From morning til night,
The requests never end.
We just had breakfast.
It’s almost lunch.
How can you still be hungry?
Someday I know I’ll miss being the keeper of snacks.
But until then, can you go and ask your dad?
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 “On Repeat.”
“There’s a fertilizer spreader outside of Chicago that I want to go and look at. Do you want to go and we’ll make it an anniversary trip?” Rich asked.
“With the kids?” I responded.
“No, I was thinking we would leave them with my parents and have it just be us. What do you think?”
I paused as I think about seeing the city, mostly for the first time. Six years earlier, when I was six months pregnant with Rhett, we had driven from Montana to Ohio. We stopped for lunch, deep-dish pizza, of course, and to walk around “The Bean” at Millenium Park.
“If your parents are up for keeping them, let’s go!” I said.
Three days later, we were sitting on an airplane at 6 a.m., preparing for take-off. It wasn’t lost on me that 10 years before, my friend, Katie was still alive and living in Chicago. As we prepared to land at O’Hare, I sighed, wishing she was going to be there to meet us. Despite feeling sad, I was excited to see the city she loved so much.
The next day, as we walked down the busy downtown streets and onto Navy Pier, I silently wondered, Did she walk these same streets, to these same places? Who was she with? It was a windy and drizzly day, which seemed fitting for the ‘The Windy City,’ and I imagined her dark hair blowing into her face, the water splashing up onto the pier from Lake Michigan.
—
Sometimes we know a good thing when we see it, even at the age of five. Katie and I met when we were in kindergarten. I don’t remember a time before her or what drew us together–likely it was that we went to a small school, and our class was small. But it still felt special to us. She moved after second grade, leaving me heartbroken. We kept in touch with letters and pictures throughout the remainder of elementary school. As time passed, her family and her made more moves, while I continued to stay in the same place. Toward the end of high school, we slowly lost contact, other than exchanging senior photos and announcements.
At the end of college, we reconnected in a digital world. Thanks to a quick search on Facebook, I instantly caught up with her life. Our contact became more frequent, and we both realized we had thought of one another over the years but hadn’t reached out. We continued to keep in touch through messages and emails, liking one another’s photos and being able to see each other in real-time.
Many times we talked about meeting up. She lived in Chicago, working as a dance instructor after college. Her life appeared full of excitement, city adventures, and friends. I had always imagined living in a city, and at times I envied her life. By then we were several years past college, and I was working full-time and going to grad school, the fun of undergrad college days behind me.
On an otherwise normal day in April, I answered a phone call from my sister. Her calling instead of texting in the middle of a workday made me take pause, and I felt uneasy as I answered the phone.
“Katie’s gone,” my sister softly exhaled after I said hello.
“What do you mean? How?” I asked.
I quickly went to her Facebook page, confused as the last messages I saw were her friends and family wishing her a “Happy Birthday!” We didn’t talk on a daily basis, so it wasn’t unusual that I hadn’t talked to her in a few days—since I had wished her a happy birthday. We were only six weeks apart, and now we were both 25. As I scrolled down her page, I saw the posts I had missed, “I can’t believe you’re gone.” “You were such a light, and your smile lit up every room you entered.” And the posts went on. How had I missed these?
I went home after work and curled up in my bed. Guilt and anger, but mostly sadness, filled me that we hadn’t set a date and planned a trip together.
I never thought there would be a day that she wasn’t there anymore. I took time for granted.
In one of her last messages to me, she said, “I always knew I picked a good one back then.” I did too.
I’ll always be sad I never saw Chicago with her, but I’m grateful for the time I spent there—imagining it through her eyes.
“Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost
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.
Headlights cross our front windows, sending beams of light through the house. It’s early December, and although it’s only 7 o’clock, it’s already been dark for a couple hours. “Rhett and Allie, come see! Someone is here!” They run toward the window, peering into the darkness. A minute later, a man in a red suit appears, his black boots shining. Rhett pauses for a moment, then whispers, “Santa?” Last year he was nervous when Santa stopped by our house, and I’ve been wondering how he would feel about this year’s visit. Two loud raps hit the front door and the kids stand frozen by the Christmas tree.
My husband, Rich, opens the door and Santa booms, “Merry Christmas! Is this Rhett and Allie’s house?”
I walk over to the kids and start to usher them to the front door. “Hi Santa, how nice of you to stop by!” I say as Allie hides behind my legs and Rhett stands with his fingers in his mouth, inching closer to the door.
“Have you two been good this year?” Santa asks, kneeling on the floor. They both nod, their eyes wide.
“I heard that you have been and I wanted to bring you a little gift before Christmas!” He pulls two small bags from behind his back. Rhett cautiously reaches out to take one, but Allie shakes her head and hides behind me.
Rhett tears into his bag, while I slowly pull the gifts out of Allie’s bag, showing them to her. Santa says, “Well, I have to be going. Mrs. Claus is waiting for me at home!” He stands up and waves his goodbyes, then closes the door behind him as he disappears once again into the darkness.
//
Click over to Coffee + Crumbs to read the rest of my essay.
While we get our kids ready for bed, my son climbs onto his top bunk. He doesn’t sleep there yet but loves the somewhat “off-limits” idea of it. My daughter looks up at her brother and immediately points to him and says, “Up!” My husband gently lifts her onto the bunk and she starts running from one end of the mattress to the other.
My stomach starts doing flip-flops as I envision her falling headfirst onto the floor. “Sweetie, no running. Crawl.”
She looks down at us, “Huh?” as she tilts her head to the side, using both hands to brush the hair from her face.
My son looks down at his dad with a big smile and says, “You come up here, too?” My husband agrees and starts to climb the ladder.
I stand down on the floor, arms crossed, secretly counting the minutes until the kids are asleep and I can get back to my book. But eventually, I give in to their cries for me to “come up here!”
Truthfully, my heart swelled knowing they want me to join them. All too often I choose to sit on the sidelines, letting these moments pass by, worn out by the demands of motherhood and mentally clocking out before they are asleep.
To read the rest of my essay, click over to my newest story at Motherly.
“Mom, who’s this?” my son calls from the living room.
With my hands fully immersed in the kitchen sink full of soapy water, I turn to face him. I can see the kids have pulled out a photo album. “Hold on, let me come look.”
As I walk toward them, drying my hands on a towel, I realize they’ve found an album from my final semester of college. Memories start flooding back as I kneel down beside them on the floor.
“That’s my friend and me when I lived in D.C. It’s a long way from here,” I reply, pointing to us, with the Washington Monument in the background.
As we continue to flip through the album, I remember my first day there. I was only 22. I took one step out of the airport, and a wall of humidity met me. The sun was beating down on that hot August day. Wide-eyed, I stared up at the tall buildings around me, traffic whirring by. I stopped walking and stood beside my brand new suitcases. People scurried past me with their rolling luggage. No one made eye contact. I definitely wasn’t in Wyoming anymore. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a single sheet of paper. Although I’d read the address several times in the last few weeks, I paused and leaned on my luggage to steady myself. This was my new home.
Glancing up, I drank in my surroundings: high-rise buildings, concrete, and hot sticky air. I watched as yellow cabs slowed down in the street, people in suits raising their arms to stop a driver. I inhaled, grasped the handles of my suitcases, and tentatively stepped closer to the curb. My eyes wandered cautiously, and I slowly raised my arm in imitation of the other travelers. Eventually, a cab pulled up and the driver hopped out of his car. He came around to help me load my suitcases into the trunk: my entire wardrobe for the next four months, crammed into two bags.
With a thud, the driver closed the trunk. I walked to the back door, climbed in, and sat down. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The blast of the AC was a welcome relief on my sweaty face.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked.
With false confidence, I recited the address, and he nodded. The cab accelerated, and we were on our way. I peered out the window, taking it all in.
Three weeks before, I was living at my parents’ house on summer break from college. Earlier that year I’d applied for an internship with a senator in D.C., but weeks and months had gone by without a word. I’d mostly forgotten about it until I received an email in early August. “You’ve been accepted as a press intern in our senator’s office. The internship starts at the end of the month.” My stomach turned flip-flops. Was I really going to do this?
I said yes.
The next few weeks flew by as I found someone to lease my apartment, adjusted my school schedule, and said goodbye to my friends and family.
The night before I left, I went to my boyfriend’s house.
“You’ll come and visit me, won’t you?” I cautiously asked him as we sat on the lawn. In the silence, I passed my hand back and forth over the newly cut grass. The dark night surrounded us. An occasional car drove down the street.
He sat across from me with his arms draped over his knees. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s only a few months. We’ll see each other at Christmas.”
Pulling my hand from the lawn and folding it into my lap, I replied, “Okay.” I was thankful for the darkness which hid the disappointment on my face.
Weeks later, with my briefcase on my lap, I sat on the orange seats of the Metro. This was my daily commute to Capitol Hill. The hot summer had faded into an east coast fall. The humid days floated away as the leaves began to hit the ground. In the previous weeks, I’d traded some of my false confidence for real confidence. In the mornings, I put on comfortable shoes to walk the few blocks to the Metro stop, taking the Red Line to the Capitol. When I arrived at my office, I sat at my desk and swapped them out for the dress shoes tucked inside my bag. My days were spent researching topics the senator was involved in and writing press releases with the deputy press secretary. She was only a year older than me and quickly became a friend and mentor, not only helping me with my writing but navigating the Senate and the city.
Changing shoes once more at the end of the day, I walked back to Union Station, swiping my Metro card for the ride home. One of my roommates, Chrystal, greeted me at our apartment. We’d never met before August but were paired together: a girl from Wyoming and a girl from Idaho. Both a long way from home. I dropped my bag on the floor and sat cross-legged on the couch as we swapped stories about our workdays. We passed the evening in an easy conversation. Once the dinner dishes were cleared, I called my boyfriend back home. In a typical conversation, I ended up arguing with him, not happy with who he was spending time with while I was away. I moved into the hallway and sat on the floor, so my roommates wouldn’t hear my sobs. As I hung up the phone, I wiped tears on my sleeve, quietly opened the door, and walked back into our apartment. Chrystal greeted me with a hug but didn’t ask me any questions—her presence was all I needed.
In the remaining weeks and months, Chrystal introduced me to more people. We visited monuments and museums and tried new food. She felt like an anchor when I kept trying to pull away, back to the comfort of where I grew up. She was mature beyond her years, and her confidence was contagious.
A year and a half later, I stood at the end of an aisle. My dress flowing, my hands clutching a bouquet. I’d spent the morning getting my hair and makeup done while butterflies popped up in my stomach. It was a warm spring day, the perfect day for a wedding.
The guests stood up and the bridal march began. I turned to face the white chairs filled with people. Chrystal walked up the aisle toward me, toward her groom.
She said yes.
We said yes to a friendship that crossed state lines. Through the years we’ve kept in touch through Facebook, text, and the occasional phone call. I flew back to D.C. to visit when her career took her back there after college. Later, we met for a long weekend in San Francisco, seeing the sights of a new city together. When she relocated to Texas, I spent a weekend exploring her new state with her. When I got married, she was there with me in Wyoming and later came to visit me at my new home in Montana. We’ve been there for each other in the good times and bad, and everything in between. Like most long-distance friendships, we go through phases where we talk often, followed by times when we’re out of touch. Even then, I know she will always be there for me.
Almost 15 years have passed since that fall in D.C. Now, sitting here with my kids, I run my fingers over the prints in the album. The Washington Monument, a football game in Virginia, a group of interns huddled under umbrellas, trying to stay out of the pouring rain in New York City. These are experiences I know I’ll never forget.
Flipping to the end of the album, I find one of the last photos: Chrystal and me with our cheeks pressed together. We have big smiles on our faces. I left D.C. that winter with more than a degree. I left with a friendship I knew would last a lifetime.
I close the album and pick up my phone, typing out a quick message to that girl from Idaho. Chrystal responds back, and we pick up right where we left off.
//
This essay was originally published at Sweatpants & Coffee.
I walk over to the calendar and put my finger on the square that has written in pencil, “Rhett’s first day of school!” It’s only four days away. Earlier that morning I woke up to the kids crying out for me–jolting me out of bed. I was immediately met with breakfast requests, which feels like a lot to ask of someone who isn’t fully awake yet. Remembering how I felt, I grab my phone and go to the alarm settings and slide the toggle to ‘on’ for 5 a.m. Starting tomorrow, I am going to get up before the kids. I know once school starts, the bus will pick Rhett up around 6:45 a.m., so he needs to be up by 6 o’clock anyway.
That night, after the kids have gone to bed, I grab my favorite blanket and the remote as I curl up in the recliner. This is the time I’ve been craving all day. I remember that my mom has told me many times that I have always been a night owl, often staying up later than I should have as a kid. Was I really going to try and change my internal clock? Even though my alarm is set for 5 a.m., I stay up later than I should.
The next morning, the alarm goes off and I roll over, fumbling in the dark for my phone. Once I silence the alarm, I exhale. I look out the window, seeing only complete darkness. I’m tempted to roll over and go back to sleep but I know I will regret it. I put my glasses on and step out of bed into the cool room, leaving the warmth of my down comforter. I slip on a sweatshirt and tiptoe down the hall, trying not to wake anyone—the last thing I want at 5 a.m. is an audience.
As I walk to the kitchen to fire up the Ninja coffee maker, I think how fast this summer went. Every year, time seems to go by faster. Rhett finished preschool in May, then I blinked and it was August. All summer we kept the windows open at night to cool the house down. Then one morning there was a crisp edge, the warm summer mornings giving way to the beginning of fall. For most of the summer, I was in ‘survival’ mode. Rich was gone for long hours and bedtime was always a zone defense: me vs. the kids. I was waking when the kids did; then I stayed up late, trying to soak up as much “me” time as possible—only to be tired and cranky in the morning. For weeks it seemed like no matter how early I woke up or how late I stayed up; I never had enough time to myself. I was greedy for more. When I had an hour to myself, instead of my cup feeling full, it felt like I had been in a desert—there wasn’t enough water to quench my thirst.
I jump a little when the coffee maker beeps—the sound piercing the silent house. I grab the cup, pour in an excessive amount of French vanilla creamer, and walk to my office. The washing machine clicks off (thank you, delay wash cycle), and I move the clothes from the washer to the dryer. The clothes begin to tumble, filling the room with the rhythmic beat of the dryer balls. I pick up my devotional book, read a chapter, then I lift the screen of my laptop. The house is completely quiet, other than the dryer. My fingers begin to tap away at the keyboard, trying to catch my thoughts before they drift away.
Every once in a while, I stop typing, listening for sounds of the rest of the house waking up. I take a sip of my hot coffee, knowing that the minutes are ticking until the kids wake up. When it’s close to 6:30, I hear a bedroom door click open and tiny feet on the floor.
“Oscar, no!” Allie shouts.
I save my work and close my laptop, then walk down the hall to “rescue” Allie from the puppy, who greets her each morning with lots of unwelcome licks.
I didn’t finish an essay or start a book. But in those 90 minutes, I was able to do what I enjoy—without being interrupted for a snack request or potty breaks. The quiet of the early morning is a welcome respite to an otherwise noisy life.
A week goes by, I am still getting up at 5 a.m., and Rhett has already finished his first week of school. On the next school day, I wake him up shortly after 6 a.m., feeling well-rested, my cup filled up. After he is gone for school, it’s just Allie and me. Later that morning as I’m picking up toys, she brings me the bag of magnetic letters.
“Play with me?” she says. Instead of thinking I need just five minutes at my computer, I say, “Okay, let’s spell your name.” I sit on the floor in front of the fridge and spell out all our names. Just as soon as I put them up, she slides them down the stainless steel even faster. When we are both bored with the game, I begin to pick the letters up and get ready to pick Rhett up from school.
Later that evening, after the kids are in bed, I walk to the living room, turn on “Nashville,” and sit down to watch an episode before I go to bed myself. I thought back to the summer months when I felt guilty for watching TV after the kids went to bed. Guilty that “If I love to write so much, why am I not writing right now?” But I’m able to relax, knowing I already spent time writing this morning, and I have my alarm set for the next morning to do the same.
After I click the TV off, I walk to bed. I think back to the times when I have told Rich that accomplishing a lot of my goals feels impossible. “How will I ever write a book? The kids need me so much.” His usual response is, “It’s like eating an elephant. One bite at a time.”
I laugh whenever he says it because the image of eating an elephant is an interesting visual. But it’s true. I know that getting up early won’t solve all my problems, and I still find myself wandering to my office throughout the day, but it feels good to carve out time just for myself, not waiting until 8 p.m. to scrape together whatever energy I have left from the day for me to write (or read, or just sit in silence).
Instead of expecting the time to magically appear, or waiting until my kids are both in school—I’m taking the time now. (It only took me six years to adapt to a farmer’s schedule, but here I am.)
I know there will always be challenges in finding the time to write, and there will be some mornings when it doesn’t work out. There are also the days I have to wade through the noise of my inner critic who says, “You’re not really a writer.” But I’ve found that my inner critic is a bit quieter in the morning.
No matter if it’s morning or night, I’m going to write anyway.
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 “Write Anyway.”
A letter came in the mail last week for Rhett, a note from his new pre-k teacher. While he already completed one year of preschool, this felt more significant. He will go to this school until he graduates; many years from now, some of the kids in this class will walk across the stage with him and receive their high school diplomas together.
⠀
As I opened the letter, the last five summers flashed before my eyes.
⠀
My belly bulging, the days punctuated with Braxton Hicks and the excitement of our first child.
⠀
The next summer he was learning how to crawl and wanted to put everything in his mouth.
⠀
The following summer, my belly was swollen with his little sister. On hot afternoons we would curl up on the couch, his head resting on my baby bump—trying to stay as close to me as possible.
⠀
The summer he was almost 3, it felt like we had finally found our footing as a family of four.
⠀
Last summer, he rode his balance bike non-stop and wanted to spend every waking minute working with his dad in the field.
⠀
What will I remember about this summer, the summer before he’s 5?
⠀
I can slowly feel the days slipping through my fingers, the days when our lives are just our own. No school schedules, no sports, no homework. His closest friends are his sister and cousins. His dad is his best friend.
⠀
I want to soak up the moments of this summer that feels like a last: swimming with the cousins, fishing with his dad, and late nights roasting marshmallows. My days full of random hugs and “I love you, Mom.” This is the last summer where the hot days of play aren’t seen as a break from school.
⠀
The weeks will fly by, as summers always do.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
But this isn’t the end.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
It’s really just another beginning.
//
I wrote this in June and it was shared on Coffee + Crumbs in July. Today is Rhett’s first day of pre-k and I wanted to share this note to mark the occasion.
