foxy socks + knobby knees

She's almost three. How did this happen? 

Three years of growing, learning, + wondering together. The older she gets, the more unprepared I feel to raise a daughter. She's forming her own opinions, her own sense of who she is, and it is mostly independent of me. We have a huge influence on her, of course. But some of the phrases that come out of her mouth are all her own. She's taken to telling me "You made me sad," when she gets reprimanded. Her sense of time is hilarious: everything either happened "last morning" or "the other day" whether it was yesterday or 6 months ago. Sometimes I shake my head at this little 24 pound spitfire & wonder how on earth I'm her mother. All in the same breath, I'm honored & overwhelmed & befuddled & exasperated.  

 Lately, it's been mostly befuddled + exasperated. Since Wendell, I realize more than ever how much prayer + grace it takes to raise children. There are days I feel absolutely conquered. They've taken over every aspect of my being. Sleep is a luxury, as is enjoying any morsel of food to myself. Darwin + I have very few uninterrupted moments. My body has been irrevocably altered. There is nowhere I can go anymore that Fee can't find me. And since she recently quit taking naps, I've felt more like a little canoe that thought she was on a lake only to find out she's somehow made it to the ocean. Sometimes, I wonder where myself went. The self that reveled in the small buds promising spring, that didn't begrudge an exploration outside for no reason, that baked to share, that savored blog post ideas like sweet confections & ruminated on them...

 Motherhood is so...daily. Fee is well-behaved most of the time, & Wendell is a peach. But I still feel trapped at times. Everyone beyond the little years assures me that it goes by so fast. And I absolutely believe them, because, she's three?? But it's also so soul-shaving & nitty-gritty lesson-learning. It's hard for me to sit down & feed Wendell for the eighth time in 12 hours when I really just want to pick up my paints. I'd rather not listen to Fee's rendition of how her cousin calls her "Uncle Feezy" for the 112th time. If I have to get one more "drinky" because Fee spilled hers & wants another, I'm going to mutiny. But that's the thing. I can't. I am their mother, from here on out. And the very thought makes me want to hide in my dark closet til they can get their own drink without spilling + thank Jesus with every breath I have that these sweet little souls are mine, all at once.

Currently, the hiding is more natural than the praise. It takes pausing + reflecting to remember to praise.  A few days ago, I cajoled Fiona into modeling for some photos of new Etsy cards at a particularly low point in mothering. I'd been working on them like mad, trying to finish them in time for a Valentine's Day promotional sale. The kids conspired against me, being fully entertained right up until I had a paintbrush in my hand. (It was only because my mother happened to be here for a week that I finished them.) It was not my finest week of mothering. But when I looked through the little square viewfinder on my camera, and saw this blue-eyed, bandaided-nobby-kneed Sass-a-Frass, it was like I was seeing her for the first time again. And all the wonder & awe that she is mine, that I get a front-row seat to her growing-up, put it all back into perspective. 

I keep coming back to look at these photos. She's just so cute & sweet, & that band-aid is covering her first bad ding. There's going to be a doozy of a scar there. And at the same time, she's a dolly-toting, crown-wearing, tutu-twirling girl. Those foxy socks used to go above her knees, & that dress used to look more like, well, a dress, rather than a long shirt. She is growing up so fast, despite the long minutes when the dark closet is screaming its siren call. It takes moments of pause, of reflection, of looking behind & beyond to what was, and what will be, to realize what a gift my children are. 

I'll still have moments of exasperation. Daily, I'm sure. I already have, multiple times even while trying to finish up this blogpost. It does help though to have these sweet photos staring back at me, whispering how fast the time really does go. Painting can wait. Finding "myself", whoever that is anymore, isn't so important as savoring these knobby-kneed, foxy-socked days. 

P.S. Even while I believe with all my heart these words, I still struggle with having less time for me. It's a struggle, bursting with ideas & visions of painterly florals & having my cardigan tugged at all day long with demands that seem never-ending. I'm so tired of stretched out cardigans. But I'm not the first mom to be here, and I'd be ever so grateful for any and all advice on embracing the mundane. I don't want to look back with regret, or sigh over lost moments. So, mothers beyond these years, how? How do I? 

And P.P.S. these are the aforementioned Valentines that nearly did me in. I do love them though, and I am quite pleased with them. I thought about sacrificing them & simply tucking them away, not sharing them with the world as penance for my selfishness in creating them, but they are here (thank you, thank you, Mom!!) & so I'll share them. Casually, & with no strings attached. They're available in my etsy shop if they speak to your heart. and they're 10% & have free shipping through 1/27...

Enjoy your day, whatever the weather.