i'm done being a hot mess

March 27, 2020 Joy Becker

*Author’s Note*

I started this essay in January, before life came to a shattering halt. It feels strange putting my words out into the world right now, as if any trivial offering I bring to the table can stand up to a pandemic. My mental energy is maxed out, and I need a pep talk every hour, on the hour to get through these days. I don't want to read anymore tips for “homeschooling” or lists of easy-to-assemble busy bags for my toddler. I don’t want to see any more color-coded schedules to organize my day, and I really need to take a break from opening my news app. Maybe you feel the same. So this is my offering—an essay written in January, when the new year was unfolding, feeling fresh and hopeful. The year doesn’t feel so fresh and hopeful anymore. But maybe, this essay, this mantra, that came to me so clearly two months ago was meant for right now.

When I was preparing for our first baby, the message of motherhood that came alongside each receiving blanket, burp rag, and precious little onesie was clear: get ready to be a mess. All. The. Time. And since we’re women, let’s say “hot mess” because that sounds sexier. But either way, you will be exhausted, overwhelmed, unshowered, and barely getting by for the next eighteen years. Welcome to motherhood.

I was 35 weeks pregnant, and sitting in our quiet condo on a summer morning. Stephen was at work, and I had a few more weeks until the school year started up again. This doom-heavy message of motherhood wasn’t sitting well with me; I took out my journal and began asking the Lord all the questions that weighed on my heart.

Does it have to be exhausting, Lord—like always exhausting? Is it true that I won’t ever sleep again? That’s just part of it, huh? What about the overwhelming stress? Is this the life all moms are destined for or is it possible to be a mom who isn’t frazzled and tired and frustrated? Can I ask for motherhood to be enjoyable and energizing? Can I ask for my children to sleep through the night and take naps or is that taking the easy way out?

For the past seven years, that journal entry kept rolling around in my unshowered head.

Every time another #hotmessmom meme came across my feed, I could relate. The messy bun, stained clothing, and crying children all drowning in a pile of laundry and Goldfish crackers. I would laugh, comforted by the solidarity, and little by little that mantra became my life.

*****

I’ve noticed two extremes in motherhood.

One side of the pendulum is constantly judging. These are the glaring eyes and pursed lips shot my way when my child throws his beanbag at another child during storytime. This is the shocked grandmother in the grocery story who wants to know why my toddler isn’t wearing a hat in such cold weather. This is the embarrassment that silences me in conversations about organic versus non-organic food when my budget is stretched as thin as it can go. This voice tells me I’m not doing enough. I hate that voice.

But travel far enough the opposite direction, and I’ll meet the other extreme, the voice that says moms are a mess, kids are a mess, and motherhood is a shitshow to survive—“but hang in there, mama, because you’re doing great!” (Really? This is what great looks like?) This is a well-intended voice, pushing against the expectation of perfection, but simultaneously landing moms in a pile of helplessness.

It is clear to me how both extremes of this pendulum are toxic. I don’t want to be held to that standard of perfection, but I also don’t want to sink down to a level that tells me it’s ok to shower once a week, explode at my children when they can't find their shoes, and shovel back the discarded scraps of their lunch for my midday sustenance. I want the bar to be above surviving, and I don’t want “hot mess mama” to be my final grade.

Last fall, an unsettling cloud began pressing down on me. Something wasn’t right; I felt like motherhood just wasn’t how it was meant to be. My first response was failure. If motherhood wasn’t on track, obviously it meant I was doing something wrong that needed to be changed. Immediately I began brainstorming new routines and systems that might “fix” motherhood. After all, new routines and systems are my favorite solution to all problems.

But as soon as those color-coded charts and checklists started dancing through my mind, I knew that wasn’t what I needed. Doing something differently wasn’t going to be my answer. I’d already tried that. Instead, I needed to change my thinking—to uncover the lies about motherhood that slowed me down and stole my joy.

I knew the answer; it was the lie that began creeping in before I even held my first baby. The lie that told me the only way to do motherhood is to be a mess—a barely-getting-by, caffeine-consuming, chaotic, hot mess.

*****

We left our kids and husbands at home for the sake of girl talk and Taco Tuesday. I'm not sure which one we needed more. By the time the waiter brought our third basket of chips, the conversation turned down the path it often goes when moms are together—the challenge and exhaustion of motherhood. The conversation volleyed between who had the most laundry to catch up on and whose clothing was covered in the most spit up. We one-upped each other with stories of puke and picky eaters, competing as if a prize would be handed out for whose kid is the worst sleeper.

I noticed one of my friends laughing along but not really contributing.

“Do you think it’s normal not to feel like a mess all the time?” She turned her voice down to a whisper like she was about to confess a secret porn addiction. “I feel uncomfortable even saying this out loud, but I really like being a mom. And sometimes it’s hard to relate to moms who always complain about being a mess.” She spoke these foreign words with a sense of guilt, even wincing as if the rest of us might pour salsa on her head before throwing her out of the restaurant and banning her from all future Taco Tuesday girl nights.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a mom say that out loud before,” I responded. It was both foreign and refreshing. But why not? I thought. Why don’t we ever say that we like being moms? And why are we always complaining about being a mess?

Driving home from dinner, I thought about my pathetic contributions to the conversation earlier in the night. At one point, I had bragged about my children eating mac-n-cheese two days in a row (which happened once), and I got some good laughs when I talked about our baseboards that hadn’t been cleaned since we moved into that house in 2016 (which wasn’t even true). I had mentioned a doozy of a toddler tantrum (but purposely left out the part where I talked my son through his meltdown and came out on the other side with apologies and forgiveness).

Why didn’t I talk about the good? Why did I undersell myself? And why did that feel so normal?

*****

The messages I whispered to myself those first seven years ultimately sank deep into my mind and heart and took up residency. My pattern of nodding along to the frustrations and insanity of motherhood grew roots and even the jokes meant to unite mothers in laughter and solidarity took off their shoes and overstayed their welcome. That message was funny for a while, and maybe I even needed it. I needed to know perfection wasn’t the standard. I needed to know that other moms felt the struggle that I was feeling.

But I am ready for a new message—one that tells me I’m capable of doing this well.

A hot mess day doesn’t mean I’m a hot mess mom. I don’t survive on coffee and wine. I'm not constantly undone by tantrums and busy days. I’m not fragile or hysterical or stuck in a never-ending game of Whack-A-Mole. I can balance the mental load of motherhood and homemaking. I can think ahead. I can plan and juggle and delegate and decide because this is hard, but not impossible. I am not a hot mess mom. I am capable, creative, organized, flexible, and competent.

And that is my new battle cry.

(Do you think I can make that a trending hashtag?)

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "All Things New".

but seriously, Mary, did you know?

December 8, 2019 Joy Becker

"...the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn..." (Luke 2:6-7)

"the time came....and she gave birth..."

Are you kidding me? That's it. That's all you're gonna give me, God?

I guess that's how the Dad tells a birth story.

*****

I have so many questions regarding the details of this birth, my head could explode. I'm a mom; I love a good birth story. The past ten years of my life have been a continual stream of babies, and I never tire of hearing all the details of the glorious day. I want to know about the first contraction and the bickering between husband and wife about whether or not to call the doctor. I find great solidarity in hearing all the crazy things moms say and do when labor pain is all-consuming. I want to know all the details: what time you left for the hospital, how was the drive, and what time did you get there? Could you walk in or was there a wheelchair waiting? On a scale of 1-10, how was your pain level at this point? And please, please, please, tell me all about those first moments when you held your baby to your chest.

You can see why Luke's account is somewhat disappointing to me. Isn't he the doctor of the gospel writers? And all he's going to give me is "the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth." Grrrrr.

What about Joseph? What was he doing the whole time? Surely he was pretty freaked out. After all, he was a first time dad coaching Mary through labor, and no doubt the watching eyes of horses and cows only added to the absurdity of it all. I wonder if they had a good sense of humor about it. Was there a moment during delivery that Mary made eye contact with a sheep and thought to herself, "You've got to be kidding me."

As I continue reading in Luke, I am left unsatisfied again by the lack of detail given to Jesus' childhood, and specifically Mary's unfathomable journey of raising the Son of God. Although she was given the heads up by the angel, Gabriel, I can't imagine their brief encounter prepared her for mothering the Savior of the world.

"You will be with child...He will be great..." (Luke 1:31-32)

But Mary, did you know that by "great," Gabriel meant perfect? A perfect baby, a perfect toddler, a perfect teenager. On the surface this sounds amazing, but how does a sinful mother go about teaching and training the great I AM, especially in a household of fully human siblings? I wonder about the guilt and frustration Mary must have felt when she kept falling short, time and time again, but her little guy kept getting it right. Every. Time.

"...and will be called the Son of the Most High." (Luke 1:32)

But Mary, did you know he will also be called worse - much, much worse? This title, Son of the Most High, will upset a lot of people, and that sweet little baby you're holding will grow to be rejected and hated. People will be talking about him behind his back, plotting ways to make him look like a fool. Plotting how to kill him. You'll have to really control those Mama Bear instincts. It seems you believed in his divinity with such ease, but that won't be the case for many. Your Jesus, the Son of the Most High, will infuriate the world for generations.

"The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end." (Luke 1:32-33)

But Mary, did you know this isn't going to play out the way you think, the way you hope? You will not see this reign, this kingdom in your lifetime. You will see glimpses, but there will be no throne this time around. You will be confused, wondering when your Jesus will stop turning the other cheek and establish the justice and righteousness Isaiah foretold so many years ago. Words like "of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end" (Isaiah 9:7) will baffle you because you will not see his government nor will peace reign. And just when you think it's time, just when you think your son is about to unleash his power and take his place as King, he will instead ask you, "Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come." (John 2:4). I imagine that wasn’t the first time he had said that to you. Seriously Mary, from one mother to another, did you want to smack some sense into him? You must have at least rolled your eyes.

After Jesus was born, you and Joseph brought him to the Temple to be presented to the Lord. Upon your arrival, Simeon, "a righteous and devout" man, took the baby in his arms, praising the Lord and declaring,

"'For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people,a light for revelation to the Gentile and for glory to you people Israel.'

The child's father and mother marveled at what was said about him.” (Luke 2:30-33)

Well, yeah. Obviously. Oh Mary, you must have been bursting with pride. My heart puffs up when someone says my baby is cute, but salvation? A light for revelation? I can't imagine.

But Mary, did you know Simeon's words would quickly take a turn for the worst.

"This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too." (Luke 2:34-35)

Oh Mary. Did you know?

How could you? How could you ever anticipate all that would unfold over the next 33 years?

For years the lack of detail in the Bible led me, perhaps falsely so, to conclude that your faith was unwavering. I never questioned your ability to be the mom to the Savior of World. I never wondered about the details of the birth itself, and I never imagined the frustration of raising a child who came to save the world, but kept wandering around with 12 lowly men instead. I never considered the absurdity of trusting your child to know best, and I never thought about the fear of watching Jesus’ destiny play out.

But Mary, then I became a mom and learned the truth: no woman gets through motherhood without battling the uncertainties of her children's future. The most godly moms have prayed “Your will be done, Lord...but here are a few suggestions.” The most confident moms fear they are doing it all wrong, surely scaring their children for life. The most gentle moms are ready to body slam anyone who causes their child pain, and even the most faithful moms lie awake some nights wondering how it will all turn out. Will this little one be ok? Will the world be kind? Will the world see the greatness I see?

I've got to believe you weren't much different. But boy oh boy, do I have some questions for you.

Seriously Mary, did you know?

This essay was originally published by Mothers Always Write.

Our Life Saving Road Trip Game

November 24, 2019 Joy Becker

Earlier this week I shared with you the nightmare of our worst road trip ever. And although I cannot guarantee foolproof results, I have learned a few ways to save our sanity and even created some good-old-family-fun on those endless highway stretches.

Living hundreds of miles away from family has forced us to pull out all the creative stops in order to survive hours in the car with our darlings. Motherhood is filled with bright ideas that often flop, more often than I care to admit. But this one - this one is gold. Your holiday travel plans will thank me.

The Envelope Game:

Saving The Sanity of Road Tripping Parents One Hour at a Time

Before a long road trip, I come up with simple - let me strongly emphasis simple - games and activities. I write each one down and put that slip of paper in an envelope.

Once we’re in the car, I grab a pencil and write down a time to open each envelope based on the time we’ve left and when we hope to arrive at our destination. I usually plan to open one every thirty minutes(ish), but I will often make the times random like 9:33 or 11:17, just because that seems more fun, right?

It is important to use pencil for two reasons. (1) You can adjust the time as needed. Maybe lunch takes longer than expected or there’s an extra potty stop. Maybe the kids fall asleep (!!!) or one game takes up more time. (2) I reuse the same envelopes each road trip. No sense in making extra trash, yes?

And that’s it. The anticipation of opening each envelope helps quiet the constant stream of questions and neediness that often come from the backseat. Here are some ideas that go in our envelopes, and yes, I often use the same ideas trip after trip after trip. I mean, come one, does Would You Rather ever get old?

Would You Rather?
If You Could? (See picture below.)
Madlibs
Everyone pick a favorite song and let’s have a dance party
Twenty Questions
Create a holiday or summer bucket list
Drawing Challenges: Draw a water park, a tree house, a pretend animal, a treasure hunt map, a robot, a silly monster, etc.
Scavenger Hunts
ABC Hunt - Work through the alphabet and find each letter out the window (For older kids, find something that starts with each letter.)
Number Hunt - Same as above, but we look for each number out the window, usually 1-10.
Audio Books - Give me all the audio books!
Podcasts - I wrote a blog post about podcasts for kids here.
Book Time
Tell Jokes - I check out joke books from the library.
Where’s Waldo or I Spy books - Again, I check these out from the library but don’t show them until the car ride.
Child’s Choice - Example: “Andrew gets to pick what we do for the next ten minutes!” Or parent choice!
Map of the USA - I print out maps of the USA, and we play lots of games with this. We map out our route, color the states we’ve been to (see picture below), find states where our family and friends live, or just color for fun. Older kids might like a license plate game, but our kids aren’t old enough for that yet.
My Mommy Sent Me To The Store/Zoo - A classic. “My mommy sent me to the store to buy something that starts with the letter….” For younger kids you can say the color or give any description to help in this simple guessing game.
Snacks - This card is the best! The kids quickly learn that SNACK TIME is written in one of the envelopes, so they can’t bug us for snacks every 5 minutes. I will usually write something like “Have a snack and then 30 minutes of quiet time/book baskets.” We use these containers and make hefty snack platters that will keep them happy (quiet) for awhile.
Road trip bin - This is a plastic bin we bring in the car filled with activities. This bin only comes out on road trips, so none of these games/toys get played with at home. I’m always adding things, and it is a good place to throw cheap, random toys that will excite them for a short time (Happy Meal toys, prize box junk). Here are some favorites activities that have held up and entertained through the years:

Water Wow

Etch A Sketch

Magna Doodle

Melissa and Doug Memory Game

Wikki Stix Playset and Alphabet Cards

Tic-Tac-Toe

Cheap cookie sheets for magnetic letters/numbers or coloring

Highlight Magazine

Notepads and Stickers

Coloring Books/Word Searches

Change times as needed! You can see I used marker my first go-around. Live and learn.

We did NOT play the license plate game as suggested on this map. We just colored states we’ve each been to.

These cheap cookie sheets are great for magnets but also for coloring.

Well, there you go. The Envelope Game. My greatest offering to the parents of the world. May your holiday travel be a bit more peaceful and dare I say, fun.

chick-fil-a and speedy rewards save the day

November 20, 2019 Joy Becker

The early morning air was already sticky as Stephen loaded the last few bags into the back of the Jeep. I sat inside with Charlotte and Andrew as they finished their breakfast of dried cereal and bananas, mourning the end of another Fourth of July weekend in Atlanta and dreading the eight hour trip home looming in front of us.

We said the final goodbyes to our dear hosts, Lindsay and Kendall, and waved out the car windows as we pulled away from their townhome. The first leg of our trip was worse than expected. Post holiday traffic was brutal, locking us between cars and campers like a game of Tetris. One-and-a-half year old Andrew was not having it, and every desperate attempt to keep him entertained was met with screams. Four painful hours later, we exited Highway 75 with a Chick-fil-A in sight. Waffle fries were our only hope.

Stephen and I unfolded ourselves from the car. Stiff legs and restless booties were nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion of being trapped in the car with toddlers. We opened the back doors of the Jeep, unleashing the remains of the past 200 miles. Granola bar wrappers, emptied applesauce pouches, and smashed Goldfish spilled into the parking lot. Stephen began the search for tiny shoes as I unearthed the diaper bag from a pile of books, fire trucks, and blankets. I reached up to the front seat, grabbed our phones, and tucked them into the side pocket of the diaper bag. I again reached up to the front seat for our wallets.

The next few seconds moved in slow motion and double speed all at once. A reel of images raced through my mind, beginning with the unmistakable picture of our wallets - sitting on the small table next to the front door of our friends’ home. I rewatched the entire scene play out in my mind: Me, placing the wallets on the table next to the front door and making a mental note to grab them on the way out. And then me, walking out the front door empty handed. This realization emptied me of breath and froze my stomach in terror. Our wallets were four hours away on a small table in Atlanta. And we were here - in some no name town, too hungry and exhausted to even attempt reasonable problem solving strategies.

“Our wallets are in Atlanta,” I said to Stephen.

And as the words came out of my mouth, terror turned to panic. Money. We had no money. No cash. No credit cards. How would we eat? I raced through hideouts where I might have stashed some cash - pockets, cupholders, glove compartment, diaper bag. All came up empty. Maybe we could make it without food. We still had snacks and four more hours in the car. It would be rough, verging on deadly, but survivable.

And then the second wave hit harder than the first. Gas. We didn’t have enough gas to get home.

In crisis situations, particularly ones brought on by my own stupidity, it takes my body and mind a solid twenty minutes to move past the paralyzing anxiety and self-loathing to finally enter a state of problem-solving. So on this particular occasion, my mind was utterly useless as I began rattling off what I deemed our only options.

“I’m going to have to ask someone.”

“You’re gonna do what?” Stephen asked.

“Ask someone. Beg. I’ll find a nice looking family, explain the situation and ask for some money. That should get us enough to share a meal and have some left for gas. Or we need to call Lindsay and Kendall. They’ll get our wallets and meet us somewhere. We probably have enough gas to go back an hour or two.”

“You can’t ask them to do that.” Stephen’s ability to stay calm in crisis situations is annoyingly frustrating.

“It’s a desperate situation. And we’ll just pay them. We‘ll give them like $100 to bring our wallets. Or…” I began, shooting off other ideas before the previous one even had a chance to settle. “We can just start driving. We’ll run out of gas eventually and call AAA. They can probably just bill us for the gas. Or I’ll call Kendall and get our credit card number. Hopefully the cashier can just type that in to pay for lunch.”

“That one is worth a try,” Stephen said, still searching for a missing shoe.

I marched up to the Chick-fil-A counter not exactly sure what words were about to pour from my mouth. It wasn’t until the cashier told me to take a deep breath and calm down that I realized my hands were trembling and my voice was shaking as I explained the situation.

“We’ll get this worked out,” she said. “Let me go talk to my manager.”

I stood at the counter waiting, my eyes darting back and forth from my itching palms to the kitchen where the cashier had disappeared. I felt the eyes of every customer behind me staring as if the back of my skirt were tucked into my underwear. Had they heard my pathetic plea? Were they waiting and wondering how this would end or were they just irritated because I was holding up the line? I wished one of them would just slip me a twenty and end this anxiety.

The cashier emerged from behind the ice cream machine, and my mind began searching for a plan B. What was my plan B if she said they couldn’t manually enter a credit card number?

“Lunch is on us today.”

And that’s when I became the weeping woman at the Chick-fil-A counter. And I mean weeping. Like ugly cry, could barely speak, weeping. I whispered the words “thank you,” over and over again, until she finally had to cut me off and ask for my order.

Five minutes later the kids were settled into their Chick-fil-A routine: dunk a nugget into Chick-fil-A sauce, lick off the sauce, repeat. (It’s disgusting, but you can’t blame them.) At this point, Stephen was already knee deep into a solution for our quarter tank of gas. I was impressed with his creative problem solving, but his plan had a lot of moving parts, and it seemed unlikely they would all fall into place.

Exactly ten years ago, Stephen and I spent a summer day at Six Flags. We stopped at a Speedway on our way home for gas and slushies. As the Speedway cashier rang up our slushies, he asked if I had a Speedy Rewards card. I did not, and I wasn’t interested until he told me that for every five slushies I bought, I got one free. Sold. One form later, and I was out of there with my Speedy Reward card and 40% of the way to a free slushie. Stephen and I have continued to use that card whenever we pump gas at a Speedway and collect “reward points.” Years ago we looked online to see what our reward points could buy and laughed as we learned that even after years of using the card, we only had enough points for a free two-liter. “Maybe by retirement, we’ll have earned enough that I can take you on a date for Speedway hot dogs and two liters,” Stephen joked.

And here we were, nowhere near retirement, eating a free lunch at a Chick-fil-A somewhere in Tennessee and Stephen was downloading the Speedway app, hoping we had enough points for more than just hot dogs and two liters. He was hoping we’d earned enough for some free gas.

“Babe, there is no way,” I told him, stepping seamlessly into my role of dream crusher.

“Probably not. But I don’t have any other ideas.” He spent the next five minutes attempting various usernames and passwords because apparently back in 2006, we had set up an account. The kids were in the playland, and I sat staring at Stephen’s face as his finger scrolled the screen, watching for any sign in his eyes that this might work.

“Say something. What are you finding?”

“Wait….wait.….” He looked up at me. “We have enough points for a $25 gas card.”

I nearly jumped out of my seat before the next moving part of this plan sunk in. “There’s no way we can just walk into a Speedway and claim that. We probably have to send away for it.”

Stephen’s attention was back to his phone, and I knew he was only half listening to me. “There’s a Speedway two exits from here.”

“But did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, but you’ll just have to explain the situation. Be charming and desperate and convince them to let us use it now. Start weeping again. It worked here,” he said with a smile. I opened my mouth to defend my weeping, but he cut me off before I could start. “I’m serious. You got us free lunch. You can get us this gas card. Customer service people love you.”

This is true. I have a long, successful track record with customer service, and have mastered the art of getting what I need with a balance of irritating persistence and genuine kindness. (Remind me to tell you about the time I returned a six-year-old blender and walked out of the store with a brand new one, never having even opened my wallet.) Stephen, on the other hand, loses his patience too quickly with customer service and always ending up asking to talk to a manager. I knew we were doomed if he walked into that Speedway.

“Pray for me. And don’t stop praying until I come back,” I told Stephen as I closed the car door and walked toward the Speedway entrance, armed with reward points, a desperate plea, and a good ugly cry should the need arise.

“Hi there,” I said to the lady behind the counter. “Well, I’m in a bit of a problematic situation, and I’m really hoping you’ll be able to help me.” My sob story came pouring out. No one else was in the store, so unlike at Chick-fil-A, I felt no rush to condense any details. I unleashed it all: Fourth of July in Atlanta, the miserable car ride, free lunch at Chick-fil-A, Six Flags, slushies, the Speedy Reward points. And then, my plea. “Is there any way I can claim this gas card right now and use it today so we can get home?”

“Yep,” she said. “Can I have your phone?”

Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed a gas card from the turnstyle on the counter, scanned it, and then scanned Stephen’s phone. I watched the neon green numbers appear on the cash register screen, and a $25.00 total canceled out to $0.00. She handed me the card, and I wondered if it would be appropriate to walk behind the counter to hug her.

Walking out of that gas station with the gift card in hand was one of the prouder moments of my life. Just between you and me, I doubt my long-winded tale of woe had anything to do with the successful ending, but I’d like to think my performance sealed the deal. We still felt it wise to drive home in the far right lane, cruise control set to just 5 miles per hour faster than the speed limit.

I didn’t know how well my tearful story would go over with a highway patrolman.

P.S. The free lunch and free gas didn’t seem so free when we had to pay $80 to overnight our wallets from Atlanta the next day.

summer was here

September 11, 2019 Joy Becker

I washed all the bathing suits and beach towels for the last time today. I folded the towels and put them up high in the hallway closet. I rotated the too-snug swimsuits out of the drawers and into boxes to be packed away and passed on. Then I came downstairs, lit an apple spice candle, and chopped vegetables for one of my favorite fall meals. This is all part of my grieving process, a necessary routine for me as I say good-bye to summer and begin to embrace fall goodness.

It was a good summer - a perfect blend of nothing and everything. We anticipated these months as Milo’s first true exposure to the wonder of sunshine and water. He was too tiny to soak in all of summer last year, but this, this was different. Experiencing summer alongside my children is one of my favorite parts of motherhood. Life is better when we’re outside - wet, dirty, or stained with red Popsicle. Older siblings get along better when they have an entire park to roam, and they need fewer reminders to keep their hands to themselves when there are diving boards and water slides. Add chubby baby thighs toddling around that park or pool, and you know it’s going to be a good season.

We kicked off our summer with a weekend in Red River Gorge. I have strict rules about camping with babies. Actually, I have one strict rule: I don’t tent camp with babies. Instead, we opted for a lovely little cabin, well off the beaten path and just uphill from a small pond. This quiet pond came alive at night as the sun slipped from yellow to pink and hundreds of frogs sang out their mating calls, each boastful male trying to out-sing the other. In the mornings, we ate our breakfast around the campfire and then headed out for days filled with hiking, exploring, and trying to be cool parents by jumping off giant boulders.

June was filled with lazy days mostly spent at the pool. Long gone were my days of relaxing on the pool’s edge while the big kids swam and baby Milo slept in the stroller. I became a physical helicopter mom as Milo fearlessly toddled around the pool with no regard for the water’s depth. He was drawn to water in any form he could find: water tables, sprinklers, fountains, baby pools. He was also partial to naps in the sun.

Summer evenings in our front yard give me all the happy feels. We affectionately (and somewhat sarcastically) call our home Camp Blue Ash due to its wilderness-like qualities. We have no shorten of dirt, bugs, wild animals, or unusual plant life. But we have learned to take advantage of all Camp Blue Ash has to offer; we watch woodpeckers destroy our trees, we compete with neighbors in mole trapping competitions, and we save baby birds who fall out of their nests. (Unsuccessfully, I might add.)

July and August were packed with travels. We loaded the van for a week-long beach vacation in North Carolina, and days later we repacked the van for a week-long lake house vacation in northern Wisconsin.

Vacationing with a one-year-old is a different kind of vacation, and there were many times I felt like I was missing out.

I stayed back while the others went to the beach so he could take his morning nap.

I stayed back while others went out past bedtime to watch the baby sea turtles emerge from the sand and scurry to the ocean.

I went to the drug store to get cough medicine for a sick baby while the others were at the pool.

I walked around outside entertaining a baby who’d rather move than sit in a high chair while the others sat down for dinner in a restaurant.

All the missing out prompted self-pity, and I began to think: If I didn’t have a one-year-old on this vacation, I could do all the other things everyone else was doing. But then again, if I didn’t have a one-year-old on this vacation, then I wouldn’t have Milo on this vacation. And that’s when all the self-pity seemed kind of foolish.

Our summer ended with our annual trip to Coney Island. No, not the boardwalk in Brooklyn. Our Coney Island is a rickety little amusement park with carnival-like rides that spin you, twirl you, whirl you, rotate you, revolve you, and then pause for a moment before doing it all over again in the opposite direction. There is a single outdated roller coaster that cannot possibly meet current safety regulations, and a ramshackle Ferris wheel that requires Dramamine for all riders over the age of 30. But our children adore this place, and my blessed husband has a stomach of steel, so while they’re screaming their heads off on rides like The Scrambler and Tilt-a-Whirl, I’m listening to a local show choir sing Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off and watching Milo sit in a train that moves in a circle at about 2 miles per hour. And then he sat in a boat that moved in a circle. Then a rocketship. Then a plane. Then a helicopter. You get the idea.