Everyday Magic

“Children have neither past nor future; they enjoy the present, which very few of us do.”
– Jean de la Bruyere

Today I am thankful for warm October sunshine, wondrous caterpillars (RIP Catty–you lived a full life), and small, magic moments with my four.

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This post was created as 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 read the next post in this series “Everyday Magic.”

Image via Kristine Farnum

He Alone Holds Us

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My stomach tightened into a knot as we stepped off the elevator.

The walls and furniture were bright and colorful. Moana played on a television at low volume. A friendly receptionist pointed us to a cartoony touchscreen to check in.

The cartoon fish didn’t fool me. This isn’t fun. I don’t want to be here. No one does.

The fluorescent lights flickered. The smells were antiseptic. The chairs were clean but worn down by countless worried parents before me.

I blinked back tears as we sat. Our three-month-old baby slept peacefully in his car seat, completely unaware of the abnormal measurement that had brought us here.

The physical feature—his big head—that was often the focus of our lighthearted jokes might actually be a problem. It was growing too quickly. An ultrasound was needed right away.

***

I’ve never been so aware of a simple fact: my children do not belong to me.

My love for them is vast. It’s visceral and gut-wrenching and wild. I want to believe that I can protect them. That I can keep them from harm.

But I can’t.

No amount of control or caution can keep them from disappointment, broken hearts, or irregular test results.

***

I often wonder how Mary did it.

When God said, “he will come to save the world,” did she know that meant unspeakable pain and suffering? The ultimate sacrifice? Death on a cross for her precious son?

Would she have felt differently about this whole parenting gig if she knew? This child was her flesh and blood. Borne of her body and tied to her heart.

But when the angel came, Mary said, “I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.”

Oh, what faith.

***

We were eating dinner in the hospital food court when our doctor called my cell phone. The radiologist had reviewed the scans and she had the results. No excess fluid in the brain, no abnormal growths. We’ll have to keep an eye on it, but for now, everything is normal.

The tears burned again, this time on an overwhelming wave of gratitude. I clutched our baby to my chest and breathed out a shaky prayer: thank you thank you thank you.

***

Mary knew what I struggle to accept.

Despite coming from my body and carrying my heart, these children are not my own.

They belong to their Father. As I think about that night long ago—about a young mother, a stable, a baby—it’s even more clear.

Whatever the future holds, He alone holds us.

Some things are worth saving

I’m not a very sentimental person. At least that’s what Dairy Man tells me.

I hate clutter. I want everything to be organized. I spend my evenings rearranging drawers and closets. I get far too excited about bins and chalkboard labels.

I don’t save birthday cards. Almost all of the kids’ art projects from daycare go straight in the trash after bedtime. I ruthlessly purge my clothes at least twice a year (those old t-shirts from high school musicals are long gone). I will ALWAYS say no to free furniture or old china. Anything that isn’t nailed down in our house can end up in the “donate” pile.

My mom is the same way. It’s not that we’re cold or heartless, we just don’t need to be surrounded by a lot of unnecessary STUFF to hold on to our memories. When I was a college junior (living in a rental house with four other girls), my mom showed up one day with boxes of my old stuffed animals, Barbies, and even prom dresses and said, “I need to clean out my storage room. These are yours now.” Not having an abundance of space to hoard nostalgia, I kept a few of the toys and donated everything else. Circle of life.

Dairy Man, on the other hand, has what I affectionately refer to as a “farmer mentality.” He’s inclined to hang on to everything (old tractor wheels, extra bike parts, broken shoes) on the off chance it can be used, fixed, or jerry-rigged with duct tape and a prayer someday.

But I DO get sentimental about family. That’s why we made an exception to my “no old stuff” policy for The Camp.

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My grandpa built this little hut 40 years ago for my uncle.

Almost 28 years later, it traveled from Jenison to Holland and found a new home in my parents’ backyard. My dad added windows, a door, bunk beds, and a deck. My siblings and I spent years making memories within its four walls.

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Last weekend, the camp made yet another journey. It was loaded onto a giant hay trailer (because farmers have access to the best toys) and found its way to our backyard.

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It’s been at least a decade since anyone has played inside. It needs paint, shingles, a new door, and a whole lot of love. I have dreams of white walls and a wraparound deck and a yellow slide. I’ve lost at least a week of my life to “playhouse ideas” on Pinterest and Dairy Man started glazing over when I mentioned a chalkboard wall, string lights, and kid-sized ghost chairs.

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We could have just built a modern new playhouse, but there’s something beautiful about this. A family legacy on four stilts. A chance to take something that’s a little worn, a little decrepit, and make it new again.

Because some things are worth saving.

Not a bad reminder for a ruthless minimalist like me.

My girl is one

One year ago, this child came rushing into the world with speed and fury.

My first contraction was at 1:10 a.m. and within 30 minutes I could no longer stand up. Birth plan? HA. We barely made it to the hospital. Ellis was delivered 10 minutes after we arrived by an ER doctor whose name I don’t even know. The birth happened so quickly she was still fully encased in her amniotic sac. Being born “en caul” is extremely rare (1 in 80,000 babies) and carries historic superstition about good luck and a destiny of greatness. I didn’t buy into the hype, but I couldn’t help feel that she was marked as special.

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But our first three months were mired in the deepest exhaustion. My special baby was beautiful and healthy, but she was inconsistent and stubborn. She wouldn’t nap. She wouldn’t fall into a routine. She screamed bloody murder every night from 6-10 p.m. Nothing soothed her and my nerves were shattered. I felt the constant weight of failure. Every two steps forward meant three steps back. I was stretched to new limits of patience and grace, drowning in joy and despair.

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Then, the haze cleared. Suddenly my unhappy baby was easygoing and full of giggles. She (FINALLY) slept through the night. She smiled quickly, delighted everyone, and settled into her role as amenable second child. Complete strangers would say, “She’s such a happy baby!” and they were right. She came into her own with fervor, all joy and light. Our life wasn’t easy but it was wild and beautiful.

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Which brings us to today. This little girl is ONE. Just like that.

My love for her has grown in leaps and laugher. She’s a ball of energy and mischief. She refuses to be left out of the action. She adores her brother and Daddy and will follow them anywhere. She never stops moving unless on my hip.

I sometimes feel compelled to devour her chubby little hands, her bright blue eyes, her adorably deranged six-tooth smile. “I’ll eat you up, I love you so.”

Life with two kids is no joke. It’s chaos and movement and intensity. There are days I sink to the floor in exhaustion after both are in bed. I make a lot of mistakes. This little one still baffles me with her strong opinions and inconsistencies. She reminds me that control over life is a laughable fallacy. But I wouldn’t trade it. I wouldn’t trade her.

We love her so much. Happy birthday, my little.

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Joy and Fear: Waiting for our Second Child

It’s like I told my coworkers last week, “Now it’s time to freak out.”

I’m only partially kidding.

Why? Last week I started the third trimester of this lightning-speed pregnancy. And I can’t quite wrap my head around that.

For so, so long we waited, we prayed for this child. Our hearts were broken again and again. But then? She was. Growing safely inside me. Our prayers were answered in the most beautiful, soul-shattering way possible.

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I felt so blessed. So unworthy. I was almost afraid to truly bask in our happiness because it was just too good.

The tingly feelings of deep gratitude are still here, but they are sometimes pushed down by the realities of life. Of laundry and packing lunches and making dinner. Of work and travel and corn harvest.

The summer was so busy. And we’re so busy right now. The calendar over the next two months makes me want to cry. Between my work and farm insanity, there hasn’t been a lot of time to float around in a magical pregnancy bubble.

When I was pregnant with Anders, I lived in that bubble. I loved the wistful look that would come over someone’s face when I said “Yes, it’s our first.” I had nothing better to do than to take weekly photos in front of an elaborately-drawn chalkboard boasting “Baby F is the size of a kumquat!”

This time, understandably, has been very different.

Now I have a busy and egocentric toddler underfoot. Even when I was feeling my sickest (the first 16 weeks, ugh), sweet little Anders still demanded crazy things. Like dinner. Or diaper changes. Toddlers are not very accommodating to the woes of pregnancy, people. In the midst of pulling him off tables, chasing him around to put on his socks, and assuring him that asparagus is JUST DELICIOUS, I barely had time to notice I was pregnant.

I didn’t have a lot of time to sit. To think. To really imagine what our life will be like when the baby comes.

But third trimester. It’s here. I can’t ignore the fact that a baby is waiting for me at the end of this pregnancy.

Cue the freakout. I can’t believe we’re starting over.

In spite of the craziness that comes with a two-year-old, I love our life right now. Anders is hilarious. He talks constantly. He sleeps predictably. He loves so hard. He’s obsessed with farming. He has the coolest hair. He’s becoming more independent. I’m still floored by his transition from baby to little boy.

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Sometimes I sneak into his room for one last peek before I go to bed. (Am I checking if he’s still breathing? Maybe. Don’t judge. I hope my psychotic tendencies will lessen for the second kid.)

In those quiet moments, when his busy toddler body is stilled, his breath comes out sweet and slow, and his face is slack with innocence, my heart aches. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe from the sheer weight of my love for this little human. How I would die to protect him. How the thought of him growing up in this broken world renders me undone.

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It seems crazy that Dairy Man and I have willingly decided to divide our hearts again. To allow another piece of our soul to walk around in the world. A world we cannot control.

There’s so much to worry about. Especially for a professional worrier like myself.

But if pregnancy and being a parent has taught me anything, it’s that life is not about control. It can’t be. As much as I try to have the perfectly organized house and the perfectly run family, it’s not up to me. I can’t control toddler tantrums or farm emergencies or milk prices. I can’t control the sickness or tragedy that strikes those I love. I can’t control my pregnancy or be sure of a healthy baby.

Every shred of this imperfect life is in God’s hands. Not my own. That’s where sanity and comfort can be found.

Realistically, my freakout is still real and looming. Dairy Man knows nothing in the house is safe from my insane need to organize and nest. A part of me can’t believe we’re going back to blowouts, breastfeeding, and sleep deprivation.

I worry how Anders will adjust, how my heart will split to accommodate two.

The beautiful thing? It’s not up to me. My only choice is to trust that I’ll find our way. That I can bear the joy and fear of this life. That I can live in gratitude and faith. That I can rescue a toddler with his hand stuck in the vacuum while simultaneously rocking a newborn. That my heart can be broken and reassembled dozens of times a day. That our tribe will carry us when we can’t carry ourselves.

I have no idea how to have two kids, but I know we’ll figure it out somehow.

I am terrified and I am calm.

(And freakout + farm widowhood during harvest is the perfect excuse for ice cream.)

Bring on the third tri.

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Our Farm …er… Family is Growing!

Hello and welcome to life post corn planting.

Dairy Man barely knows what to do with himself after spending 90+ hours a week in a tractor planting over 1,500 acres of corn. That crazy man worked 95 hours two weeks ago. NINETY-FIVE. Dairy Man’s quip was “Jess, some people are 9 to 5ers. I’m a 95er!

He’s so clever.

Did I mention during that time we were also cutting triticale and hay? And of course the manure hauling never stops this time of year.

This life, I tell you. It’s been sheer craziness.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t let Anders share another bit of craziness that has found its way into our lives.

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You heard it here, folks (or on FB/Insta a few weeks ago…oops). Our little Dairy Boy will be a big brother in early December! We’re thrilled by God’s grace and can’t wait to welcome this new little blessing into our family.

Anders has no idea what he’s getting into. He mostly just likes to yell “I be a big BROTHER!” and do research.

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Jersey, on the other hand, is already acting surly. He seems to know what’s going on and it definitely can’t be good for the furry firstborn.

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DM can’t wait to grow our team of future farmhands. I’m sure he’s already working on the lawn mowing schedule.

And me? Amidst the excitement and joy I’m freaking out. I have no idea how I will handle two kids and a needy border collie, especially during times of year like planting season where Dairy Man doesn’t show his face for weeks.

This year it was all I could do to juggle a full-time job, pregnancy, grocery shopping, meal prep, cleaning, laundry, daycare, one busy toddler, and general living (showering, eating, sleeping, etc.). But even in the midst of this insanity, Anders and I found a good rhythm. We adjusted our expectations and learned how to get by with just the two of us. We ate more bread for dinner than I’m proud of (mix morning sickness with no husband–would YOU want to make filet mignon?), but we made it.

Come December, everything will change.

All of our carefully-constructed routines will be thrown for a loop and I’ll have to learn how to juggle two kids with very different schedules and needs.

The upside of having a baby in the dead of winter is that DM will be around. The cold season is so much slower on the farm (as long as our pipes don’t freeze). Anders was born in April and DM was in a tractor planting corn two weeks later. Not my favorite. This time will be different, slower, give more time for our family to adjust, and for that I’m grateful.

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Don’t let all my overzealous type-A fears fool you, I’m SO deeply excited for this next chapter in our lives, sleepless nights and all.

I’m savoring the newness, the comfortable anticipation of this second pregnancy. DM and I feel slightly prepared (we’ve done this before, right?) and terrified (what if it’s a girl!?).

We can’t wait to see what God has in store for our family.

And I can’t wait to rekindle my lifelong love affair with food. Any day now… #morningsicknessmustdie

So I Have a Two-Year-Old

There was a time I was afraid to become a mother.

I knew I wanted a family, but I didn’t really like kids. At least other people’s kids. They were sticky and loud and OH MY LANDS the millions of asinine questions. I didn’t have a natural rapport with them. If trapped in conversation with one, I would find myself asking, “So. Um. Read any good books lately?”

And then we got pregnant. I was going to be a mom. The thing I wanted the most was also the thing that terrified me to my core.

What if I wasn’t ready to become a mother? What if I was just as socially awkward with my own child? What if I tried to talk about the weather or politics? What if I couldn’t figure out what to do?

These thoughts plagued me my entire pregnancy as I read every book I could get my hands on. How to sleep train. How to breastfeed. How to be more French. How to raise kids that will become world leaders someday. I so desperately wanted to be prepared.

Then, ready or not, I went into labor. Two years ago today, Dairy Man and I woke up in a hospital room (after five blissful hours of sleep thanks to the modern miracle of an epidural), feeling woefully unprepared for what was to come.

But he was born. Anders Knox. Pink-skinned, blue-eyed, and boasting an impressive set of lungs. From the first moment he was placed on my chest I felt the heavy weight of love.

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I didn’t love him because he was a baby. I loved him because he was my baby. This love was instinctual, carnal. In those first few weeks of sleep deprivation, diaper explosions, and constant fear of doing things wrong, this love sustained me. This love kept me moving forward.

Today my sweet boy is two. He has a personality and independence. He talks constantly and is obsessed with farm equipment. He is very particular about his shoes. He isn’t afraid of cows and gives the biggest hugs.

I’m starting to realize that I’ve gone beyond loving him just because he’s my son to loving the person he is becoming.

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I feel it when he clearly articulates which stuffed animals he wants in his crib.
“Blue bunny. White bunny. No thank you, sheep.”

I feel it when he races ahead of me to say hi to the baby cows.
And when I have to keep him from climbing under the fence to pet them.

I feel it when I ask him what he wants for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.
Bread. Bread. Salmon? And bread.

I feel it when he puts an injured finger up to my lips and says “Mama, kiss it.”
Though I do draw the line somewhere. That time he sat on a toy truck and went into a downward-facing dog position so that Mama could kiss it? Sorry. Not happening, buddy.

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Today, I don’t feel any more prepared than I did two years ago. I still can’t believe the hospital let us leave with a baby when we literally had NO FREAKING IDEA WHAT WE WERE DOING. I still feel the weight of responsibility when I remember we’re literally raising a little human.

But I learned, my love grew, and that squishy baby is becoming his own little person. Sometimes he pushes my hand away. Sometimes he runs into the safety of my arms. He desperately needs me but is also learning how to navigate the world on his own.

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My love will always be unconditional (thank goodness, because I hear the high school years can be a doozy #hormones), but it’s growing into something deeper based on who he is.

He loves the dairy. He is obsessed with books. He is polite and appreciative. He has boundless energy. He knows the names of more pieces of heavy equipment than I do (what the heck is a motor grader?). He is pretty sure we should have bread salad with bread casserole and roasted bread on the side every night (and bread cake for dessert).

You guys. This kid is the absolute coolest. He makes us laugh every day. We are so grateful that God has entrusted him into our care.

I can’t wait for the next year. I can’t wait to see how Anders continues to grow more uniquely himself. I can’t wait for the twos, even if there’s a side of terrible thrown in. Because I know my heart will be right there, growing alongside him.

Happy second, little bug.