Made With

Made with love.

I think of this phrase often when I pull out my knitting needles to work on whatever project is tucked away in my knitting bag.

I think of grandmas baking trays of cookies for their grandkids. I think of my own great-grandma crocheting a baby blanket for me, a dozen great-grandchildren in. I think of friends who take pride in making Halloween costumes for their kids each and every year. I imagine the patience and sweetness and, yes, love, going into each and every one of these endeavors.

People, nothing I knit is made with love.

Don’t get me wrong, I always knit with plenty of emotion. But love? I don’t tend to knit when I’m feeling beatific and peaceful. No, I pull out my projects when my hands need something to hold onto. When the rest of me feels as though I may fly into a million pieces, knitting becomes, quite literally, that something to hold. This past year has shown me just how steadying having two knitting needles in my hands can be. I’m usually trying to find my sanity through knits and purls, not knit it in there.

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I learned how to knit about a year ago, on a cold, mid-February Sunday morning. I’d been interested in knitting for a while. I watched several women at my church—old, young, and in-between—carry their knitting around in bags, getting in stitches during coffee hour or in the sanctuary. I saw them nod along to sermons or sing along to hymns without even stopping to look at the work in their hands.

It was Nancy who caught me on the stairs one day as we arrived at church the way we always did, in a flurry of too many children and winter coats and mittens.

“Would you like to learn how to knit?” she asked without even a hello. There was a sparkle in her eye as we walked down to the church basement and the kids sprinted ahead for cookies and small cups of juice.

“Yes!” I said, stunned at this random invitation being extended to me, somehow offering me exactly what I’d been thinking about for months. Call it an answered prayer that I’d never even bothered to pray or divine intervention if you will; we were in the middle of our church. “I’ve been wanting to learn for a while!”

“Meet me on the couches in the adult library next Sunday,” she told me, “Don’t worry about anything. I have extra needles and yarn. I’ll teach you.”

The following Sunday we met on the worn, cast-off couches. She arrived armed with a pair of needles and a brilliant purple skein of yarn to show me a basic knit stitch. It felt awkward and wrong in my hands. I kept forgetting if I needed to have the yarn in the back or the front of the stitch, mostly because I didn’t even know what that meant.

“Under, not over,” she would say from where she stood behind me. She put her hands gently on mine to correct me, though the yarn always felt like it moved too fast for me to understand what was happening. It was intimidating, me vs. those two awkward needles and a pile of yarn. I was convinced that although women had been doing this for centuries, it would be me who would be a failure, me who would never, ever get the hang of it. But, by the end of our twenty minutes together, I had a couple of lumpy rows of stitches.

Read more about my knitting adventures over on Coffee + Crumbs.

Joy, Unexpectedly

Unexpected joy, the prompt said.

Yeah, right. I thought.

I didn’t want to do the blog hop prompt this month because joy—even (especially?) of the unexpected variety—seemed too hard to find right now. Who has time for that? The days are a cycle of wake up (in the darkness), feed the kids breakfast, drink coffee, make sure everyone changes their clothes and brushes their teeth. Some days we’re distance learning and three mornings we’re driving to preschool and two days we’re driving to elementary school and I’m saying “Just click the box with the link right here like you did yesterday” and “Did you remember to hit the ‘submit’ button?” and I’m adding Play Doh to our Target pick up because the preschoolers go through it like crazy. I’m making lunches and adding carrot sticks which is more a hopeful idea than something they’ll regularly eat and trying to work during quiet time and then survive the afternoon when we can’t really go anywhere. I make dinner and we take baths and read books and tuck blankets and go to bed and get up to do it all over again.

There’s a pandemic and an election and have you seen what the president has done now and for the love of God, vote and women are taking on the bulk of the pandemic burden and it’s heavy and people are out of work and out of money and out of time and patience and energy.

I don’t have time to find joy. Even unexpectedly.

Until, that is, an October surprise.

Not the political kind. But a white-stuff-falling-from-the-sky kind.

And I found it.

Joy.

Unexpectedly.

Unexpected joy is a snowstorm in October that would normally drive you crazy but this year feels like a free activity I didn’t need to exert any mental energy to plan or prepare or execute in any way.

Unexpected joy is taking stock of all the kid’s winter gear in September so when an unexpected October snowstorm hits you’re prepared and basically deserve an award.

Unexpected joy is hot cocoa with marshmallows and Frozen because that’s what you do during the first significant snowfall. It’s the continuation of a tradition that you thought would have died a couple of years ago but, magically, hasn’t.

Unexpected joy is a morning cup of coffee where you take a sip to discover it’s been brewed just right.

Unexpected joy is finding them in a giggling pile on the floor and you have no idea why.

Unexpected joy is Halloween candy before Halloween.

Unexpected joy is a new hobby in a year you didn’t even know you were going to need it. And when’s the last time you even picked up a hobby, anyway?

Unexpected joy is two six-year-olds who pick up books to read just for fun at all times of the day. It’s waking up to realize they can read fluently even though you swear, you would swear on a stack of Bibles, that they were sounding out “The C-A-T on the M-A-T” only yesterday.

Unexpected joy is realizing that despite everything, all of it, all the things going on, joy snuck up on you. Because it’s unexpected, dummy. And so you’re forced to write about it, after all.

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 "Unexpected Joy".

The Middle

It’s MEA week. I don’t remember what the acronym stands for (Minnesota Educators A...something?) but that’s not important. It’s our version of fall break. I can tell you what it means for me practically: Nolan didn’t have school at all this week and Caden and Brooklyn didn’t have school on Thursday and Friday. They went to school on Wednesday instead because usually, they’re in-person on Thursdays and Fridays, so there was a schedule change so both the Hybrid A and B students had one day of in-person school this week and if this is all starting to sound complicated that’s because it is.

Tyson took off Wednesday morning and the entire day Thursday because I may have threatened him with “We’re in month eight of the pandemic and now that I’m used to having the smallest amount of time and space from our children you will pry it from my cold, dead, hands.” 

Okay, threatened is dramatic. What we really did was have a regular, civil conversation and he immediately took the time off on his work calendar. Still.

I’m in the middle of a large writing project. I’m maybe 1/3rd of the way done if I’m being generous with myself. I’m taking a writing class and had a conversation with the instructor this week and she said, “The middle is tough.” and while maybe that should seem obvious it struck me so hard I had to write it down in my notebook and then underline it and draw a big box around it. 

Clearly, I needed to hear that.

Wednesday morning, I went through a bunch of emails, sent an email for a committee I’m the chair of at church, responded to things in a couple of Facebook groups, and ordered new snow pants for Caden and Brooklyn. Then I canceled that order because I remembered the kids all need new water bottles (Do anyone else’s children go through water bottles like they’re, well, water?) and I could only order my $26.97 worth of water bottles with an order of $35 or more, so I canceled the original snow pants order and then added them to my water bottle order instead and welcome to my life.

The point is: the middle is tough.

I thought I would spend my time writing on Wednesday morning but I didn’t. At least I told myself I didn’t. I told myself I didn’t do any writing because the story in my head is the list I just wrote out to you above and the only writing that “counts” is the writing that goes toward this larger project. But then as I sat staring at my computer screen I remembered some things that didn’t get included in that first draft of the story in my head:

• I told you I sent an email to a committee (in and of itself an act of writing) but what I didn’t say was that I also drafted a letter for them to review which will be sent out to the entire congregation 

• I told you I responded to things in a couple of Facebook groups, both of which are writing groups, and one of which has my brain churning with a new writing assignment due in a couple of weeks.

• I didn’t mention at all that I made revisions to an essay and submitted it to another publication. It’s already been rejected three times so maybe the fourth time’s a charm. I don’t know why that didn’t make the list in my head at all.

• The snow pants/water bottle debacle can stand as is. The middle is the middle and sometimes things are just that complicated and it truly didn’t involve any writing at all, besides typing “kids water bottle” into a search bar. 

So I actually did quite a bit of writing this morning. If only I remembered more often that revising and submitting and emailing and church letters count. That even if they don’t contribute to the word count of the thing my brain says is the one that “matters”, my fingers are still tapping away at something.

It reminded me of an article I read a few years ago where the author talked about what she was writing when she wasn’t writing. Things like the grocery list or the email to the PTA or the card she mails off to a friend. Of course, I can’t find that article now. And searching “what I write when I’m not writing” gives me about a billion hits on things I can do to become a better writer, and how to tell if you’re a “good” or a “bad” writer and help for if you’re having a hard time writing, and I want to scream, I am, I AM writing, so apparently I’ve overcome the story in my head from Wednesday about how I didn’t write anything at all.

Especially because I am, in fact, typing these words out right here right now.

Which is admittedly a rarity these days. Too often I’m doing the type of “writing that isn’t writing” or writing something that’s on a deadline because I have to and other times I think about writing but then squander more time looking for kids water bottles or long-sleeved pajamas or new nail polish because we all need something fun since we’re still living in the middle of a pandemic. Yet another Middle That is Tough. Any sense of novelty has long ago worn off and yet we can’t quite see the light at the end of the tunnel, though we’re told, maybe, there are pinpricks. 

Instead, we’ll do this dance: me around these words, society around this disease. I’ll do some writing even when I’m not and we’ll do some living even when this is not, could not, would never be what we would have chosen. Of course we will.

When the Rest Falls Away

Rest. What a thing to try to find right now. With no school. No childcare. With three kids who are very much here—in a way they haven’t been for a year or two now. With chores and tasks and to-dos piling up, one on top of another. With a pandemic. With my sleep either coming in a blackout sort of way, hard and heavy and without dreams—or in a restless way, with worries and imaginings intermingling all night, resembling anything but rest.

There are only pockets of rest left. Little pieces in the day that often aren’t very consistent. Though I try to make them be with routines and rhythms sprinkled throughout the day. But that brings me back to those children. Rest isn’t found in long stretches or in the ways I’d like to find it: through pedicures and lengthy brunches with friends, with kids off on overnights with grandparents, consistent date nights, by doing literally anything at all without the threat of an actual global crisis lingering over my head. The heaviness so often seems to win. Until it doesn’t. Until I remember there is something uplifting in my morning cup of coffee, in sunshine, in the kids’ uncontrollable giggles. As Glennon Doyle writes in her book Carry On, Warrior:

“You have been offered ‘the gift of crisis’…the Greek root of the word crisis is ‘to sift’, as in, to shake out the excesses and leave only what's important. That's what crises do. They shake things up until we are forced to hold on to only what matters most. The rest falls away.”

When so much else has fallen away, here are the things, the pockets of rest, I’ve been holding onto.

Giggles at breakfast time.

Iced coffee shaken up with heavy cream and vanilla syrup.

Morning bike rides when everything feels fresh and new.

Quiet (or, more often, “quiet”) reading time.

Walking laps around the park while the kids play.

Sitting and sipping more coffee while he figures out a new LEGO set.

Tacos for lunch is its own kind of spiritual ministry.

Sitting here with the window open every afternoon from 12:30-2:00. And every Saturday morning for as long as I need.

When she asks to do a virtual baking class. So we do.

Folding laundry. I know. I kind of love it. It feels calming and therapeutic. * insert shrug emoji here *

Reading on the front porch.

Or lounging on the deck.

That light while I water the plants in the evening.

And clay facemasks FTW.

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 "Rest -- A Photo Essay".

A Place to Fail

I recently went through a week where I made a new-to-me recipe every single night. I didn’t realize I’d done this in my meal plan until about Wednesday, when I noticed I was continually looking at my phone for reference, as opposed to all the recipes that have become standard in my rotation over the years which I’ve memorized and adapted. 

It could have been a case of my subconscious telling me, via meal plan, that it was sick of our days all looking so very much the same. Or maybe all the foodie people I follow on Instagram posted especially good recipes that week. It was probably just a fluke. I don’t know. I guess I needed something different in the routine of the day. I cooked my way through a Thai chicken curry and a simple Mexican chicken and rice skillet and a black bean soup which we ate with a generous amount of tortilla chips. (The kids preferred the tortilla chips solo.) 

It occurred to me while making one of these meals how easy this came to me. I like cooking. I regularly pour over books about food, follow a ridiculous amount of those aforementioned food-related accounts on Instagram, tend to enjoy meal planning, and spend a good amount of time each day thinking about food. I’ve made dinner almost every night of the week since my husband and I were newlyweds. Then, it was because we didn’t have much money for eating out. Most nights I found a way to turn chicken breasts and onions and bell peppers into stir fries or fajitas or rice bowls or pasta.

Fridays were, and still are, the exception. I almost always take a day off each week. “I don’t think I’ve ever cooked on a Friday night,” I heard my grandma say once when she was well into her 80s. That sounded to me like a pretty good #lifegoal. Before we had children, or really before we had our third and were outnumbered by children, we used to go out on Friday nights. 

When our twins were born, they followed us along to Friday night dinners. We ate at 4:30 or 5:00, in near-empty restaurants, before we needed to be home for the bedtime chaos to begin. We’d request a booth and they’d rest next to us in their carseats. As they grew older they sat with us — their tiny-for-their-age bodies swallowed by cavernous high chairs, held up by the blankets we brought with to stuff around them. I’d order grilled chicken and broccoli, which we chopped up small, and they ate by the tiny fistful.

Now we don’t usually eat out on Fridays. Instead, we order takeout after the kids are in bed. (At home date nights: highly recommended. Mostly because you can eat Thai food in your sweatpants and have no need for mascara.)

The point being that Friday nights aside, the vast majority of evenings find me in the kitchen.

Read the rest about finding a safe space to fail over on the Twin Cities Mom Collective.