i hope they know i tried

Every moment of the last eight years of my life is shadowed by reasoning and the development of my own opinions. From guns to marine life to high-fructose corn syrup, one has to have an opinion about everything these days. Social media means that everyone's opinion is everywhere, everyday, which is not something that young people born a decade before me had to face. I have always been more quiet and passive in person, especially about politics or controversial issues, but social media seemed to bring out another side of me that even I'd never met before, much less the kind of person I want people to think about when they hear my name.

I became a mother at a very young age. I was married at twenty and we found out I was pregnant three weeks later: a honeymoon baby. I wrote then that I felt like a kid having a kid, and now that I am a whole five years older (sarcasm) my eyes have been opened to what people saw when they saw me: a young girl, barely out of childhood herself, taking on the responsibilities of raising a child; ignorant, innocent, naive, and indulgent. I was, I am, a fairly good mother, but I feel like I've just fallen into the wise, rhythmic role of motherhood. (Not that I am wise, persay, just wiser than I was at twenty, as you can imagine. And never a perfect mother, but one who has a bit better of a handle on things than at the beginning). I feel if I had waited five years (which was our intention, afterall) I would have been a more confident mother. It all wouldn't have been so experimental, I guess I could say. I feel like a woman, now. A mother. That word is no longer foreign to me. Would it have been, had I waited? At twenty-five, if little River Jeremiah had just now graced the world in the same fashion, on the same date just four years later, would I feel confident in myself as a mother? Or is that something that must be learned so matter what age you become a mother? If I became a mother at fourty, would I feel as though I had it figured out, and stuck with a plan, and followed that plan, and never doubt my choices or opinions? I always felt that new mothers who were older than me were wiser than me. That they didn't have the doubts I had. I still think that, really. I've never had much confidence in anything I do and feel the the majority of people I associate with are stronger, wiser, and better decision-makers than I.

Funny how we all have such different opinions about how to raise children, what they should eat, whether they should be swatted on the bottom after hitting their sister, whether we should nestle them beside us as we sleep at night or left to cry to develop strong lungs and independence, whether they should eat red dye number 40 or even wheat and rice for that matter, whether they should be taught there is a God who loves and condemns or be left to figure it out on their own. They are little people, afterall. Individuals. And we have their future in our hands; at least a good chunk of it. What if none of us are doing it right? What if we are all doing it right, in our own way? (Well, not all of us, but you know what I mean.)

I felt so fierce in my opinions when River was a baby, so passionate that I had to shout it from the moutaintops. I am twenty-five now, and I can say that I still feel the same about raising children. My opinions haven't changed much, although I can say that I have more grace for the mothers who choose differently from me and am overall less legalistic in my thinking. Even the things on which I still stand my ground, I am standing there a little quieter, more concerned with my relationships with other women than with how they are choosing to raise their children. Their love for their children is all that concerns me. And there is a lot of love out there. Cheeto fingers aren't a sign of less love. They're just not.

I wonder if I will always lack confidence in who I am as a person, as a woman, as a mother. Although I feel I may be a little bit more organized and my cooking skills have improved (is that the only thing that's changed? And I'm still pretty damn unorgized and I still hate cooking), I am not happy with myself as a mother. I feel that my choices are good ones for my family, but my patience, my attentiveness, my ability to cope in stressful situations, my tenderness -- they could all be improved upon. Will I ever be the mother I want to be? Am I that much different than I was when I was twenty-one and holding my newborn baby boy? I wish I had an answer. I don't. I can read all the articles and books on parenting I want, but it is up to me to change, and I have been unable to thus far.

I hope when they are adults someday, they know I tried hard. I hope they aren't bitter toward me, I hope they don't think I could have spent more time with them, or could have done more things with them. I hope they don't have all these memories of me yelling at them. I hope they are confident and kind-hearted. I hope they feel like I did a good job, and don't roll their eyes when they talk about me, or tell people I could have done better if I'd tried. I hope they are not disappointed in me. That is one of my greatest fears about parenting.

content, and what if my dreams never come true

My pastor once spoke in a sermon years ago, "if you don't know what to do and you feel stuck, go back to the last thing God told you to do, and do it." The words seemed to be the overlying theme of my life, and reverberated through my heart. I've thought of them often in times of discontent.

I have a habit of feeling stuck. Of feeling ready for something else, instead of being content with where I am currently. I don't want to look back and think, "It's too bad I didn't just see the beauty in my circumstances," because I've already done that. I've already thought that very thing. Truth is, whatever I have gone through in the past, I look back upon those times with a certain affection. There is always something about my life that brought me great joy.

Sometimes it's something as simple of a memory of having the windows open all summer, the gentle light pouring into the living room, the peaceful sounds of Iron and Wine, and watching River color in his high chair.

Or the way I had all those plants beneath the giant window in my living room. The tile floor that, as much as I hated sweeping it three times a day, was beautiful and cool and made every room feel lovely.

Or staying up on Thursday nights with friends, because we only had part-time work schedules and late morning classes, we didn't have children and certainly didn't have a lot of responsibility, but we loved Jesus and loved each other and loved omelets at Jim's at 2 o'clock in the morning.

But whenever life has been still, I've waited impatiently for it to change. When our days begin to look similar, I look for little ways to change them, all the while feeling like my feet are stuck in the mud. Sometimes I want something and don't exactly know what it is. Some afternoons when John is home, I stuff a notebook and pens and a pile of too many books into my backpack, fling it on me, and fling myself on my bike, and run away. Well, not exactly away, but two miles down the road to Starbucks, where I order myself an overpriced iced coffee with white mocha syrup that I always think will be more satisfying than it is, and find myself a table in the sun, always slanted in the Pacific Northwest sky. This is as far as I can go for now. I intensely crave travel -- wanderlust is what it's called, and I think it's one of the most beautiful words in the English language (I think I will get it tattooed between my shoulder blades someday).

Sometimes I think it's that I wish I had the ability to enjoy things as I did when I was a child. To go on a walk and for that to be the highlight of my day -- the smell of trees and asphalt, the birds' song, the crunch of leaves, the freedom, the slow pace, the steps leading somewhere but going nowhere and being completely okay with that. Walking just to walk. Aimless, with the mind of adventure. Although the journey is short, it is worth it.

The world is so big when you're little. Of course, we're all still pretty small, but why is my corner of the earth not so big anymore? What do I know now that makes me unsatisfied with my backyard, my street, my familiar places?

I have a lot of dreams, I guess you could say. I want to travel, yes, but there are a lot simpler things I want someday that would make me pretty darn happy. I really want chickens and goats and a garden so we can live gently and self-sustainably. I'm not sure exactly how that's going to work, since I struggle to keep my windowsill basil alive, but I have hopes. I want to own a house someday, but not some cookie cutter home. I want a small house, an old stone house with ivy and a front porch, with a lot of rooms for a lot of babies adopted from a lot of different places. I want a room in which to think and create. I want to build a few wells in places that need water. I want to homeschool and sew stuff and write a best-seller and take photographs of birth.

And while I've been working on contentedness these past few years and I'm really happy with where life has brought me so far, I realize that holding on too tightly to these dreams can be holding me back from enjoying the life I have right now. What if I am never a successful photographer? What if I never travel outside this country, or even to other parts of the country? What if I can never live a self-sustainable life? What if I never write a book? What if I never own a house? What if I never have enough to fund a well project? What if I never adopt?

Each of those questions sends my heart to my throat for a minute, and admittedly, tears to my eyes. What if, though? That is a very real question. What if this is as good as it gets?

I can't answer that question. Are my dreams my idols? There is nothing wrong with having dreams, but am I expecting too much out of life? Whatever the correct answer to those questions, whatever your opinion of me, whatever my interpretation of my desires, I know that I need to learn to be content if the answer is: no. You will not get to do those things.

There are six billion people on this planet. Not every one of us gets what we want. Not every one of us gets what we even need. It is hard for me to put some of these things in the same catagory as someone who wants a private jet or a million dollars. But in reality, it's just as selfish of me to idolize my dream of having a garden as it is for someone to idolize money or things.

Spiritually, what could be done to me if I choose contentedness over my desires? What does God want me to do? What has he been asking of me? One things weighs on my heart: water for people who don't have it. If there is one thing I want to do... okay, two things... that would bring water to people, and to bring children without a family into ours. These are things that God has asked me. I can feel it in my bones. They are stitched into me, sewn into my skin, intertwined with John and River and Austen in the workings of my heart.

My human nature asks how. The Spirit tells me wait and see, follow and choose contentment.

in the room that is sunniest

...with the sunniest little smiles.

I have so many empty frames to fill in my house. I love frames -- I have so many, I don't know where to put them. I also have literally thousands of photos to choose from and have never completed the task of picking my favorites, resizing them, and taking them to get them printed. In fact, I'm really bad, period, at printing photos. You'd think that as much as I love photography, I'd display our photos all around the house and give a ton to family.

I'm thinking these cuties are going to get printed this week.

River is my model child. He's camera shy as of late, but brother knows how to strike a pose, let me tell you.