Supermom expire.

The only thing is that my heart for moms never went away. I wanted to write about real moms from untraditional angles.

So in May 2013, I launched my first Mother’s Day series titled Special Mamas. (Remember that Special Moms topic I’d brainstormed back in March 2007? Yep, a bit of that dream was coming true!)

Special Mamas 2013 was a big success, everything I planned and dreamed it to be.

All year, I planned a second annual Special Mamas series for May 2014. There was no stopping me. This was going to be an annual gig!

I’d gone so far as to secure my first guest writer for Special Mamas 2014. She was all in, and I was honored to have her as part of the series.

But here’s the thing…

One month later, she wrote me with these truths from her heart about mothering (a lot of details have been removed to ensure this special mama’s trust and privacy, because I’m hoping she’ll still write for me in the future):

“This…has just really, really been difficult. [I’m]…not even close to the kind of mother I wanted to be. Sure, there are plenty of great times…but with each of those successes is a lot of stress, frustration…and even myself not being the person I wanted to be. I feel as if the article would be a lie. It’s kind of hard to explain and I want you to know I’m grateful to you for thinking of me…I hope you are able to find someone else.”

Wow.

It was then that I knew – I wasn’t going to run Special Mamas 2014.

Yes, there are thousands upon thousands of mommy bloggers and mom blogs, but clearly this real life mama stuff hasn’t been covered enough. Clearly, we haven’t supported our mamas enough. Clearly, there’s room for letting moms know, hey, I’ve been there too. You’re not alone in this. This is tough stuff. This raising human beings? This is hard work.

It was then that I ditched Special Mamas 2014 and knew immediately the title of the new series.

Motherhood Unraveled

I took a few minutes, literally, to brainstorm topics I could cover in the series…

When You Feel Like You’re Spinning Your Wheels

When Your Life Always Feels Like a Mess

When You’re Desperate for a Moment Alone

When Your Kids Act Like Brats

When You’re Tired of Mac-n-Cheese and Chicken Nuggets

When You’ve Done Just About Everything Before 9:00 a.m.

When Evening Strikes and You’re Just DONE

When Something Breaks and You’ve Just Had It

When You Just Need a Little Help

When You’re Tempted to Live Vicariously Through Your Children

When You Need to Hang With Other Mamas

When You Can’t Find Your Place at Home or at Work

When You’ve Gotta Feel Like Yourself Again

When You Wonder if You’re Doing It All Wrong

Yep. There was no doubt in my mind.

This was the series.

I understand – it’s potentially a little racy, as in vigorous, lively, spirited.

I understand – it’s potentially a little controversial, as in not everyone will love or relate to the words I write.

I understand – it’s potentially a little negative, as in I’ll be aware of balancing pain and truth with hope and beauty.

But I also understand – this series has the potential to impact moms with words of encouragement, to let you know you’re not alone on this journey of motherhood, to let you know that none of us are the mother we thought we’d be.

And maybe in the end, we’ll rest in these truths – that while most of us are not the mother we thought we’d be – we are much wiser than we thought we’d be, we are much more resilient than we thought we’d be, we are much stronger than we thought we’d be, and we are more understanding and forgiving than we thought we’d be.

So let’s connect, moms. Let’s get real together. Let’s share truths together, and let’s share joys together. Because this motherhood thing is hard, but it’s oh so filled with beauty, too.

Starting next week, we’ll dive right in. I’m ALL in. There’s going to be a lot of writing, and in order to get it all in and make it all work, I’m going to work hard to keep my posts shorter than normal.

As with other series I’ve run in the past, this post will serve as home base. All of the posts in the series will be listed right here, below. The Motherhood Unraveled graphic will be on the right sidebar of my blog. Click it any time, and it’ll bring you back here.

So let’s go. Will you join me? I’m ready to get real, and I’m doing it for that Special Mama who believes she’s “not even close to the kind of mother [she] wanted to be.” I’m doing it for you.

Let’s unravel this thing called motherhood and find all its silver linings.

When You Need Your Baby’s Life to Count for Something Big

When Your Life as a Mama Doesn’t Seem Compatible With Your Dreams as a Woman 

When You Just Need Someone to Tell You You’re a Good Mom

When It’s 8:30 p.m. and You’re Just Done Being a Mom

When You’re Desperate to Discover the Secret to Enjoying Your Kids

When You Just Have to Bless the Mess

When You Realize Motherhood Isn’t an Opportunity to Live Vicariously

When Even an Ounce of Brat Behavior Makes You Realize Motherhood is Serious Business

When You Realize Your Babies Aren’t Babies Anymore

When You’re a Single Mom Who’s Living with Mental Illness

Amy