the beautiful monotony of motherhood.

My morning wake-up call came at 6:45 this morning. The baby.

And when I walked in his “room” (I can’t be the only mom who has to use this word loosely for all children to come after the first), there he was, beaming his two-toothed grin at me.

We walked downstairs and pushed play on the unchanging morning routine.

Lily was next. Usually she lays in her bed hollering for me to come in and get her, but this morning she snuck into the kitchen while I was cutting a banana. She went straight to Sawyer and said happily, “I haven’t said, ‘Hi,’ to you yet!”

She left behind an unusually quiet room, and when I went in, I found Norah standing silently in her bed waiting for me.

“I didn’t scream and wake Lily up today!” she said proudly.

I swooped her up and let her jog into the kitchen with the other two. I heard, “Hi, Soy-ler! Are you a happy boy?” as I turned the fan off.

The rest of the morning went pretty much as it always does.

Cereal. Vitamins. Negotiations for more food.


Clothes. Pigtails. A showing of Peppa Pig to ease into the morning.


Books. Babies. A real baby who just wants to eat paper and spit up all over the carpet.



We move through these rhythms together each day. They are mostly unchanging regardless of the day of the week or the schedule of the day.

Monotony gets a bad rap in parenting, and I get it. Life can start to feel a little bit like that movie Groundhog Day except instead of waking up to Sonny & Cher, it’s a chorus of yelling and/or happy screaming (it’s weird over here sometimes).

But monotony is also my friend.

I realized it this morning while I was slow sipping my coffee.

As we have worked hard to build routines for our kids, we also have inadvertently (and more importantly, I suppose) worked to build trust. My kids are never surprised to see me in the morning. They wake up and they do whatever they need to in order to get my attention, but (at least I don’t think), they’re never worried that I won’t come. They just innately trust that I (or Jake) will.

I’ve been overthinking motherhood all week (this, of course, shouldn’t surprise anyone). I spent a lot of brain energy looking for deep metaphors in things like can openers and making long, uninventive lists about all the things being a mom has taught me.

I tried to organize my thoughts a few times, but the words just wouldn’t come, so I put them back in the drawer with the philosophical can opener and moved on.

And then this morning, as my kids moved all around me doing their various morning things, I felt a small twinge of gratitude. An odd feeling, really, for a day much the same as all the others.

But that was it. It was the monotony of my morning which revealed the more beautiful things that have grown from its soil: Trust. Togetherness. The sense of being known.

These days we’re building so many foundations. Laying the groundwork for future expectations and experiences. And today that tiny twinge of gratitude reminded me that the work we’re doing is important and lasting.

Our kids are known. They are loved. They are learning to trust us.

And those are the words I want to remember today.

what happened when i started saying “yes” to my kids.

As of late, I’ve become keenly aware of the number of times I say, “No” or “Don’t” or “Stop” each day.

  • Don’t sit on your chair like that; you’ll fall.
  • Stop putting yogurt in your hair.
  • No, you can’t wear that; it’s too small.
  • Don’t play on the stairs.
  • Stop putting your feet in his face.
  • Don’t scream like that.
  • No, it’s not time for a snack.
  • Don’t lick her tongue. 

(Parenting is so weird, isn’t it?)

It’s a constant reel.

Usually, the negative statements are necessary. If I never said, “No,” the girls would have bellies full of play dough and the baby would have gone headfirst out of his door jumper at the hands of his big sisters by now.

It comes down to health and safety and general necessary obedience usually.

You have to say, “No.”

So then I decided to start saying, “Yes,” as much as I possibly could.

And in this quest, a few things have happened.


The Avoidance of Unnecessary Power Struggles.

Lily has very specific fashion preferences and pays no mind to whether or not her clothes match. Now, I know some parents are all, “Oh, but it’s so cute when they dress themselves in ridiculous combinations,” but as someone who can’t sleep unless my pajamas match, this is not me.

But, as much as I can, I’ve been trying to let go, because when she gets to choose what she wants to wear, that’s one less battle I have to worry about during our day.

It’s a simple new litmus test, really (and this goes for more than just clothes): Am I saying, “No” for her benefit or mine?

If the “No” only benefits me, then I tryyyyy to let it go.

Try is the operative word here.

The Language Goes Both Ways.

Not only have I been trying to saying “Yes” more, I’ve been trying to be more positive during our conversations in general. You know, counter every “Stop talking like a baby” with a few “I love how you used your words”.

Yesterday, Lily told me that my necklace was “really beautiful.”

And this morning, as soon as Norah woke up, she said, “How was your sleep, mom? Good?”

Kids hear everything don’t they?

I’m realizing more tangibly now than ever that if I want my kids to be positive and kind and gracious, then those are the words they need to hear me say more than anything.

I Became More Present.

When the girls ask me to do something, (if possible; it’s not always) I’ve been trying to say, “Yes” immediately.

This has eliminated (for the most part) the phrase “Just a second” from my vocabulary.

So often, when that phrase comes out of my mouth, “a second” turns into something more like 3 or 4 or 5 minutes during which time, they get bored and find something else to do without me.

No good. (It’s especially no good when it say it because I know they’ll get bored and find something else to do without me. Oy.)

So now, whenever possible, I try to leave my phone (the obvious main culprit for my distraction) in another room, and say, “Yes, I would love to read that entire stack of 33 books right this second.”

And it’s so. much. better. to be present with them in those moments. I feel it at the end of our days when I reflect on our time together. It feels like I did something right.

Oh, and I have most of our children’s books committed to memory now, so there’s that too.


I’m a work in progress. Just this morning I drew a hard line and told Lily she had to wear pants that matched her shirt. (I did look the other way though when she added a skirt that most certainly didn’t match the ensemble. Baby steps.)

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Every day is laced with small failures. The “No” I said too sharply, the selfish “Stop” because I was annoyed with the noise, or the “Don’t” that only came out of my mouth because I didn’t want to get off the couch.

It’s easy to get bogged down by those moments, but I’m finding that the more intentional I am about my positive language, the less power the negatives have over my thoughts at the end of the day.

The days intentionally filled with, “Yes” or “I’d really like to” or “That’s a great idea,” well, those are the days I’ve started feeling really good about.

Of course my days will still be filled with “No.”

I’ve got graham cracker intake and overall baby safety to manage, after all.

I guess I just want to make sure that my days are filled with a lot of yeses too.

I mean, how many more days of endless stacks of children’s books or heaping piles of dress-up dresses do I really have ahead of me?


you CAN just be whelmed.

I’ve been feeling whelmed lately.

Yes, of course, this is a cultural reference from the late 1900s.

Specifically, it’s a nod to the acclaimed 1999 hit, 10 Things I Hate About You¹ in which high schooler Chastity wonders aloud, “I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?”

Anyway, Chastity, you can be.

The end.

Oh, sorry. You were hoping for something shorter this time?

I realized it the other day. It was 7:30 and all our kids were in the bed (all the praise hands for that one – we’re getting there when it comes to sleep!).

Jake and I were sitting on the couch, and I was trying to put words to an anxiousness I had been feeling.

And as we talked through it, Jake articulated exactly how I had been feeling: equal parts underwhelmed and overwhelmed.

So, whelmed.

The life of a parent is as such.

It’s underwhelming because every day is exactly the same. The same regimen of wake times and meals and toys and bedtimes and negotiations (while being sprinkled with the periodic play date or library story time, of course). And then the weekend comes–those days of rest you used to live for–and nothing changes. You do it all again.

But it’s also overwhelming, and I feel this at the end of each of these predictable days of preschool transit and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I wonder if I’m doing a good enough job. Am I loving them well enough? Am I offering them enough undivided attention? Are they eating too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

(Answer: Yes, of course they are. Whatever, okay?)

So whelmed, although I will admit this to be my own personal definition, is somewhere in the middle.


I suspect I’m not the only one to feel this way. To go through my days spinning my wheels a little as I try to balance the enormity that is life with the ordinary, particularly simple things that are present all the same.

The more I think about it though, the more I have decided that my general “whelming” feelings aren’t so bad because they keep me rooted in the things that matter.

On one hand, the place in the middle reminds me to love my people well in the simple and understated moments. To unplug from my distractions and pay attention (which is, unfortunately, easier said than done). To engage with them and listen to them and really be with them.

On the other hand, those moments in which I begin to feel overwhelmed are important too because there is a world outside our home that I will one day send our kids into, and the only people wholly responsible for preparing them to face that world are Jake and me.

I want to feel the weight of that because I want to do it well. I want their love and compassion and kindness someday to be rooted in the eternal. To be saturated with Truth.

Which is something that certainly won’t happen by accident or happenstance.

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So, in the end, I guess I don’t really hate feeling whelmed.

Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

¹ Great news: 10 Things I Hate About You IS ON NETFLIX. (In case anyone was wondering what we’re doing tonight.)

in case anyone else is as tired as i am.

Tired is the new status quo over here.

In the past four months, I can count on one hand the number of times I have slept for longer than two hours at a time before being awoken for one reason (a baby who hasn’t quite figured nighttime sleep out yet) or another (the three-year-old who forgets how to cover herself up with her blanket in the middle of the night).

You might think I’m exaggerating for effect, but Jake can back me up on this one because he sleeps about as well as I do. And, if you need further evidence, you can reference the two pounds of coffee I buy every other week.

I know we’re not the only ones living in a constant state of exhaustion. I also know that the fact that we can attribute this exhaustion to our children is indeed something to be thankful for. Please know that I’m not complaining.

Rather, I’m trying to establish our baseline. It is an indisputable fact that Jake and I are tired pretty much all the time. And it can be frustrating to feel tired all the time.

(Sleep deprivation hardly brings out your best qualities, after all.)

Now, as you might remember, I’m trying to shift my perspective this year. To focus on letting  the hard things change me instead of praying for the hard things to change.

So, in light of that, here’s what God had to say about my current state of exhaustion:

For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish.¹

He doesn’t promise me sleep, but He does promise rest for my soul.²


My physical body may be tired, but my soul doesn’t have to be.

That. That is something of hope when you’re dragging yourself out of bed for the fifth time in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off two hours earlier than you wish it would. When you just. can’t. catch. up.

There’s hope. Always hope.

And, tonight I feel restored in knowing that exhaustion can’t touch things like joy or peace (to name a few). There is rest for my soul.

So that’s where I’m at. Tired but satisfied. Sleep-deprived but replenished. Exhausted but well-rested.

Wondering if I’ll ever sleep through the night again (of course I know I will. This is the part where I exaggerate for effect.) but also feeling rejuvenated because I’ve been promised a more important rest.

The most important rest.

And hopefully that’s what I’ll remind myself of when I reach for that third cup of coffee tomorrow.

¹ Jeremiah 31:25

² Matthew 11:28-29

the importance of being known.

I’ve long felt that one of the greatest challenges and responsibilities of being a mom is knowing my kids.

The phrase “I know you better than you know yourself” applies in perfect context to the tiny people who reside under my jurisdiction because I literally do.

I know their triggers. Their buttons. Their tendencies. 

Every time my girls react to something (whether positive or negative, although these conversations usually take place on the corrective side of the spectrum), it’s first my responsibility to figure out what they are feeling for them. Then, I’ve got to teach them the words to those feelings. And finally, I have to help them embrace strategies to deal with and/or or process those feelings.

So many feelings. Jake loves it. 

What a task though, isn’t it? Especially in this phase of discipline and correction and teaching, it feels so crucial to be a constant student of my kids. What makes them happy? What kind of attention are they trying to get from me? What triggers their negative behavior? What drives them crazy? What energizes them?

These are all questions I work to answer on a daily basis.

Maybe I’m thinking about it so much because I read this in a really great book recently:

Children come into the world not knowing who they are. They learn who they are from those around them.¹

As if I wasn’t already feeling enough pressure.


It’s funny though, because the more I think about my girls and their own various tendencies and needs, the more I begin to think about my own.

For instance, when I see Lily’s tendency to meltdown if she spends too much time in large groups of people, I am reminded of my own introverted need to spend time alone in order to recharge.

When I see Norah’s sadness when left out by her big sister, I’m reminded of the times when I’ve quietly given way to self-pity.

When I see Lily shut down because she picked up on a negative tone in my voice, I’m reminded of my own keen ability to perceive people’s feelings and even keener ability to let them affect me. 

I guess I’m finding that the better I know myself, the better I am able to know my kids and help them work through our shared personality traits and downfalls. Similarly, it helps to know Jake, too.

(Goodness knows their joint attempts to sneak out of the house weren’t inherited from me.)

The more I think about this, the more I’m reminded of the cyclical nature of being known. I’ll never fully know my kids or Jake just as I will never fully know myself. There’s no arrival point. As the landscape of our life continues to change, so do we.

We’re still in the thick of the hard work of the middle (which I suspect is really just the constant state of parenting), and my commitment to starting these early chapters off right for my girls remains firm.

And with that comes the added commitment to know them well. To continually know them well. Is there really any other place to start when you’re the ones tasked with teaching them to know themselves?

This parenting gig is not for the faint of heart.

Thankfully, I know this about myself: I love a good challenge and find solving problems exhilarating.

(Just kidding. That’s a pretty good description of Jake. I tend to freak when things don’t go according to plan. But at least I know that about myself, right?)

¹ Katherine C. Kersey as quoted in Raising Your Spirited Child: A Guide for Parents Whose Child is More Intense, Sensitive, Perceptive, Persistent, Energetic by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka

kids and the hard work of the middle.

If you’ve been reading my writing long, this phrase might be familiar to you by now: the hard work of the middle.

It comes from one of my favorite books, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, in which Donald Miller suggests (to over simplify it) that our lives are like a story.

And, more importantly, whether this story I live is a good one is entirely up to me and the choices I make.

As for the hard work of the middle, you can find the larger passage HERE, but, in short, Miller says this:

The reward you get from a story is always less than you thought it would be, and the work is harder than you imagined.  The point of a story is never about the ending, remember.  It’s about your character getting molded in the hard work of the middle.

I was reminded of this concept again this week during a moment in which Jake and I were paddling especially hard but feeling like our boat wasn’t moving any closer to the shore.

Kids, amiright?

We’re in the thick of the hard work, and we exchange at least one high-five a day because we’re so proud of ourselves for not giving up.

(Also, we just really like high-fives. Big whoop.)

Parenting, I’m realizing, comes with an overwhelming sense of pressure. Because, not only are we trying to write and live the best stories we can for ourselves through the murky waters of the middle, we’re also charged with penning the opening chapters of our kids’ lives.

Eventually they will take the pen into their own hands, but for now, it’s almost entirely up to us.

The words we speak to them. The attention we offer them. The expectations we set for them.

These are the days which set the course for all the ones to follow.

girls-fenceThey won’t remember these years with the detail I know Jake and I will, but the importance of the foundation we set for them now is not lost on me.

Parenting toddlers can be defeating. So many nights I’m left dwelling on the things I shouldn’t have said, the ways I mismanaged situations, or the issues I haven’t yet been able to solve.

And, while I believe Jake and I are doing a pretty good job at this whole parenting gig (high-ten for good measure), I also know that we do fail on a daily basis.

Oh the things I already wish I could erase from their books.

But there’s hope. There’s always hope when you look in the right places, and I’m reminded today of these words from Psalm 73:

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Thankfully, my kids don’t have to rely on my strength alone when it comes to these early chapters.

They will certainly see our flaws and failures as we walk through our respective narratives, but I can only hope that through those moments, they also see the promised strength of God and His renewed mercies each day.

And that’s worth an infinite number of high-fives, if you ask me.


dear teachers, I promise to never say this to my kids.

I went to my first preschool meeting last week and officially shifted my school lens from teacher to parent.

I was all, “This is no big deal” about it until Lily’s teachers started talking about how they are the first teachers she will meet in a long line to follow. How they help set the tone for the rest of her educational experience. How this is the beginning of many years to follow.

And that’s kind of a big deal when I really think about it.

So, I’ve been thinking about the grand scheme lately–what I want for my girls out of their educations and what I hope to model for them in the process.

And in thinking through that long list of things, I have decided on one thing for sure: There is one phrase my kids will never hear me say in reference to the things they are learning in school.

“You’ll never need to know that in the real world.”

I have gone rounds with middle school and high school students on this one during my time spent on the teaching side of things.

My mom said I’ll never have to write a paper once I have a job.

My dad has never read a book in his entire life, and he makes tons of money.

My sister is in 10th grade, and she told me she never uses English. (my personal favorite)

Kids innately want purpose. They want to know that the things they are doing matter. I see this now even with Lily and her propensity to ask, “Why?”

And yet, teachers have such a limited time to convince kids that what they are doing matters in the long run. Especially if when they go home, they hear how much it doesn’t.

Now, I haven’t written many formal speeches since I passed my college speech class. I don’t regularly utilize the distributive property in my daily life or analyze the parts of a cell underneath a microscope. I have forgotten the conjugation of Spanish verbs, the major scale on my flute, and the words to the preamble of the Constitution (which I once had memorized).

Instead, what I do on a daily basis is think and analyze and process and problem solve and learn.

The things that matter are so often hidden within the things kids think don’t.

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And that’s where I come in as a parent. I think it is my responsibility to teach my kids that there is value in learning for the sake of learning. That if they approach even the tasks they hate with hard work, determination, and a positive attitude, they will gain skills that will take them far in life (even if they decide to never read another Shakespearean play after high school).

Lily spent the first 15 minutes of her first day of preschool sitting at a kidney table doing puzzles. I suppose I could have let her know that she’ll hardly ever need to complete a physical puzzle once she’s an adult (I certainly don’t do them very often).

Instead, I chose to praise her problem-solving skills, focus, and refusal to give up.

It seemed a no-brainer to me.

So, here’s to the teachers doing the hard work of convincing kids to learn. If my kids ever grace your classrooms, I’ve got your back.

(Also, I may need some extra tutoring sessions on Spanish verb conjugation and the distributive property.)

i want the best time of my life to be now.

When I was a senior in college, a girl who had recently graduated told me that she would give anything to go back to school.

“It was best time of my life,” she said. “Nothing will ever compare.”

Now, I had quite a lot of fun in college (see: hosted floor talent shows and road tripped with my friends to every football game so I could watch the cute wide receiver for examples), but even then I think I balked a little at her comment.

Maybe I’ve been thinking about it because the weather dipped back down into the seventies yesterday and reminded me that a change in season is on my horizon. Maybe it’s because all my teacher friends are decorating classrooms and meeting new students. Maybe it’s because Lily starts preschool on Monday.

In any case, my resolve remains strong: I refuse to believe that nothing will ever compare to right now.


I want the best time of my life to be where I’m at now, but, more importantly, I want to be able to say that in every season. With every new milestone. 

This thought process always makes me think of the Robert Frost poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour,
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

I suppose I could sink to grief. Agonize over the fact that Lily is entering this new, more independent phase or wish I could freeze everything exactly as it is right now.

But, what good would that do anyone?

And, besides, when I think of every new phase—the new jobs, the new people, the new kids, the new houses, the new milestones—each one has added something beautiful to my life (even if it was hard to see at the time). Even during those hard seasons, I don’t think I could ever say, “I just wish I could go back.” (at least, I hope I didn’t.)¹

I want to be a person who balances nostalgia with realism. Who holds onto and cherishes the moments while I have them but also finds joy in the moments of letting go and moving forward. I want to embrace the beauty of new seasons rather than trying to keep my feet rooted in the past.

That’s what I want.

(So, feel free to remind me of these thoughts when Lily starts kindergarten, leaves for college, and/or gets married someday.)  😉


¹ I certainly don’t mean to downplay the tragic and/or devastating seasons of life some people face. I imagine those moments are wrought with many feelings of wanting something back that has been lost or taken away. I’m mostly talking here in terms of the natural changes and milestones we seem to continually face as a family. The mostly trivial but necessary things.

marriage: something better and something new.

Jake and I love when the girls go to bed.

We also love when they’re awake (you know, most days), but there’s a certain relief in knowing that you’re not imminently needed for a few hours (until, of course, a kid wakes up screaming because her fan isn’t close enough to make her blanket “really, really cold”). There’s a satisfaction in telling a story with fewer than twelve interruptions and a sense of accomplishment that you made it through the chaos and demands of another day.

Jake and I used to leave our house a lot. We loved to go out for dinner or take long walks after dark. We’d see movies in theaters, play cards at Starbucks, and take drives with no particular end destination in mind.

Now, 7:00 rolls around, and we’re knee deep in toothpaste, bedtime stories, and toddler negotiations. And, then, once both girls are asleep, we’re usually homebound. The late night spontaneity we used to enjoy together is long gone and has been replaced by the surprise of what the other person will choose on Netflix.

Let me tell you something, though: This is the most fun I’ve had being married to Jake.225447_503883083295_2516_nI used to get pretty anxious thinking about moving to Ohio and away from the family and community we had filled our life with. And in those moments when it felt like it was going to be too much and too lonely, I would remember that I wasn’t going alone. I was going with Jake.

Before we had any friends here, we had each other, and as I think about how hard our eighth year of marriage was in terms of transitions and change, I’m equally reminded of how easy it has become being married to Jake.

Of course it’s still work. Of course we still come up short at times. And of course we still drive each other crazy at least once every day (Jake: “Why would I unpack and move my suitcase from the middle of the room when I’m just going to need it again in three weeks?”).

But here we are, 8 years in, and still happy we’re doing this thing together.

I read in this really great book by Donald Miller¹ recently that relationships are teleological–that they’re going somewhere. Miller went on to say that “If you’re coasting, you’re going down hill. Unless [you’re] practicing, [you’re] getting worse. We can fall into reactionary patterns in relationships rather than understanding they’re things we build and nurture and grow.”

Eight years ago, I made a choice to enter into this marriage relationship with Jake, but I never got a choice as to whether or not it will move forward–it’s going somewhere regardless of the effort I put forth. The ongoing choice, then, is whether or not I want to continue to build and nurture and grow what we have together into something beautiful.Relationships are teleological. They're all going somewhere and they're turning us into something, hopefully something , someth.jpgI think it would be easy to stop working at it now that kids are in the mix. To take that time when the girls are sleeping only for myself because “I deserve it.” To stop talking to Jake about real and important things because I’m too tired. To stay married but not really be friends.

And that’s what I’m really thankful for after these eight years: That we’re better friends now than we were when we started off on this life together. Sure, it looks more like rocking chairs on the front porch and late night, take-out dinner dates at our kitchen table after the girls are in bed, but that’s time I wouldn’t have any other way.

Time that, I think, is turning our marriage into something better and something new each day.

¹ Scary Close: Dropping the Act and Finding True Intimacy (2015)

the problem with kids.

People used to laud Lily on her sleep habits. “Oh,” they said, “How wonderful that she’ll sleep anywhere!” “How fantastic,” they said, “that she sleeps through the night.” “She,” they said, “is a great sleeper.”

Then she turned two and a half. Suddenly, she started waking up in the middle of the night and refusing to go back to bed. For a time, she decided 4:45 a.m. was a reasonable time to wake up in the morning. She held hour long bedtime standoffs and decided naps could be grounds for a battle as well.

Everything I read and everybody I talked to said the phase would be short. “Be consistent and sleep habits will go back to normal,” they said. But months and months passed, and on more than one occasion, Jake came home and found me tear-stained and prostrate on the floor of a quiet house because it was the only way I knew to decompress the terribleness that was bedtime.

But sleep isn’t what this essay is about. It’s about the real problem with kids which, if you ask me, is this: They convince you that they are good at things and then they decide to stop being good at those things.

Or more plainly, they constantly change.weekendrules (2)

Lily was my champion sleeper. And then, she up and realized she could have her own opinions about things and changed the whole ball game on me. I wasn’t ready for it. She blindsided me and there was no fancy Daniel Tiger jingle to convince her otherwise (believe me, I tried all the things).

Right now we seem to have reached a treaty–a season of bedtime peace–and I’m learning to enjoy these times because I know they are bound to be short-lived. Surely there is another regression in our future which will shake up our rhythm and force us to find a new beat altogether (if Norah stops inhaling all food as she threatened a few months ago, so help me).

It can be defeating. For me, it always seems like my girls hit a regression or make a change just as I’m feeling pretty good about things. When I feel like I have it all together, I’m always reminded that I actually don’t.

As parents, I think it would be easy to live in constant frustration that nothing ever stays the same. It’s in these moments though that I am reminded of the power in my own insufficiency. I’ll never have it all together, and I’m thankful that constant change reminds me of this. Regressions in parenting are a thorn in my flesh, but there is joy knowing that my responses to these frustrations can give room for Christ’s strength if I let them.1.jpgIt doesn’t make it easy, but it does make it worth it.

And so, I’d like to dedicate these thoughts to my sleeping babes. To Lily who has learned that the sleep-time battle isn’t worth fighting and to Norah who hasn’t yet figured out that there’s a battle to be fought. May the beauty of her ignorance be long lasting and may we have patience, wisdom, and plenty of coffee the moment she figures out otherwise.