Dexter turns one.

I could go on for days about how the birth of my second child has impacted me so deeply it takes my breath away...or about how the time flew past way too quickly and about how it seems unfair. One year ago we raced to the hospital, stopping the car a few times a long the way so that I could get out and pace the dark, deserted streets, staving off contractions that were so strong. We were well over halfway through the entirety of my labor when we got to the room that you were born within.

Soft, internal prayers as I thought "this feels like it is never going to end". Four hours was all I had to endure until you emerged into this world, under the water, life erupting. My heart exploded and settled all at once as I held you against my chest, sitting in the warm water that had helped to usher you into this world. I thanked God and felt completely overwhelmed as I stared into your face. Your face that I never envisioned to be as perfect as it was, framed by thick, dark hair...so unlike your brother.

All at once I was crippled by the fact that you were so very different than your brother, even though I had spent nine months of my pregnancy in the belief that you would be just another similar version of Oliver.

You are so different, Dexter William. So very different. You are calmer somehow. You are sweet and loving, and enamored with your mum, settled only by my embrace. You are quiet and intelligent. You started walking so early, right around nine months of age. You are a soft-spoken force. You go to sleep easily, drifting off as I nurse you in our bed. You are just...calm.

We are so in love with you, Dexter. Happy first birthday to our second-born son. To our sweet, quiet Dexter. Our hushed, tender child.

Your current favorites:
Mommy (always). When Daddy gets home from work. Tackling Oliver. Breastmilk. Raspberries. Yogurt. Cookies (shh). Peek-a-boo. Digging in our potted plants. Exploring outside. The outdoors in general. Watching the birds at our bird-feeder. Dogs. Being up in the ring sling. Having your hair smoothed and played with while you fall asleep. Naps. Giving sloppy kisses. Dancing to all music. Playing with your brother's toys. Mimicking your brother. Pointing at every interesting thing you see.

Mother's Day.

I am crippled by expectations. By the expectations of everyone around me and also by my own. I become so enraged by the blatant disregard for my personal well-being when, say, a family member demands things of me, expecting no struggle in return.

And then holidays arrive and here I am, enforcing the same expectant attitude onto my husband and children. The influx of seemingly perfect lives/holidays of those on social media awaken this immense drive to snap THE perfect photo. I must have the most divine floral arrangement. My decorations must be, or at least look, handmade and trendy--not of that Walmart crap. My kids must be dressed like small princes and I must appear to have it all together.

"Ugh, just sit still for ONE more second! Is it so much to ask to get ONE good photo?!"

I shout at Oliver as I try to arrange our family in a perfect little bunch. Surely if this photo is perfect, then, too, will be our holiday.

I have a record with ruining holidays by being demanding and too focused on the "perfect" day. So, here I am on Mother's Day after feeling hurt by my five-year-old not wanting to shower me with immense love and attention the whole day through, feeling frustrated with my hair as it dries in the "wrong" way resulting in a "bad hair day". "Why on Mother's Day?!" my insides scream as the baby whines, for, quite literally, the entire day through.

Let's do some photos.

And I frantically try to bribe the boys with food and and treats. "Please...just one more and we will be done!". And 200 photos later I throw in the towel with a princess-like attitude and mutter something about how things never go how they should. And then it hits me.

I work so hard to force the perfect holiday, to make it seem perfect instead of feeling it, acknowledging it, and letting it unfold naturally. So, after driving the boys and my husband mad all afternoon, I'm deciding now to stop pushing. Mother's Day doesn't have to look like it does in the movies, on Instagram, or in my head. Mother's Day can be a runny-nosed baby wanting to nurse every four seconds, getting snot all over my white dress and hair. It can look like my eldest wanting what every five-year-old wants...to play and not fawn over his mum. It can look like shoddy, imperfect fruit tarts made by the loving hands of your husband. It can look like not-perfectly-arranged flowers from the grocery store and not from a local farmer's market, adorned with ranunculus and succulents and whatever other "trendy" flowers appear all over Instagram. It can look like a lazy, rainy Sunday spent at home watching Dr. Who in my pajamas instead of trying to squeeze myself into my cute, white sun dress, my hair laid perfectly.

So, here's to holidays being more about experiencing, and less about putting on a really, really good show. I'm vowing to quit with the expectations because...pushing and shoving to get your way really just causes a great, huge mess.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my yoga pants and a bowl of non-trendy Lucky Charms are calling my name.

Happy Mother's Day, lovelies. xx

Courage.

I originally posted on Instagram, but I decided to post my Sling Diary audition on my blog as well. Mainly for myself, to keep my thoughts pieced together neatly on this little blog that holds so much of my heart, and then also because I wanted to include a few more pictures than I originally posted in my "official" audition. So, here's my compilation paired with my original (short, but sweet) words on courage.

Courage.
I used to be so afraid. Of everything. I was afraid of rejection, of what my peers thought of me, of being alone, of being different, of being strange. I've spent a good chunk of my life trying to primp and prune and alter my skin instead of simply striving to find comfort within its confines. Did I say the wrong thing? Did I make a fool of myself? If only I was thinner, brighter, more beautiful. It wasn't until the flesh that I felt so awkward within stretched and changed, holding new life that I began to realize it's worth. MY worth.
Instead of grasping tightly, white knuckles bared, my finger tips began to loosen, to linger...tickling gently my past life of fear.

We are not the perception of the masses, of the 'more beautiful', of the 'more intelligent'. We are not to be defined by the fear of rejection, the longing for acceptance. I hope I can teach you, dear one, now that I have learned myself...that our flesh is finite, it will stretch and shrink and age and wrinkle.

We are our hearts, our passions, our bare, beating insides. Courage starts with accepting this truth and inching toward the edge, letting go of the tethers that we cling to, and taking flight. Be courageous in your skin, little boy, and roar like a mighty lion.

Yours,
Mumma