Self | The Ivey League

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I like them! I really like them!

Written on May 17, 2012 by Bridget in Parenting, self

“You really like your kids.”
I’ve heard it more than once.
And it’s true. I do.
I love you and I like you.

And though I don’t believe in giving you everything you ask for,
I believe in giving you what you didn’t even know you needed.
I believe in giving you more opportunities than things.
And so we go and we do.
Or we stay and we do.
But we do a lot.

We ride scooters in the driveway.
And create chalk masterpieces together.
And play UNO and Trouble until my eyes cross.
I do it not because I think I should, but because I want to.
Because I do…I like you.
And I like doing things with you.
And I like playing and having fun.

We color and cut and glue.
We sing and dance around the house like wild things.
We do science experiments and ‘raise’ butterflies and ladybugs.
And it is as miraculous to me as it is to you.
I sit back and marvel at the Creator who created you
as you lean in closely and marvel at the Creator who created caterpillars.

I do things like decorate the Adventure Van
And build forts and eat under the table
And dance in the rain
Because it makes you smile.
And I get to hear your laugh.
And it warms my heart and my soul beyond what I knew was possible.

And, sure, there are moments (days, even) when all I want is quiet.quiet.quiet.
And I yell.yell.yell.
And those days come, but they come less often than they used to.
And I am so very grateful.
I am so glad we’ve gotten to where we are -
This comfortable place that I know won’t last forever.
(I know it all too well and so I really revel in the now.)

I thank God so, so often for the opportunity to be your mother.
I don’t think that motherhood defines who I am, but it certainly has helped me refine who I am.
And as you change and grow, I do as well.
I want to thank you, but you wouldn’t understand.
You won’t for years to come,
But one day I hope that you’ll read these words
And know how truly, overwhelmingly thankful I am.

I like you.
I like being with you.
I like the person I am because of you.
And I hope that you will always like you.
Because you? You are spectacular.

Stormy

Written on May 9, 2012 by Bridget in self

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Oscillating between sunshine and storms, my mood matches the weather.
My eyes are tired – oh, so tired – but my brain is not.

I don’t peddle, but momentum hurls me forward.
Everything around me blurs, onethingafteranothersoquickly that my mind can’t keep up.

Minutes seem like moments, yet seconds turn into days.

The heavy clouds burst and fat drops splat on the ground.
And my own fat drops roll down my hot cheeks.
I don’t even try to hold them back.

As quickly as it began, it ends.
For her, but not for me.
And I laugh at myself for being jealous of her, our Earth.

Smoke rises from the ground, hot earth mixed with cool rain.
Dampness dances on my skin, leaving me uncomfortably sticky.

I want to crawl into bed and read a book and wait for the storm to pass.

I just wrote Just Write and realized it was Wednesday, not Tuesday.
But my heart-soul doesn’t know that it’s a day late.

Lean on Me

Written on May 2, 2012 by Bridget in Parenting, self

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Motherhood isn’t always happy and sunny.
Probably more accurate: Personhood isn’t always happy and sunny.

But right now for me, for us…it is.
Right now life is good.
It’s very, very good.

And yet…that broken part within me keeps waiting.
I keep waiting on something - I don’t even know what - to mess it all up.

I’ve encountered some things that would usually topple me over.
We’ve dealt with some issues that easily could have chipped away at each of us.

But.it.didn’t.
(And I am so, so very grateful.)

But even when life is happy and sunny, it’s not without hurt.
I look at my friends who are in hard, dark places.
And I ache for them, my chest heavy with empathy.
I want to pull them out of the shadows into the sun.
I want to say words that will soothe the soul and free the mind.
I want to hold them up until they realize that they can do it on their own.

But that’s not how it works.

And so I pray.
And I support as best I can.
And I just let them know I’m here.
Because even in the dark (or maybe especially in the dark) all we really want to know is that we aren’t alone.

It’s not just the plants that are growing.

Written on April 27, 2012 by Bridget in Bridget Blogs, Parenting, self

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Last month I planted a garden.
And it hasn’t died.
It actually seems to be doing surprisingly well.

garden1 Its not just the plants that are growing.

We have carrots and peas and beans and spinach.
Tomatoes, broccoli, radishes, more tomatoes, and even broccoli.
Strawberries and watermelon and we had cantaloupe but I think the rabbits got it.
Oh, and corn…but we bought that by accident. (Long story.)
(But it ends with: You should always look to see what your children put in the cart.)

garden2 Its not just the plants that are growing.

Last week I baked bread. Twice.
And it was whole wheat.
No picture because we devoured it.
But I bought more yeast.

I exercise at least 3 times a week, usually more.
Sometimes it’s just pulling the wagon to the playground.
But if you’ve ever pulled a wagon of two, you’ll know that it’s most certainly exercise!

And we’re considering homeschool for next year.
Our schools here are really great schools,
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
My heart and gut say ‘try it’.
And so we probably will.

photo 10 1024x1024 Its not just the plants that are growing.

I’m not quite certain who I’ve become.
But I really like her.

Pr(air)

Written on April 12, 2012 by Bridget in Bridget Blogs, self

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The wind is strong and almost steady.
The leaves make the most glorious swoosh-swoosh-swoossssshhhhh.
And the same three pipes of the windchime take turns singing.

The clock behind me says tick-ah, tick-ah, tick-ah, tick-ah.
The pendulum on the grandfather clock beside me just barely keeps up.
My eyes and my ears struggle to make them get in sync, but can’t.
And so I move so that I can no longer see the pendulum.
Problem solved!
(Or is it just problem ignored?)
(Is it even really a problem?)

I try to count all the different birds I hear.
Onetwothreefourfive…I easily differentiate.
But there are too many coos to count.

I close my eyes and let my limbs hang heavy.
Dropping my chin and rolling my head round and round gently,
I am acutely aware of the hundreds of muscles in my neck, chest, shoulder, arms.
Bending further, I feel the pull in my lower back.
A deep breath burns in my lungs.

I imagine that each strained muscle is a hurt, a heartache.
I feel the pain of the world on my shoulders.
(How cliché, but true.)
The brokenness of friends weigh heavily on my chest.
My own bitterness radiates down each arm.

Breathe deep.
Deeper.
Deeper still.

Filling every crevice of my torso until I can no longer take in any more.

And with release, relief rushes in.

Each breath, a prayer.
Each breath, a petition.
Each breath, a plea.

I call out to you with all of my heart…

Mommy Time Out

Written on April 11, 2012 by Bridget in Bridget Blogs, Parenting, self

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I am tired and you are teething.
It is a lethal combination.

“You win!” I exclaim in frustration.
(Well, really no one wins.)

I slip out the back door and walk just far enough that I can barely hear your cries.
Though it is nearly 10, I am still jammied up.
So are you. And your brother.
No need to get dressed today.
We have no where to go.

The wind blows up the end of my nightgown
And I lie down on the driveway.
The warmth of the sun begins to defrost my demeanor.

I tell myself that I will miss this one day.
And I will, I know.
The naps and the cuddles.
The giggles and sighs.
The top of your head resting on my cheek.
Even the tiny, sticky hands.
And the touching-touching-touching.
(OH! With the touching!!!!)
And, oh yes, even the ear piercing squeals of excitement.
I will miss them all.

But I cannot imagine missing the sound of cries.

Even as I speak it though, I wonder if it is true.
Your cries signify (or at least should signify) that you need me.
I thrive on being needed, being wanted.
And no one is more needed or wanted than Mama.

So I pull myself up from the drive and slip inside the house.
I quietly peek into your brother’s room and find you both engrossed in a toy laptop.
(Why do they make toys that are so looooooud?)

You are fine – save the occasional post-sob sniffle – until you see me.
But when you turn your eyes on me, you let out the smallest whimper.
And turn towards me with arms stretched wide.

“Mama-mama-ma”
With your head on my shoulder,
You sniff rhythmically to hold back the tears.

And as much as I don’t think I’ll miss the cries,
I will most certainly miss this.

You’ve got this.

Written on April 4, 2012 by Bridget in Bridget Blogs, self

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photo 4 300x300 Youve got this.

Sometimes I just have to remind myself:
You’ve got this.
You know what you’re doing.
(You just don’t know that you know.)

And I want to say that that’s okay.
But really it’s not.
Because confidence is what makes you great.
(Not always, but yes…in this it does.)

And I’m striving, stretching to be great.
(Aren’t we all?)

Scribble and Scrawl

Written on March 21, 2012 by Bridget in Bridget Blogs, self

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I’ve started a hundred posts in the past few weeks, but have only finished a few.
I’ve been writing a lot, but it’s been on scraps of paper and with crayons and in my trusty leather-bound journal.

I am open and honest here. But it would be foolish of me to not be a little guarded.
I tell you only what I want you to know, that is true.
(But I also whisper things here that I would never tell you face-to-face.)
That is the beauty and the sorrow of the internet.
We can speak and be heard, but we filter.filter.filter…sometimes until there’s nothing left but empty words.

I don’t (I can’t) show you my unfiltered words.
The ones that are dark and raw.
The ones that only make sense to me.
The ones…the ones that have more meaning than they should.

This morning I re-discovered a phrase that I’d written a week or so ago.
(The actual words are irrelevant, really.)
I barely remember scribbling them down.
A brief swoosh of an idea in my mind.
Moments later, washed away by yet another loud noise or “Mommy, will you…”
(I don’t even remember what distracted me.)

I look at my scrawl and stretch my mind.
No matter…I can’t remember the details.
But I know, I know, that they meant something to me then.
Something important enough to stop what I was doing and hastily scribble on an old envelope.

And so I tuck the wrinkled, Coke-splattered envelope away,
Knowing that I’ll one day stumble across it again.
And maybe then I’ll be ready for its meaning.

I close my eyes…only for a moment and the moment’s gone.

Written on March 19, 2012 by Bridget in Photography, self

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Hours and hours of scouring books and magazines and the internet.
Time flying by as I click over and over and over again on Pinterest.
Looking for something that my heart knows, my mind knows…but my eyes can’t see.
I’ll know it when I see it. I know I will.

Looking at images and ideas of others,
I glean inspiration and spin the idea my own way.
Imitation really meant to flatter, not steal intellectual property.
(Although it hasn’t always happened this publicly, we have always copied one another.)

But it seems that lately instead of feeling inspired, I feel trapped.
I see other ideas and think mine aren’t good enough.
I see other ideas and wonder how could I possibly make that better?
I see other ideas and think only about how to make it work for me.

So I step away.
Quit looking at the beautiful art,
the lovely snapshots,
the simple and clean designs.

Instead I close my eyes.

I imagine the way the light will float down through the trees.
And how it will land gently on his back.
And how the backlight will make you glow.

And then snap.
I take my picture, your picture.
And though it may look like a million other pictures on the surface,
it is special. it is unique. it is you.

And you will look at it for years to come (i hope)
And the warmth of the sun will feel heavy on your skin.
And the smell of fresh grass will come to your mind.
And the heavy, comforting weight of new love will flood over you.

And that is what I want my photographs to be.
A moment immortalized, ready and waiting to be visited and cherished.
From this moment on.

Getting It All Wrong

Written on March 6, 2012 by Bridget in self

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It started like this:

But I was afraid you couldn’t read it that way, so I typed it out here.
(Because I’m still trying to get it all wrong. That’s not easy for me.)
(Well, not on purpose. I get it all wrong by accident all the time.)
(You know what I mean…)

I used to be a think-out-side-the-box kind of person.
And then I became an adult.

But I’m taking baby steps to change that.

I bought a colored purse.
And not a dark color, but a bright! happy! one!