A Little Bit Nervous

The school supply list has been printed off and sitting on my desk for the last month. I’ve been a little excited about getting to shop for two kids this fall for back-to-school. Partly because I felt like Allie would be excited to pick things out, while Rhett doesn’t seem to have any preferences. And I’ll admit, it’s also because I love new pens, pencils, and notebooks.

The other morning, the supply list crossed my mind, and I pictured the already picked-over aisles at Target. “We need to go to town and get your supplies for school,” I told Allie. She was sitting on the counter, watching me make Malt-O Meal for breakfast.

“I’m excited,” she paused, playing with the fabric of her pajamas. Then, her head dropped, “But I’m going to be a little bit nervous.”

I put down the spatula, then wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her tight, “I’m going to be a little bit nervous too. I’m going to miss you.” She pulled her head back and looked at me, “I know.” 

Letting her go, I turned away from her, then blinked back the unexpected tears on this random Wednesday. I’ve already sent Rhett to school, and honestly, I wasn’t sure what feelings to expect about Allie going to school. Since Rhett started kindergarten last fall, she has wanted to go to school too. At least once a week last year, she asked, “When can I go to school?” My response was, “Next year.” Then, “In a few months.” Now, looking at the calendar, my response will be, “In a few weeks.” 

Allie was my baby for three and a half years. She’s a constant at my side. When Rhett went to all-day kindergarten last fall, it didn’t feel like a huge shock since he had spent most of the summer away from me in the harvest field. But Allie? While she spends a few hours here and there away from me, she’s mostly at home.

Thinking back to my pregnancy with her, the excitement, wonder, and magic weren’t muted—just because it was our second baby. So I guess it’s not surprising that the sadness, excitement, and disbelief feels the same as it did when Rhett went to Pre-K a couple of years ago. But somehow, it still caught me off guard. All the cliches flood my mind, “Wasn’t she just a baby yesterday?” “How did the time go by so fast?” 

This fall, she will be in Pre-K three half-days a week, and for that, I’m grateful. This coming year will be like dipping our toes into our time apart, hopefully making the plunge into all-day kindergarten next year a little less shocking.

I know I can’t go back in time or slow time down. But I plan to be intentional with these final weeks of summer. I want to take pictures I don’t plan to post, scroll less, and say yes a bit more.

For now, school is still a few weeks away. And I’ll keep making breakfast every morning and soaking up the last bits of time I’ll remember as “before she was in school.”

Dreaming of Someone I Used to Know

I unload the last box from my car and close the door to the apartment behind me. Turning back, I remember to lock the deadbolt, then collapse on the floor between the boxes. 

My mom walks into the living room, “Well, it’s all in! Do you want to start unpacking now or eat dinner first?” 

“Let’s order something in. My first take-out in the city!” I start to search on my phone for Thai take-out, excited to have so many choices right at my fingertips. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, placing her purse on the kitchen counter. “The apartment is really nice.” She looks around approvingly. “Lots of good light.” 

“I’m thankful to not be in a basement apartment anymore.” I laugh, remembering the sound of the dogs running above me in my last apartment. “I can’t believe I’m here—that I actually moved. It still feels a bit unreal.” 

She nods, “I can’t believe you’re going to be so far from home. But I’m proud of you. I haven’t been to Seattle since I was a kid. What day does your job start, again?”

“Orientation for the new employees is Tuesday. I’ll get to meet some of the other counselors then too. So I have a few days to unpack and maybe explore the neighborhood a bit,” I reply. 

“That’s good you have a few days to settle in first,” she says. 

“I hate unpacking,” I sigh. “Thanks for coming with me to help. Maybe one of these times it will be a last move,” I say, laughing.

The food arrives and we sit in silence until the rain begins to fall—the sound filling the room. The temperature seems to drop suddenly, and I begin to shiver. Looking around at the boxes, I rummage through them until I find a sweatshirt and quickly pull it over my head.

//

Click here to read the rest of my essay at Kindred Mom.

Marrying a Farmer Isn’t What I Expected

Recently, a fellow farm wife asked me, “Was marrying a farmer what you expected?” 

I thought back to the summer before my farmer and I were married. In the evening after work, I would drive out to the farm, park my car, and hop into the buddy seat of the combine. Butterflies popped up in my stomach as my arm brushed against his tan, muscular arm. He had one hand on the wheel, with his eyes focused on the field in front of him. Our conversations ranged from wedding plans to harvest and the yield from the crop. (The farm talk mostly went in one ear and out the other.) It was just us, and we had our whole lives in front of us.

The sunset—lighting the prairie sky on fire, painting it red and orange. A beautiful contrast against the amber waves of grain rolling ahead of the sharp blades of the combine header. 

Eventually, the bright colors began to fade, giving way to a night sky. He still had more cutting to do, but I stepped down the ladder at the edge of the field. Turning to wave to him, I pulled my jacket around me—the heat of the day yielding to a cool summer evening. I went back to my apartment, where the dust bunnies were full of dirt, no cow manure or stray wheat. And my dryer vent only had lint—no kernels of wheat or straw mixed in with the blue lint. 

Shaking my head at the memory, I replied, “You know, I don’t know if I knew what to expect.” Then I laughed. “Farm life had a romantic feel to it. But I wasn’t living on the farm; I could come and go. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

//

Click here to read the rest of my essay at Her View From Home.

On Baby Teeth, Rejections, and Mediocrity

Mediocre • / me·di·o·cre
/ˌmēdēˈōkər/ adjective: mediocre
1. of only moderate quality; not very good.

//

Since I became a mom of three, most days, I would describe myself as mediocre. All the other moms in my life appear to have more patience; they do fun things and have kids that follow the rules.

Last summer, Rhett had to have a tooth pulled, and I blamed myself for the whole thing. Did I not brush his teeth well enough? How did I miss this cavity—a cavity that got so bad it became infected, without me even noticing. As he sat crying in the chair, I felt guilty as the dentist tried to numb the tooth. Rhett was nearly six at the time but hadn’t lost any of his baby teeth yet, and this was a tooth he wasn’t supposed to lose until he was 10 or 11. 

Mediocrity. 

That night, he put the tooth under his pillow, excited for the Tooth Fairy to come for the first time. I snuck into his room after he was asleep and carefully pulled the tooth out from under his head. I replaced the tooth with a one-dollar bill (no glitter or notes, just a bill I found in Rich’s wallet). After closing his bedroom door, I stood in the hallway with the tooth in my hand.

Unsure what to do with it, I walked into my room and put it in my nightstand drawer. Throwing it in the trash seemed sort of sad. Am I a bad mom if I throw it away? Should I keep it, to remember him as a baby?

//

I’ve been trying to be a writer (cringe) for about four years. I started submitting my essays to online publications when Allie was a baby. Early on, I had success after success; my acceptances outweighed the rejections. 

Any writer will tell you, rejection is part of the game. If you’re not getting rejected, it means you’re not putting yourself out there. While I believe that’s true, the rejections still hurt.

In the last year, my rejections have far outweighed the acceptances. The initial sting hurts a bit less than it did a few years ago, but overall it’s affected me more than I admit. 

I think it hurts a bit more now because I feel like I’m mediocre in mothering on top of it. I’ve lost count of the times have I’ve hushed them, “Mommy’s working!” While trying to steal a few minutes to put down words on the computer.

Am I ignoring them only to be rejected, to be a mediocre writer?

//

“Mom, what’s this tooth doing in here?” Rhett called down the hall. “I thought the tooth fairy took it.” 

I groaned. “What tooth?” But I knew what tooth he was talking about. I walked down the hall and into my room and found Rhett and Allie with his tooth in hand. 

“Hmmm… I don’t know what it’s doing in here,” I said, trying to come up with an excuse for why the pulled tooth was next to my bed.

“She must have accidentally dropped it when she came last night. I’ll take it,” I said, holding out my hand. 

“Can I put it back under my pillow and get more money?” Rhett asked. 

“Nope, she just comes once for each tooth.” 

He handed me the tooth, and I put it in my pocket to properly dispose of later.

//

On a Sunday afternoon, we were all driving home from church, and I was skimming through a local magazine, looking for my latest article. 

“Hey, Mom, can I read that?” Rhett asked from the backseat. 

“Sure,” I said, passing it back to him. He flipped through the magazine for the rest of the drive home, stopping when he recognized a picture of one of his dad’s tractors.

Once Rich parked the Suburban, I started unloading everyone and all our stuff. 

Rhett, still in his car seat, looked at me, then back at the magazine. 

“Mom, it’s your name!” he said, his face beaming. 

“It is. I wrote that,” I said. 

“That’s cool,” he replied, still smiling. 

Turning around, I met Rich, who was coming out of the garage to grab another load from the car. 

“Rhett’s proud of me; he saw my name,” I said, nodding toward the car. “I think this is the first time he thinks I’ve done something cool.” I laughed; but, it felt good, knowing he was proud of me.

(Being a stay-at-home mom married to a farmer with a farm-loving son is hard to compete with.)

//

This past winter, Rhett came home from school and excitedly said, “I have a loose tooth!” He shook the tooth back and forth in his gums to prove it. 

A few days later, after all the lights were out and we had tucked him into bed, he called out, “I pulled my tooth out!” 

We cracked open the bedroom door and flipped on the lights. He sat up, squinting into the now bright room, grinning with his new smile. This time it was a bottom tooth—front and center. 

A couple of hours later, I snuck back into his room and took the tooth, replacing it with a dollar.  

Then, I stood in the hallway with the tooth in hand. The tooth was one of his first two teeth that came in when he was eight months old. I could still remember his smile with the two new teeth on the bottom, a contrast to the months of gummy smiles we were used to.

Feeling a pit in my stomach, I paused at the memory, then I walked down the hall and threw the tooth in the trash.

//

Recently, Rhett spent a whole Sunday afternoon outside, seeding lentils and chickpeas in our tree patch. The weather was too cold for Rich to be in the field seeding, but that didn’t stop Rhett. He was outside for hours. He even asked me to pack a lunch to take with him, along with his handheld radio. He left one radio in the house with Rich with instructions, “I’ll call if I need you.” 

After a couple of hours, his voice crackled through the radio, “Dad, you got a copy?”

“Yes, Rhett, go ahead,” Rich replied. 

“I’ve still got a few hours left; I’ll be back after dark, okay?” 

Rich put down the radio and, with a big smile, said to me, “This has got to be a story.”

I nodded, my fingers itching to write. I wanted to remember Rhett in his navy winter jacket, speckled with mud, a stocking hat, and Muck boots on a chilly April day. I didn’t want to forget how proud I felt watching him from the house, as he used a hoe to make his rows, then carefully poured the seeds into the tilled soil. I never want to forget how serious he takes this “play,” copying phrases his dad says and how much he already knows about farming.

//

Comparison often steals my joy in motherhood and writing. I don’t know all the struggles another mom has—the ways she feels defeated. The same with writing, I only see the pretty squares of acceptances, their byline successes—but I don’t know their rejections.

I think part of me hopes I can look back at the baby books and journals and essays I wrote during this time, and I’ll not only remember who they were, but who I was too—I’ll see that I was more than just average. 

Writing helps me remember the good stories I never want to forget and gives me a way to reflect on the challenging moments.

My writing might not be one of the greats, but I’ll take being average—if it means I get to tell my family’s story. 

(And I think my words will have a longer shelf life than baby teeth in a jar. And less smelly, too.*)

*If you’re a mom who keeps her baby’s teeth—no judgment. My mom kept mine and gave them to me when I was in high school. Then I threw them away.

Cleaning My Closet

The hangers rattle across the curtain rod, the metal on metal scratching with each shove back and forth. Then, I pause at the bright yellow pencil skirt—I can’t remember the last time I wore it. My mind scans years of memories. Could it be eight years ago? Each time I see the cheery yellow in my closet, I’m taken back to a spring day, 300 miles and a lifetime from here. Yet, I can’t remember the last time I took it off the hanger and put it on.

//

I pulled up to a house I had never been to before but had found the address online. A new yellow skirt, one size too small, sat folded on the passenger seat. Putting the car in park, I clutched the skirt in my hand and walked to the front door.

The woman directed me to go behind a curtain, where I was to change clothes. Now, I couldn’t tell you what the woman looked like or how old she was. I can vaguely picture the room—scattered with different colors and textures of fabrics slung across the backs of chairs. Sliding the skirt up as far as it would go, I stopped, unable to zip it. I walked back into the room, where she examined the seams and pulled out her measuring tape. Once she figured out her plan, I went back behind the curtain and took the skirt off, putting my clothes back on. I left the dress behind and got back into my car to drive home. 

I don’t remember picking the skirt up when she was finished. It was a purchase I made for work back when I worked full-time. Now, most days, I find myself pulling on a comfortable sweatshirt and jeans paired with my slippers—the perfect outfit for sweeping floors, chasing kids, and cooking meals. I couldn’t tell you the day I wore the skirt last. But I’m almost positive it was eight years, one wedding, and three babies ago.

//

Today, I rub my fingers along its fabric, remembering a little bit of who I was then. I put most of my value in my career and my degrees. I was in my second year as a high school counselor, and I was planning a wedding.

If I donate the skirt, is that admitting I’ll never be that girl? 

And if I’m honest with myself, Why would I want to be her again?

I’ve moved, gotten married, had children, and learned to love farm life. All the experiences I’ve had since I hung the skirt up have forever changed me into the person I am today. There’s nothing wrong with the version of myself I was then. But there’s a reason we can’t go back in time—we don’t belong there anymore.

My body has changed to grow and birth and feed three babies. At this point, I don’t even know if the altered skirt fits my body or if it’s me who doesn’t fit it. 

For years, I’ve held onto the weight of that skirt, giving the linen fabric more substance than its worth. I thought it meant something to keep it—to show who I was before and someone I felt I should be again. 

I believed putting it in the Goodwill box said something about me.

I’m a failure.
I’m less than I used to be. 

I pull the hanger from the rack and unclip the skirt. Running my fingers along the fabric one last time, I add it to my box of donations. 

What if giving it away means something simpler.

I’ve grown.
I’ve changed. 

And the skirt has stayed the same.

Photo by Tamara Bellis on Unsplash


// This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the
Simple Style: The Art of Creating a Capsule Wardrobe” workshop. //

After Dark // A Love Story

I walk into the half-lit room, a soft glow from one single bulb. The only sound I hear is my bare feet sliding across the hardwood floors. I hold my breath, not wanting to wake the kids. Inching closer, a familiar scent fills my nose. When was the last time we were alone? The house is quiet until the thermostat kicks on—the vent forcing hot air into the already warm room. I jump, then giggle, startled for a moment—thinking one of the kids had snuck out of bed. 

My hand grasps the back of my neck, and I close my eyes. I can feel the day’s weight sliding down my shoulders and out of my body. My day was filled with diaper changes, making meals, cleaning the kitchen, getting more snacks, and refereeing fights. I sigh. Bedtime feels like a finish line to cross, and we’ve almost made it.

Through the window, the full moon’s light illuminates the two of us. I reach out my hand, feeling the heat rising between us.

My hand cups the ceramic mug—the cake is still hot from the microwave. The rich chocolate clings to the edge of the cup, bubbles forming at the top. The individual packets of Duncan Hines “mug cakes” are hidden at the back of the cupboard—they are mine alone. 

I grab a spoon from the drawer, the silverware clanking in their slots as I close it. I breathe in, exhaling into the quiet kitchen. 

Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, double chocolate—I love them all. But chocolate in the dark, alone, just might be my favorite. 

The hours between 8-10 o’clock are mine. 

And sometimes I have cake, too.



This post is 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 view the next post in this series “280 Words”.

Unrealized Dreams

One of my dreams was to live in a city. I don’t know why I was fixated on a life in the city. Maybe it was because of the movies I watched growing up. Or maybe it was the idea of something so different from the small town I grew up in.

Now here on the farm, the furthest from city life I could imagine, I see one old dream coming to life under my fingertips. As a kid, I dreamed of becoming a writer and author. I spent my childhood with my head in a book, stories running through my head. I filled notebooks and journals with words and created a family “newspaper” with my cousins in the summer. We dug out my grandma’s old typewriter and I typed up stories about our pets and silly other things I found amusing as a 10-year-old. In the basement of my childhood house, I plunked away on our gigantic home computer. I wrote a story of a girl named Cassie, with an annoying younger sister. (Sometimes fiction is best drawn from real life. Sorry, Sister.) I’m not sure what happened to that story, or what happened to Cassie or her sister. 

The dream of becoming a writer went by the wayside somewhere between high school and college. In college, I spent a year as a journalism major, taking courses that were geared toward becoming a reporter. The classes didn’t leave me inspired and I changed my major (more than once). I finished my degree, doing the required reports and papers, but never writing for fun. 

A few years ago, I was at Taco Bell with my two oldest kids. Allie was a baby, and Rhett was a toddler. An older woman approached me and said, “You’re a brave mom for being out in public with him.” I can’t even remember what he was doing, but if I were to guess, it would be running around and standing on the chairs, instead of sitting down and eating. 

Her comment took root in my head, but not in a way that made me feel bad about my parenting. Or him. She wasn’t telling me anything new—I knew I had a wild child on my hands. Her sweet-natured comment did make me want to go home and write about it. Write how it made me feel, how at first I had been nervous when a stranger approached me. How I felt when she added that her own son had been the same way. Here she was, alone at lunch, while I was juggling two young kids—the sight of me and my kids taking her down memory lane. I hadn’t felt the urge to write in years. Probably since I was in middle school.

I went home and wrote the story out. After a while, I gained enough nerve to submit it. I didn’t tell anyone, including Rich, that I had even written anything. I especially didn’t want to tell anyone I had submitted it for publication. If it was rejected, then I wouldn’t have to admit it to anyone. It would be like it never even happened. A couple of weeks later, I received an acceptance email. That yes was a big nudge to lean into my old dream of writing. 

Farm life is full of stories. From Rich referencing cows while I was pregnant, to the kids learning about farming and ranching—from the front seat of a tractor to the back of a horse. Everywhere I look, there are stories waiting to be told. 

Years ago, I thought I was giving up my dreams to marry a farmer. I knew I had to choose. And I happily chose to marry the person I loved for a life I didn’t know. 

But in reality, this life and this farm, brought me back to a forgotten dream. A dream I hadn’t thought of in years. A dream I imagine might still be tucked away if I were climbing the corporate ladder, with no time for writing in the margins. 

This life allows me to put pencil to paper and create cities from words, and capture memories and stories of my family—from the most unlikely place I could have dreamed of. 

***this post was inspired by a writing prompt from Rhythm on ‘unrealized dreams’.***

Farm Wife / Farm Hand / Same Thing

My Own Little House on the Prairie

The five of us piled into the van before the sun came up, my grandpa hunched behind the wheel. We crested the mountain as the sun came up, the elevation wrapped us in cool air, despite the summer season.

We spent the rest of the day driving, miles of open space and nothing but highway in front of us.

Eventually, I peered out the back window of the van and saw a green billboard, “The Home of Laura Ingalls Wilder Next Exit.”

“Grandpa, can we go there?” I asked from the backseat of the maroon Econoline van. I don’t remember his response, or maybe he didn’t give me one. The interstate whirred by as we continued our family trip to Michigan. My parents, younger sister, and my grandpa—all packed into the van. This was the early 90s and my sister and I spent most of the trip lying down on the bench in the third row—no seat belt or booster seats in sight.

We made the drive from Wyoming to Michigan, and I’m sure that I passed some of the time reading, either the Babysitters Club or anything by Beverly Cleary, Goosebumps, or Little House on the Prairie

On the way back from Michigan to Wyoming, my grandpa took that exit—and we spent the day where Laura had once lived. I was able to walk the same places she had, and I imagine I felt like I was inside her books. 

I was 8 or 10 at the time, maybe 12. My elementary years all run together, with bits and pieces sticking out. I wish I could say I remember more specific things that happened that day in South Dakota. Did the air rustle through the prairie grass, reminding me of Laura and her beloved Jack the bulldog? Was it everything that I had imagined?

Every Christmas one of my favorite gifts in my stocking was a gift card to Barnes & Noble. My mom, sister, and I would drive the 90 miles to the nearest city where we could use our gift card. I searched the shelves for the newest James Patterson or Mary Higgins Clark. Then made my way to the historical fiction shelves. The well-worn red and black paperback, Number the Stars, a favorite on my bookshelf at home since the 4th grade. Annemarie and Ellen were two characters I often imagined myself as. Ellen’s dark hair made it seem more likely that I was her—except I’m not Jewish. I often wondered if I would have been as brave as Annemarie’s family, had I been in their shoes.

College was full of textbooks, course syllabuses, and homework. I know I read for fun, but I couldn’t tell you any of the books I read outside of the classroom. I left my beloved Number the Stars and Little House on the Prairie in my childhood bedroom to collect dust throughout my 20s. After college, I spent those years finding myself, sometimes between the pages of books, getting lost in them when I was too scared to admit to myself that my life wasn’t where I had hoped it would be. 

Near the end of my 20s, I met Rich. His farm on the prairie was nowhere near where I expected I would end up. Could I be as resilient as Laura and Ma? Even though I have the luxury of electricity and running water, it still takes some grit and a different mindset to live in the middle of nowhere. All those years ago when I convinced my grandpa to take me to Laura’s house in South Dakota, I never imagined I would find myself living on the prairie. But now I’m surrounded by it. 

//

“Mom, it’s a rattlesnake!” Rhett runs from the dirt pile to the back of the house where I’m watering the newly planted trees. 

I glance up from the tree, dropping the hose. I follow him to the edge of the yard that connects with one of the many fields we are surrounded by. The grasses sway back and forth, and I wait to hear the sound that upset him. Knots form in my own stomach, hoping it’s not a rattlesnake. Rich isn’t home, and I am not looking forward to having to deal with a big rattlesnake on my own. 

The hot dry air surrounds us. Then I hear what he heard. The many grasshoppers that have filled our fields, yards, and the grill of my car, move their legs in rhythm, almost making a rattling sound.

“It’s just a grasshopper, buddy, not a snake. But good job coming to find me.” I reassure him. “Let’s go inside and get a drink,” I say.

We walk past the bookshelf, stacked with books I’ve read, books I plan to read, and Laura and Annemarie are here too. I knew when I got married, I was changing my story, and I was ready to bring them with me—their years in my childhood bedroom over.

Whether it was living in apartments alone after college or motherhood—but I’ve mostly given up suspense novels. Number the Stars was my gateway to historical fiction, and my GoodReads shelf of “Read” books is dominated by that genre. Despite the sadness, I’m still drawn to their stories. I’ve read the Little House series a few times since childhood, and hope to pass them down to my own children (along with the twig I have from DeSmet—tourism dollars at it’s finest).

Reading and writing come in waves for me. My book club often asks me, “Have you been writing a lot?” And the answer always depends on if I’ve been reading a lot. I haven’t been able to manage both well at the same time. When I’m reading a lot, I’m hardly writing. When I find myself inspired to write my own story, I find it distracting to read someone else’s. 

Years ago when I was a high school counselor, I never picked up a pen or put my fingers to the keyboard to tell a story. My love of writing was pushed to the side, my new career taking all of my time and brain space. But motherhood and farm life has brought back that urge to tell a story. And I’m surrounded by stories—from the farm to being a mom, and usually a mix of the two.

Over the years I’ve traded post-it notes lists of books to read for GoodReads. And I’ve tossed the guilt of starting and not finishing a book. Because I’ve learned that when you know, you know—with books and love.

This essay was written as part of the “Reading Well, Writing Well: Building a Writer’s Toolbox” workshop through Exhale Creativity.

Welcome to My New Home!

Welcome to My New Home!

Hi, friends! Although as I’m writing this, only a couple people know I am planning to start a blog again … so I am likely only talking to my sister. Hey, sis!

I’ve always loved writing, but never really knew what to do with it. In college I imagined myself as the next Katie Couric. But given that I am fairly shy, I don’t know that a life in front of an audience would have worked for me.

Once I became a mom I stopped working and became a full-time stay-at-home-mom. I would sometimes feel the urge to write, but told myself that when my kids were older and I had more time, then I would write. Later, later, later is what I told myself. There was always a reason why I didn’t have time.

One day last fall the kids and I were at a Taco Bell eating lunch. We were waiting for the tires to get rotated on our vehicle, and the Taco Bell happened to be right across the street. Going out to eat with two kids is always an adventure, especially when you’re the only adult. This day didn’t prove to be any different. I was working up a sweat, partially from chasing Rhett and also from all the eyes on me, watching my every move. And his. I was then approached by an older woman who said to me, “You’re brave for being out in public with him.” She didn’t say it unkindly and I didn’t feel like she meant any harm with what she said. For the rest of the day I couldn’t get out of my head what she had said, and I had a stronger urge than ever before to write. Later that day I sat down at my computer and starting writing about that day. I worked on it for a week or so and then submitted it to Her View From Home. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my husband, that I had written anything, and especially that I had submitted it for publication. If I was going to be rejected, I wanted to sit in the rejection alone. One week later I heard back from Her View From Home and they gave me a yes! My first essay, “Why I Take My Wild Child Out in Public”  was published in December 2017.

That feeling of being published encouraged me to keep writing, even if it was only a few minutes a day, late at night or early in the morning. I am still trying to find time to write in the “cracks” of the day. It’s a work in progress and I assume it will be for awhile.

I don’t see my blog being a place where I share all the every day details of my life. I want it to be a place where I can continue to practice my writing, whether it’s about motherhood or being a farmer’s wife. Because of that, don’t expect to see posts from me every day, or even every week. I plan to be intentional about my writing and continue with what feels best to me: slow writing.

If you’re still reading this, I hope you’ll stick around and subscribe to my blog. And I hope that you’ll hear from me sooner than later!