Oh, hello.

Always, always I am drawn here again.

Where I can put words down on the page.  Where I can see my thoughts leap out of my mind and take physical form.  Where I can capture how I feel, put a name to it, and then release it.


Strange to come back to writing, after many months of not.  Strange to sit down at this familiar place, and be aware that there are giant gaps in the history of me.  Strange, knowing that, were someone to find me for the first time, they would have no idea what is going on.  So I guess some background is in order.

I’m Mandy.  I’m married to Brock.  We’ve been growing up together and raising children in North Carolina for the last eleven years.  I am a photographer, studying to be a midwife.  I homeschool my kids, of which there are four.  Ronan has a poets soul and a mischievous smile – he is 8.  Ruby sets the world on fire with her kindness and her joy – she is 6.  Ryder is every single bit a powerhouse – of love, of energy, of kindness, of bravery – he is 4.  Rory has eyes that are dark and knowing, to the depths of his soul; he’s filled with a calm being, an intense joy – he died when he was 19 months old.

An interesting paragraph that begins with “I am Mandy,” and ends with ‘my baby died.’

That feels like my whole life right now.  All encompassing, entirely enveloping, completely smothering.  Grief and sadness and sorrow and loss.  I am Mandy, and my baby died.

It has been five weeks since he died.  Rory slipped away unnoticed while our family was cleaning out the attic, and he drowned.  I found him, and did CPR until the ambulance arrived.  The team in the emergency room was able to get a heartbeat.  We airlifted him to the children’s hospital where he spent 24 hours under the most amazing care of the most incredible human beings on the planet in the pediatric ICU.  We held him and cried when they told us his lungs were not going to get better; there was nothing else we could do.  We held him and cried when they removed the tubes that were keeping him alive.  We held him and cried as he left.

It has been five weeks, and it feels like a hundred years and mere seconds in the same instant.  I can’t believe he’s gone, and I sometimes struggle to believe he was real.

Sometimes, I feel like that sweet, beautiful baby boy (whom I can still smell if I try hard enough) was really just an incredible dream that we all were lucky enough to dream together for a while – and then we woke up.

So where am I standing now?

Alive.  Feeling like maybe I shouldn’t be.  Struggling with positive emotions and negative ones.  Knowing Rory wouldn’t want us to be sad, and yet reeling with the guilt of joy.  Breathing, and breathing deeply.

Working at walking forward.  Always forward.  Even when it’s hard.

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An Unexpected Journey

Hey friends.  I know many of you have been following my struggle – both with Ryder and my hashtag #mandyshealingjourney.  Some of you have reached out to me regarding your own struggles, journeys and difficulties; whether it be to offer comfort or seek solace.  My sweet friend Shelly felt called to share her story with me, and I asked if I could share with you.  She graciously gave permission, and I hope some of you find comfort in it, as I have. <3


So, you know that moment when you start picturing how your life will be once you are married and have kids? You have everything planned out. You’ll be the Pinterest queen, your kids will have perfectly matching clothes, your house will look like you have a maid, you will be the ultimate crock pot meal prepper. Every day will be perfectly planned out. You’ll wake up early and have your daily devotions in quiet with your cup of coffee, you’ll have a wonderful breakfast waiting for the children to get up, after breakfast you’ll have a list of activities for the children to do, then snack time, then outdoor play, then a well rounded healthy lunch, followed by a peaceful nap that allows you to get your house back in tip top shape. After nap, you’ll have a creative snack, followed by some other Pinterest driven craft, then prepare dinner, then eat dinner, then bathe the children, then read several books, give kisses and hugs and say bedtime prayers, then they fall asleep peacefully and you think how perfect your life is and you do it all over again the next day. Ok, THIS was my view of what my life with kids would be.

We were so excited, and nervous, when we found out I was pregnant with our first child, who is now three. We had a wonderful experience with our chosen birth center and team of midwives. We had an unmedicated water birth, and it was everything we’d hoped for. I did have some issues with breastfeeding, that I would eventually overcome with success, but the struggle caused some really emotional times. However, I would say my post Henry Birth 2partum experience was fairly normal. I didn’t experience any sort of depression. Fast forward 14 months, and we found out we were expecting our second child, who is now a little over a year. Again, we had a wonderful pregnancy experience, and a very successful unmedicated birth. We were over the moon with joy and love for him. We had two beautiful sons. My post partum experience right after my second son went pretty normal. Breastfeeding was no issue at all. There were some emotional days with tears, but nothing out of the ordinary. You know, the normal “Oh my baby is beautiful and I don’t want him to ever grow up,” feelings.

Our second son was born January 2015. Around late September of the same year, I started noticing some differences within myself. I was suddenly more emotional and had a slight temper. Quickly after noticing this, I started my first menstrual cycle since having my second baby. My hormones were very off and I could feel it. I chopped my emotions up to the hormonal shift of my body trying to get into balance. Unfortunately, things began to Familyquickly spiral into a downfall. I was no longer just feeling emotional, but I was starting to have feelings of anger. Strong anger. I began to feel very overwhelmed with the demands of motherhood. I couldn’t keep up. My sink was always overflowing, my laundry was always piling up, and the kitchen table was the drop off center for everything. I was constantly yelling at my two year old for pushing my buttons. I felt like I had no control over my life at all. I would, and sometimes still do, go four to five days without a shower. When I would shower, it was a quick ten minutes before my husband left for work or after the kids went to bed.

I began to feel like I was suffocating on a daily basis. I would wake up in the mornings and immediately feel anger. I didn’t want to conquer the day. I wanted to just sleep all day. I started feeling resentment towards my husband. I’m a stay at home mom and I’ve been home since I had our first child. I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be a stay at home mom. This is the dream, right? Well, I began to hate my husband for the fact that he worked. Yes, I despised him when he left for work. Every day when he would get into his car, I would just stare through the door and think about how he had the luxury of driving thirty minutes to and from work in peace. Just to think. In the quiet car. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in this jail cell with children attacking me and I can’t breathe. I literally felt like I was stuck in the back corner of a tight closet, with zombies coming at me, with no escape. The thing is, I KNOW my husband doesn’t enjoy leaving us to go to work. I KNOW he works his butt off when he’s there and it’s not a vacation. No, I didn’t want to go back to work and leave my kids every day. I wanted to be a stay at home mom, but I was struggling. Struggling like nothing I had ever imagined before. Struggling to the point of not enjoying life. I was crying a lot. I couldn’t focus. I would take the kids with me to the store, and once we got inside, the aisles would be spinning out of control and I couldn’t even figure out what I needed. So we would leave. I would sit in a room of the house and just stare at the wall. My two year old would be talking to me and it sounded like I was under water. Then eventually I would snap out of it and try to have a conversation with him. I felt like there was a brick sitting on my chest and I couldn’t lift it off. Every single day. I would walk up and down the hall, pacing, with my fists clenched in anger at my husband not being home. I would be enraged when I would get all the laundry done, only to find his clothes on the floor. Enraged with such anger, I could have literally hit him. Literally. This was my life every day. I hated life. I was never happy. I never smiled. I loved my children deeply and I loved my husband deeply, but I hated myself. I tried to talk to a few close people about how bad I was struggling and how hard the days were. My only responses were, “I’m sorry. It’ll get better. Being a mom is hard. Tomorrow will be a better day.” I was practically screaming my head off, trying to tell someone that I am not me. That this is not normal. That I need help. I need someone to run in and rescue me. Pull my head out of water because I am literally drowning.

There was one day, that it hit me hard. I was having a REALLY hard day. I was crying. I couldn’t focus. My head was spinning. I felt extremely sad and unhappy, but I didn’t know what was wrong. My husband told me to drive by myself to Target and just walk around and get a drink. I was barely able to even make it to Target. I couldn’t focus on getting myself there. Once I got there, it took me a while just to get out of the car. I had to talk myself through it. Once I got into Target, I had an even harder time navigating the store. I literally didn’t know which way to walk or turn. I felt lost. Like I didn’t know what I was doing. I was literally not myself. This was not me. Something was wrong.

I decided to contact one of my midwives whom I felt really close with. I told her everything. She had me come in to the birth center and talk with her and she wanted me to fill out a depression questionnaire. It was so hard even going in. I’ve had two babies with them and they’re all like family. Of course several of them asked if we were expecting again and if I was there for a prenatal, with big smiles on their faces. I kind of put my head down and quietly said I was just there to talk with my midwife about something. Each answer on the depression sheet was worth a number of points. She informed me that anything over a nine, she treats with a medication. I scored a fourteen. I tried to talk to her and I lost it. I poured my eyes out in that room like I never had before. I kept telling her how this is not the mom, or the wife, that I was suppose to be. I’m better than this. I always have full control and I never lose myself. Why is this happening to me? How did I spiral this far out of control? Can I ever have more children? I want more children, but can I? Will I ever come out of this black hole? She was so good to me that day. She spoke to me in the exact way I needed her to. I can whole heartedly say that she was the only person who heard me out and understood my screams. She “got me.” I felt so comfortable pouring my embarrassed heart out to her. I was ashamed and humiliated and down right scared. I would have never seen myself getting to a point of not knowing who I was. I also expressed to her how lost I felt as a human being. I was watching so many people on social media doing the things they love. Having amazing experiences. Working or volunteering to do things they were passionate about. Things they were called to do in life. A few years ago, and even more so recently, I have felt called to be a part of the birth world and help mothers with breastfeeding. It’s become a huge passion of mine. I feel like it’s where I’m suppose to be in life. Being in a season of “waiting” has been very difficult. Those passions aren’t something that I’ve been able to jump on just yet, and it took a toll on me mentally and emotionally. I’ve had feelings of failure and often asked, “when is it going to be my turn to accomplish my goals?” I felt like I wasn’t being fed. I felt as if I was alive, but not living. I was simply existing, but existing for others and never for myself. Like I was slowly dying on the inside and there would eventually come a time where it would be too late for me to accomplish anything. She reassured me that this was only a phase. She told me I can absolutely have more children and I WILL accomplish the things I’ve felt lead to do. We just have to get over this hurdle.

After our conversation, and with her help and guidance, we decided it would be best if I go on a mild anti depressant. I was now going through the embarrassment of being on an anti depressant. I knew it was for the best, but I had never had to go on any sort of medication for my emotions and mood. The drive thru at the pharmacy didn’t make it any easier when they grabbed the pharmacist to have him come to the window and he asked me repeatedly if I’d ever been on an anti depressant. Then repeatedly told me the side effects and all the details with a line of cars behind me. I know this is protocol, but, “give me my stuff and leave me alone”, was all I could think.

Once I started the anti depressant and got through a few small side effects, I do feel like it helped me. I still felt like the only mother who had gone through anything like this though. I only discussed this with a few close friends, who were very sympathetic and supportive. However, as I began to open up to more and more moms about what I was battling, they all related. Many of them said they’ve had the same feelings as me and a few said they also had some sort of depression and anxiety. A few even said they needed the help of an anti depressant to get them through it. This just screamed at me. I have never felt so alone before, and yet there is a whole group of women who have experienced the same things. They all related to me. Why did I not know this? Why is this not talked about more? Why are so many women hiding behind their closed doors and windows and suffering alone? There are so many different groups for moms to attend these days. Why isn’t there a group for moms who are struggling? Where we can pour our hearts out to one another and cry with one another and then lift one another up. It could be this stigma that society has placed on us. We pay so much attention to people on Facebook and how perfect their lives appear to be and we compare ourselves. This will drive any mom insane. These perfect moments that people share on Facebook are simply a small glimpse into their chaotic lives. I couldn’t tell you how many people have said to me, “You’re such a great mom. You’re super mom. You have it all together, girl! I love seeing your posts about your boys and everything you all do.” I would usually just smile and say, “Thank you,” but on the inside I was screaming, “Actually, I feel like I’m going crazy. My house is trashed, I never cook, I smell because I haven’t showered in five days, and I feel like I’m going to rip all of my hair out. Don’t get anywhere near my face because I often times don’t even brush my teeth until it’s bedtime again.”

I battled back and forth between wanting to share my story with people. I was and still am terrified of the judgement. However, the way I look at it is, I’m either going to be judged for how I parent, or judged for how I have struggled as a parent. So why not attempt to help other moms who may be hiding and screaming to hear that another mom has/is battling the same issues? My goal with sharing this, would be that other moms wouldn’t be afraid to talk to someone. I tried talking to a couple of people, but they weren’t getting it. It took me having to seek out my midwife and ball my eyes out to her. Then I ended up discovering many of my friend moms have battled as well. I just never knew it. So if you’re struggling and you feel like your head is slowly slipping under water, YOU ARE NOT ALONE. I thought I was alone, but I’m not. Talk to someone. It will do you NO good to keep your feelings and thoughts bottled up, because you’ll be battling YOURSELF, and that’s a battle you will never win.Family2

Most importantly, if you know a mom and she is beginning to act different and not herself…I would highly encourage you NOT to judge her. You may have/might be handling motherhood in a way that appears to be better than her. However, maybe you never went through this. A lot of moms do, a lot of moms don’t. Or perhaps you just haven’t entered that difficult season yet, that she is currently in. What you CAN do, is tell her that this isn’t forever. That she WILL make it through this. You may not understand her and what she’s battling, but you need to encourage her and support her. She may be feeling extremely overwhelmed, which could make her appear to just be in a bad mood or grouchy. Have an open mind and a warm heart when you’re with her. She may not even realize she is coming across as cold. She may just be feeling cold herself, and could really use a tight hug instead of criticism and judgement.

I can honestly tell you that I do feel like I am still in this unexpected journey. This weird season of feeling lost. I take it day by day. I have no idea when I will be done with this. Some days are wonderful and some days are horrible. I DO know, that once this is over, I will owe my children an apology for not always being patient with them and not being the mom I aimed to be. I will owe my husband a major apology and a clearer insight into what I was battling. I know he has tried to understand. I know he has sat back and watched me and probably wondered who stole his wife for so many months. As odd as this sounds, I’m just not ready to have that sit down yet, but one day we will.

I’ll wrap this up with one of my favorite Dr. Seuss quotes from his book “Oh The Places You’ll Go.” “You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And NEVER mix up your right foot with your left.

To my fellow moms everywhere… “You’re off to great places! Today is YOUR day! Your mountain is waiting. So….GET ON YOUR WAY!”

~Shelly Mckoin Collie

Dear Ruby: A good mama is.

Dearest Ruby,

Somewhere along the way, you’re going to contruct an idea about what a ‘good mama’ is.  It may be because of me, and it may be in spite of me.  It may come from television, or magazines, or movies.  It may come from your friends.  If your life is anything like mine, it will likely come from social media.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what a good mama is.  What MY idea of a good mama looks like.  I’m not sure where all of them came from, but I’m going to share them with you.

In my mind, rolling around in my head, is an “ideal mommy.”  The one that I strive to be like.  Let me tell you about the ‘good mama’ in my head.

A good mama always speaks kindly.

A good mama doesn’t get mad.

A good mama has clean kitchen counters, and nothing under her couches.

A good mama always responds with empathy, never spite.

A good mama always has a nutritious meal prepared for dinner.

A good mama is just as happy to see you as she tucks you in to bed as she is to see you wake.

A good mama doesn’t say mean things.

A good mama never says no.

A good mama doesn’t need alone time.

A good mama doesn’t hate being a mama sometimes.

I hope you realized something when you read this, Ruby.  I hope you saw all the red flags – the ‘nevers’ and the ‘always’s.  I hope you realized that this mama doesn’t exist.  She was not me, and she is not you, and she is an unattainable perfection that is simply not reality.  Because being a mama is HARD work, and being a GOOD mama doesn’t mean you have to be perfect.

It’s okay to say no sometimes when you should say yes.  And it’s okay to give everyone cereal for dinner once in a while.  Or twice a week.  You aren’t a bad mom if your floors are dirty again.  And again.  Sometimes, you’re not going to like your kids.  And sometimes you are going to wish you weren’t a mama for just a few minutes.

It doesn’t mean you don’t love your beautiful babies like crazy.  I LOVE you beautiful babies with all of my heart.

It DOES mean that you need to take care of yourself.  You need to find moments that are yours to fill your heart and soul with love; love for you, so you can give love to them.  It DOES mean that you have to check in with your expectations – your house might be messy, and clothes wont get folded, and toilets wont always be scrubbed.  But you are still a good mom.

You will kiss booboos, and you will yell more than you like, and you wont always have all the answers…

…and Ruby.  I promise.  You are a good mom.  (I am too.)

I love you,
(I am 32.  Ronan is 7, you are 5, Ryder is 3 and Rory is 8 months old.)

Dear Ruby Letters.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now…  I’m going to start writing letters to Ruby.

Why Ruby?  Well, she’s my only daughter.  And as such, she is going to likely be the only one that comes to me when she has issues with her own kids.  Not that daughters-in-law will not one day come to me – if they do, I will give these letters to them as well.  A little about the struggle, a little about to shine.  A little about how it feels to be in the trenches.  I don’t know that I will write regularly, but I will write when it needs to come out.  So here goes.

Dearest Ruby,

You just recently turned five years old.  Ronan is seven, Ryder is three, Rory is 8 months, and I am 32.

This is my first letter to you.  I wish I had thought to start them sooner, but better than not at all.  I am a mama of four.  I’m trying to write this as I sit here with three littles playing loudly on the floor.  I’ve already been interrupted three times, and yet I will power on – because this matters.

I hope you are reading these because you have a baby or two.  I hope you see me every few days.  I hope we are close, and talk every day.  I hope you ask me questions and I have pointed you to these letters because I’m in a different season, and I can’t remember how to answer the questions you have.

There are so many wonderful cliches that describe parenting.  So many quips and one-liners that reduce it all down.  “This too shall pass.”  “The days are long, but the years are short.”  But they don’t really explain what it’s like.  They don’t capture the highest highs and the lowest lows.  There is nothing like being in the middle of it.  I have already forgotten the blur of the newborn days, the sleepless nights.  I know I will forget this.

You are a treasure at five years old, Ruby.  You love to be helpful.  You ask, “What can I do to help you, mama?”  Especially when I am struggling.  You clean up rooms without anyone asking you to.  You are undeniably sensitive, just like me.  You can’t handle big emotions of others.  Ryder is awful to you.  Ronan is in school most days, you miss him dearly.  And you love Rory with EVERY OUNCE of your being.  I ask you a thousand times every day to give Rory some space.  If you could, I think you would merge your body with his to never be without him.  Your love for your dada is so huge.  Jump-hugs are your favorite thing.  You adore singing and dancing.  You are a wonderful painter.  Right now, you enjoy telling “once upon a time” stories, and they are always captivating.  You are SURE you want to be a princess, which means wearing pretty dresses.  I hope somewhere along the way, you learn that you ARE a princess, regardless of what you wear or how you look.

My days are a blur right now.  A blur of meeting needs and wiping bottoms and feeding bellies.  The absolutely brilliant beauty of giggles and hugs, games and songs;  the oppressing darkness of tantrums and yelling, hitting and rage – both from children and from myself.  I go to therapy, now, because I feel like I’m not the kind of mother you beautiful children deserve.  I’m see my therapist once a week in order to learn how to be calm and peaceful.  How to tame the anger that keeps finding its way to the surface so easily.  I hope that, as a mother, I have raised you to be better, more mindful.  I hope that, if I haven’t, and you are struggling… you never feel alone as you walk the path to peace.

A jumble of park days and pool days and play dates and screen time.  Sometimes we do crafts and sometimes we spend the entire day on the couch.  We have dance parties and pity parties and lots of grocery shopping trips.  I take a million pictures, because every moment is a moment I want to look back on.  I love you with all of my heart.  I love your father with all of my being.  I love myself too, because that is REALLY important.  I struggle to find the balance between being excited for what the future brings, and living as fully present in this moment as I can – where you and Ryder are playing, Rory is standing next to you, and I’m sitting on the couch writing this letter.

Life is just as beautiful as it is hard.

“The lowest of her lows must match the high of her highs.”

I love you, dearest Ruby.
Your loving mother,

Who am I, if not mad?

I am mad.

I have been mad for about six years now.

Really mad for at least three.

The birth of my third child was a turning point for me.  Car seat screaming, two toddlers under three with a newborn, and life was really hard.  I was really mad that it was hard.

It didn’t happen overnight, but eventually I stopped just getting mad, and starting becoming mad.  I know the difference is subtle, but it’s also very distinct.  I stopped FEELING mad, and started thinking of myself as a mad person.

Over the course of the next three years, I very unintentionally continued to reinforce the idea that I was a mad person by being mad more often than I wasn’t.  The list of things that made me mad was long and quite exhausting.  Having to wake up, having to go to bed, having to deal with problems, having to clean messes.  It made me mad when there was no coffee.  It made me mad when I had to make dinner AND clean dinner.  It made me mad when I didn’t make dinner, and we had to eat out.

Are you seeing a trend here?  When I stop and put my mind to it, when I really think about it, there really wasn’t anything that DIDN’T make me mad.

It was exhausting, and not a nice way to live.

Today, Saturday morning, on one of my very rare chances to sleep in, my three year old came upstairs and pounded on the door for me to wake up.  I was IMMEDIATELY mad.  Where is his father?  Why is he letting him do this?  Why can’t he just let me sleep?  I JUST want to sleep in ONE TIME.  He’s going to wake up the baby!  My inner dialogue was JUST so angry.

I laid there, kind of detached, and observed my brain spinning out in anger.  One part of my brain was just so mad, and another was asking why.  Why?  Why am I so mad?  What if I just… wasn’t?

And then I suddenly wondered… who am I if I’m not mad?

And then I realized, quite painfully, that I have made anger part of my identity.  I have become so deeply identified with being angry all the time that I don’t know who I am if I am not mad.

One of the consequences  of this realization was that it completely diffused my anger.  I was immediately calm.  However, it begs the question:  “Who do I want to be instead?”

If I can become angry Mandy by deciding that I am mad all the time, I can become someone else.

I can become calm Mandy.

I can become energetic Mandy.

I can become peaceful Mandy.

I can become tidy Mandy.

I can become all of these things.  I can become any of these things.  All I have to do is decide that I’m going to become them, and decide that I’m NOT going to be angry and mad anymore.

I know that sounds like it would be really easy.  I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy at all.  But the realization and actualization is there – I know that I decided (perhaps unconsciously) that I was going to become mad.  Now I have decided VERY consciously, that I’m not going to be that way anymore.

I wonder who I can be instead.  I’m excited to see how awesome she will be.  I can’t wait to meet her.

The Little Scientist Effect

I just called Sarah, asking for a strategy.

I explained to her that my tiny terrorist kept asking me to play with him, and despite the need to get a bunch of laundry folded and put away, I actually decided to play instead. I don’t do this often.

I went upstairs to play with our “magnets” with him, and we were building cool things. Every time I would build something neat, he would knock it down, gleefully, but he would never let me knock his down. I asked him not to several times, telling him that it made me sad when he knocked down my cool stuff.  He continued to smash my magnets. Eventually, I got up and walked away, telling him that I didn’t want to play with someone who would keep breaking my toys.

I came downstairs and sat on the couch and realized that I was REALLY hurt that he was being so unkind to me while I was playing with him. I took it REALLY personally. So I called the Toddler Whisperer.

Sarah is right on top of it.  I told her what happened, and we talked a little bit about what to do in the future. She told me that as soon as he starts breaking down my (or someone else’s) magnets, he should be ‘interrupted’ – removed from the situation. I can choose to sit with him or leave him while he is understandably upset that he has been removed from playing, but once he is calm, I am to explain that it is not okay for him to break MY magnets. I shall tell him that he is free to crash his own as much as he likes, but only his own. He would then be allowed to play with the magnets again, so long as he followed those instructions. If he were to crash my (or anothers) magnets again, the magnets would be put away.

“It looks like you can’t play nicely with the magnets. We will have to put them away. We can try again tomorrow.”

There will likely be another period of upset while he protests that his magnets have been taken away, but sticking to the consequence is paramount.

It was then that Sarah dropped this parenting DIAMOND of advice upon me.

She said:

“Children are like little scientists. They are doing experiments to see what kinds of reactions they will get.”

(This, I was familiar with.)

“The thing is, every time they get a DIFFERENT reaction, it gives them more data to work with, which increases the length of the experiment. The more consistent you can be with your reactions, the less data they are given, the quicker they will move on.”

Mind = blown.

I mean, really, I knew that you want to be consistent, and I knew that you need to have firm boundaries. But the whole idea of making sure that you are giving them the same results every time? So that the experiment can be concluded and they can put that one to rest? I hadn’t heard it phrased in those terms before. It makes perfect sense.

So there you have it. I will be putting this into effect immediately, and see how quickly we can get some of these challenging behaviors to extinguish themselves.

Perhaps it would be helpful for mama to rearrange her thinking of Ryder as a “tiny Scientist” instead of a “tiny terrorist.”


Positive and Grateful

I’ve experienced such a huge change in the last several weeks. Not only in my parenting and my dealings with Ryder, but in the whole wholeness of my life. My outlook, my attitude, my experience of every single day has lightened.

What caused it? How did this happen?

I don’t really know. Perhaps one thing, perhaps a combination of many things. I can’t say for sure. I’ve changed enough things all at once and had such a fantastic result that I can’t pinpoint which one it was that made the difference or.. if it was the perfect combination of all of them. Believe me, I have tried so many things in the past, I would have told you that a change of this magnitude wasn’t possible.

So what did I change?

First, I started corralling my negative thoughts. I realized that once I had a single negative thought, I tended to dwell on it, and drive myself deeper and deeper into anger, frustration and negativity. It was like the negative energy multiplied itself within my mind. What I started doing was noticing every time I had a negative thought, or something bad happened I would acknowledge it, the negative thought or the bad thing, and then let it go. If it was a particularly stubborn thought or mood, I would physically visualize myself stepping off of a dark, negative path and walking back on a bright and positive one. The visulization seemed to really help. Don’t stay stuck in the negativity – go back to positive.

Next, my husband read me an article about the power of placebo, and how it has been proven that in most studies of anti-depressants, placebo was just as effective or more than the actual medicine. This was pretty astounding to me, and I thought about that – the power of placebo. I thought and thought about what that meant, and came to the conclusion that our belief that we will get better must be the actual impetus to get better. So I started making everything into a placebo. “Because I’m going to therapy, I will get better.” “Because I’m wearing this new necklace, I will get better.” “Because I’m yelling less, I will get better.”

Anything and everything I could imagine became a placebo. “This new almond milk coffee creamer is going to help me to get better.” The combination of banishing negativity and making everything into a placebo helped me to fend off any ideas of staying mentally unwell, even if I had momentary relapses into anger or yelling. Even if I had a terrible day.

I recently read the book “Rising Strong” by Brene Brown. What an eye opener on some really key points, for me. I don’t really feel like I’ve ‘fixed’ anything that she talks about – but I most definitely am more aware. She mentions that all human emotions must be felt and processed, and that instead we like to avoid them – to push them down or numb them. Our reaction to those unprocessed emotions can be, among other things, something called “chandeliering” – reacting to any sort of emotional stimuli as though it’s incredibly painful – so much so that you ‘jump as high as the chandelier.’ As soon as I read it, I recognized this as the perfect description for what happens when I ‘lose my shit’ at my kids. I don’t really know yet what it is that I have been pushing down and repressing. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Perhaps that’s a job for Therapy. But simply being aware that it is happening has helped.

Then there is the therapy itself. It’s funny, because I continue to feel like I’m not DOING ANYTHING when I go to therapy. We talk, and we laugh, and I cry a little bit, and she says things that make a whole lot of sense… and then I leave feeling a little lighter, and a little happier. But that’s about it. Nothing earth shattering, no deep delving into my past or my childhood or my darkest fears. It’s really not like you see on TV at all – for me anyways. It’s kind of like sitting and talking to a buddy of mine over coffee (Oh! Next time I should bring coffee!) while we talk about how hard it is to be a mom. And she’s totally on my side.

Staying calm, and keeping my emotions out of the tantrums I face with my children. That seems to go hand in hand with feeling better, happier and less weighty. I don’t know if one causes the other, or if they are just so intermingled that they can’t be separated, but I don’t get sucked into the maw of crazy when my kids start to go nuts. I feel like a raft, floating on top of it. I feel like I’m able to pull them out when they calm. I feel like I am centering in the middle of their storm, and that is such a powerful feeling – it helps me to stay there.

Another big one? I stopped looking at my kids like blank bodies, faceless little people that needed, wanted, demanded and exhausted me. I started looking into their eyes again. I started drinking up their personalities and reminding myself all of the little things I love about them. I started telling them those things. I’ve been relishing in the joy that is being their mother, and the genuine gift it is to have children such as these. Even in their struggles, they are gifts.

In the end, I’m not really sure what did it, but it feels like this is a good plan: get positive. Get grateful. Get joyful and excited. Do whatever it takes to get that way. It doesn’t have to be big, or exhausting, or physical. It’s just a matter of putting your brain there over and over and over until you find what works. Exercise? Fresh air? Great music? Perhaps, like me, it’s therapy, and mental training, and new almond milk creamer. Perhaps it’s realizing that you ARE enough, you ARE good at this, and you WILL get better.

I feel so much better. I feel so much lighter. I feel shiny again. I want to help you feel that way too <3


A Beautiful Resolution.

It was 5:00pm. We had eaten an early dinner, and the kids were sitting on the couch watching Pete’s Dragon. Ryder was acting up and I knew it was because he was tired – he hadn’t had a nap, and his crazies were coming out.

After jumping on me several times, and hinting that he would like “boob-couch” – to nurse – I told him that he wasn’t going to get ‘boob’ again until it was bed time. He immediately went into urgent, melt-down mode, insisting that it WAS bed time, and he wanted boob-bed immediately.

Brock and I had a quick, hushed conversation about the dangers of letting him go to bed for the night when it was only 5 o’clock, and decided that it was too early. I told Ryder that he could have boob-bed in 30 minutes, and we could go to bed if he waited. The baby gate was blocking the upstairs, so he wasn’t able to just head up the stairs. I told him several times to play, or sit and watch the show until 5:30, and we would go upstairs together.

In traditional Ryder fashion, he decided to PUSH ALL OF THE BUTTONS. Because Rory was sleeping upstairs, I didn’t want to let him go up and play/jump around to pass the time. Instead of listening to my suggestion, he went and got a small chair and climbed over the baby gate. On his way up the stairs, he laughed tauntingly, “I over the baaaaaby gaaaaate.”

In order to keep Rory from being woken up, I went with him. At this point, it was probably 5:10. I kept reminded him that he only had x number of minutes until we could go to sleep.

I suppose, in retrospect, there was no harm in letting him go to bed early, but the principal of him getting to do something just because he throws a giant fit is really what we are trying to avoid here.

Upstairs, I sat by the entrance to his bedroom and told him I would come lay in bed with him as soon as it was 5:30. He was jumping around and acting like a maniac – well beyond any sort of normal level of maniac. He kept yelling at me, “I. WANT. BOOB. BED.” I ignored most of his behavior. Eventually, I went into the bedroom with him to keep the noise sequestered to his room (again, trying to stop him from waking Rory) and sat by the door. Jumping and flipping around in bed, it didn’t seem like it was should be that difficult to wait the remaining 7 minutes to 5:30.

I guess at that point, Ryder decided it was time to up his game again. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he demanded I give him boob-bed. I reminded him, calmly, that I don’t give him ANYTHING when he speaks to me that way, and that he needed to calm down. He took a deep breath, and assured me he was calm. I told him there were 5 more minutes before we could go to sleep… and he lost his shit. He picked up the fan that was sitting next to the bed, and threw it at me. In the very dim light of the bedroom, I didn’t see it coming, only heard it.

When it hit me, I immediately went to level 10 rage. In a monumental demonstration of self control, I didn’t immediately beat the shit out of him, which was the very real, very physical urge. I stood up, and walked over to the bed, and sat down next to him. Voice cold as ice, I told him, “NOW, you will not be getting boob. It’s time to lie down and go to sleep.”

Not one to be dismissed, Ryder launched into a full on physical and auditory assault. He screamed, he punched, he flipped and kicked. He alternated between, “I WANT BOOB” and “I WANT TO GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS.”  He promised me, “I will not do that again!” and in the next breath told me, “I’M GOING TO BITE YOU.”

I was deeply entrenched in my rage, and not giving an inch. I held his hands and didn’t let him hit me. I stopped him from biting me. I resisted every urge to punish him physically, and sat stoically as he threw the most epic fit I have ever witnessed. I kept telling myself to hold space for his calm to come back, kept swallowing my rage and disgust.

At one point, when he became physically frightening, I pinned him down on the bed. He was screaming and throwing his body around, and I let the weight of my body keep him from hurting himself or me. It was a matter of minutes, but finally his screaming quieted and his breath slowed down. He was still demanding that I give him boob bed, or let him go back downstairs. I was still insisting that neither was going to happen, and we were embroiled in a full-on power-struggle.

I rolled off of him, resolute that he was NOT going to be leaving this room, NOR was he going to get to have boob, and it SERVES HIM RIGHT for being such a JACKASS.

He scrambled away from me, out of breath and talking harshly. I knew that he was talking, but I wasn’t really listening. I was still deep in my anger.


He said it through clenched teeth, and it didn’t immediately register what he was asking. And then it did.

For the last several weeks, I have been using the technique of escaping a power struggle that allows both of us to get what we want: when we are in the middle of a fight for something, I offer him the choice of ‘starting over.’  For example, when I am tired of waiting for him to get in his car seat, and I want to scream at him, instead I suggest, “Let’s go back to the beginning, and I will ask you to get in your car seat, then you can show me how you SHOULD get in your car seat, and everyone will be happy.”

He was asking for a do-over.

My rage was immediately gone, and I took a deep breath.

“You want to start over, Ryder? You want to try again?”

Real tears this time, instead of the angry rage tears. “Yes. I want to try again.”

So together, Ryder and I held hands and went downstairs. We sat on the couch for a minute, and I told him to ask again. He said, “Mama, may I have boob bed please?”

I nodded and said, “Okay buddy. Go upstairs and get in bed and I will come lay with you.”

He excitedly got up, ran upstairs and jumped into bed. He was smiling as he waited for me, and I laid down next to him. I let him nurse himself to sleep at 5:47pm, and it took mere minutes.

I honestly did not expect that beautiful resolution. I didn’t expect the solution to come from him. I have never been more proud. And I never, ever, cease to be amazed by what my children can teach me about being generous, forgiving, and kind.

The Changes I’ve Seen

I haven’t had a blow up in days.

When I feel myself get mad, I’m able to recognize it, and (sometimes) let it go.

My level of calm has been reflected in my kids.  I’ve seen fewer meltdowns, less yelling, and more patience with each other.

My level of calm has been able to diffuse situations when my husband is upset.

Upon finding that Ryder had destroyed a set of my bamboo double-pointed knitting needles, I was able to tell him calmly that damaging mama’s stuff hurts my heart. He put his hands on my cheeks and looked in my eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, mama.” and we hugged. There was no anger involved. I didn’t even feel the flash of it.

Last night, at bed time, I laid with my kids and talked to them. I told each of them, privately, my favorite things about them. I whispered secretly to them what I see as their greatest strengths, what I find beautiful. I loved to hear what they loved about themselves. And then they went to sleep – with no yelling, and no anger.

This morning, I was able to successfully tell my husband something he was doing that was bothering me, without making him upset. I communicated my emotions, and my needs, without making him feel blamed or at fault. It was fucking fantastic, and I felt heard.

Today, I had a realization based on a book that I am reading that asserts, “In general, everyone is doing the best that they can.” In the past, I have believed it to be true, and always think it about myself, but haven’t always applied it to others. Today, I applied it to Continue reading

To Lose It.

This morning, I was laying in bed after Brock and the kids had gotten up. Snuggled up against Rory, who was sound asleep, I was drifting back off for an extra hour of sleep provided by my generous husband.

I heard the growing thump, thump, thump of Ryder’s feet coming up the stairs. In his usual fashion, he busted into my bedroom and ran over to my side of the bed. Without modulating his voice, he asked, “Mama? I have boob bed?”

Following our daily script, I told him, “No buddy. You have boob couch when Mama gets up. Please go back downstairs.”

On a typical day, Ryder would immediately run back out of the room and pound back down the stairs until I woke up… or until he got impatient again and we would repeat the entire ordeal.

Today, for some reason, he decided to shout, “NO!”

I stayed calm and told him that he doesn’t get boob bed in the mornings, but he can have boob when I get downstairs. It just so happens that I was sleeping shirtless and didn’t have my bra pulled up, so there was actually an exposed boob present. He crawled over to me on the bed and started begging, “Please mum. Please I want boob bed. Please?”

At this point, Rory was stirring. I told Ryder very firmly, “We don’t have boob bed in the morning. Go down to the couch.”

As I was speaking, he lowered his head down to my breast and latched on despite my words.

It was like touching a hot burner. Like when something sweet contacts a sore spot on a sick tooth. Like when you step on a lego. INSTANT. Without any sort of build up or warning, my brain went from tired and sleepy to MAD.

I immediately threw him off of me and yelled. There seems to be no self control, no regulation in this state of anger. I can’t convince myself that I’m waking the baby more, or hurting the feelings of the child that is acting like a child. There is no rationality and no moderation.


Ryder immediately starts crying, a mixture of sorrow and fear.  Some small part of my brain tells me to grow up, he’s two and he wants boob. But the angry part of my brain is louder and shouty-er. I tell him to stop crying and go downstairs.

“Mama, I just want a hug,” he sniffles through his big tears.

Empathy still can’t break through the anger. “I don’t want to hug you. I’m very mad.”

He leans over to me and hugs me anyways. “Mama,” his broken voice implores, “You’re breaking my heart.”

“Yeah well,” my anger snaps back, “mine’s already broken.”

Crack. The anger cracks. Finally, regular Mandy comes back and empathy is present. I hug him back, and smell his hair. I stroke his arm, and tell him I’m sorry.

“I shouldn’t have yelled, Ryder. I’m sorry I made you cry.”

“I just want you to be a nice mama,” he tells me sadly.

“I know buddy. I’m trying to be a nice mama.” Regret and sadness. Immediate painful remorse. “Please go downstairs,” I request sadly, “and we can have boob couch when I get up.”

Ryder struts back downstairs, seemingly none the worse for wear, but I can’t help it – I wonder if I have put yet another notch in the armor of his psyche. I wonder what small damage I have caused this time. I wonder how hard it’s going to be for him to recover from a childhood where his mother is like a live-wire, and the unpredictably of her response is a minefield.

That instant hot second, the one where the anger goes live and takes over… I need to find a way to interrupt that. To block it. To pause before the rage, and insert some compassion. Some peace. Some ANYTHING. Because I have to be better than this. I have to be bigger than this.

A birthing affirmation comes to mind about contractions – how they are not stronger than me because they ARE me? My anger is not stronger than me because it is me. My rage cannot control me because it IS me. I can fix this because I can. It is me. And I will.