I do.

Dreams that I’ve always had but that I pushed aside for one reason or another as I planted my feet firmly on the quiet, expected, traditional paths. But we all know, dreams will be pushed but they will never leave for good.

Today, I’m over at my friend, Ilene’s blog talking about these dreams and the fierceness I feel to live them. Please, join me there!

And if you still have time after that, my post In It is still up at BlogHer!

The post I have these dreams appeared first on Raising Humans.

Relaxing and calm.

Ice cream on Friday afternoon.

Lots of time at home on Saturday morning.

The middle was lovely too.

Just the four of us. Doing our four of us thing.

I love our four of us thing.

And then, it began to unravel.

Littles took abbreviated naps… or no nap at all.

Parents had aches and pains in all of the normal baby-carrying places.

Monday morning loomed. As cloudy and grey in our minds as it turned out to be outside our windows.

I ended the weekend cranky. Irritated with the three that I go to to make up the four of us.

Collapsed on the couch in sheer mental and physical and emotional exhaustion.

Exhausted by this family life.

The exhaustion lingered as I dragged lethargic limbs out of bed this morning and fought with my eyes to keep them open.

So very tired. Still feeling raw.

I walked into the kitchen. Breakfasts to move along, routines to keep to, busy morning, as usual.

And then I stopped.

Giggling baby boy peering over the edge of his highchair to see his big sister, crouched on the floor, ready to spring up into a peekaboo.

My heart settled and led my body to do the same.

The aches and pains quieted, having found their purpose.

~~~~~

just write.

The post Monday morning appeared first on Raising Humans.

As we approach the one year mark, and as I finally get the series back into full swing, I’m going back to re-read and re-post some of the guests that got me started. There is so much wisdom and beauty and love in this series. So many stories that deserve to be read and re-read and re-read again.

My first encore is from my dear friend (and, as we’ve decided, kindred spirit) Michelle. Michelle’s post was my first Growing Together post and I remember the night I read her words for the first time. Tears and chills. And now, nearly a year later, I often think of her story. The part that sticks in my brain the most? It’s this:

“Your child is born with a personality and charms and quirks. He may be so like you in some ways, and so not in others, and knowing how to nurture what’s positive and correct what truly needs correcting—and not just what goes against your grain—might not come naturally. Sometimes the situation and its answer are black and white, and sometimes your next steps aren’t as clear without a little self-reflection.”

Correct what needs correcting and not just what goes against your grain. That captured something so clearly for me and I love that I now weave thoughts of my grain into my parenting.

Join me and read Michelle’s words. They will inspire, I promise.

~~~~~

Interested in sharing your own story of growth? Email me at tricia {@} raising-humans.com

The post Growing Together Encore: Bringing Up Baby appeared first on Raising Humans.

Oh if I could go back to Tricia of three years ago. “No, Tricia. Hang onto those spreadsheets, Tricia. We have work to do.”

These days, I make lists and I keep spreadsheets. I make plans. I organize files and pages and resources.

And I write within it all.

These days, it’s going so much better.

I’m always interested in other writers’ processes. I sometimes read Wordswimmer, a blog by Bruce Black in which he likens writing to swimming (an analogy I’ve come to love). He regularly interviews writers about their process and I always learn something new by seeing how another person goes about their craft.

where the magic happens…

My process is a work in progress. I’ve finally created a weekly cycle that starts with planning. Each week on Thursday evenings I plan the week to come – the pieces I will write, the submissions or pitches that I plan to send. I decide on topics and I line it all up. Then, I plan out the week, slotting writing and editing and polishing and researching and scheduling and sending into the days of the week.

Saturday is terrible first draft day. I wake up before my babies and settle in with a cup of coffee and the words of some of my favorites. I let their words and heart and soul guide me to the place where my words rest, waiting to be discovered. Then, as the sun rises, I force the words through the cobwebs, through my sleepy fingers and onto my screen. I push through two to three posts this way, just typing right from my heart or my brain and letting the words fall where they may.

When the baby begins to cry and the preschooler shuffles to my side with sleepy eyes and messy hair, I close the computer. For the rest of the day, I put it all away. I may think through my words as I nurse the baby or drive to ballet class. I might even eek out another half hour while the rest of my family sleeps, but mostly, I put it all away. I let the words sit and settle.

Sunday morning brings more of the same. More seeking inspiration, more terrible first drafts. More letting the words sit and settle.

Monday rolls around and the editing begins. Sometimes I am surprised by how not-so-terrible my terrible first draft was – sometimes I change very little. Other times, I print out my work and can barely read my original words when I’m done for all of the scratching out and scribbling and moving of pieces. I’ve come to embrace editing as part of my process. I’ve started to enjoy it just a little bit, feeling comfortable in the changing and rearranging. I’ve found freedom in letting go of phrases that sounded so perfect on Saturday morning but just don’t do what they need to on Tuesday night. I remember once hearing a quote about sculpting – that the final creation is in that giant block of stone, just waiting to be freed. I think of my final drafts this way too. They are there, in my mess of words and poorly contracted phrases and raw emotion, just waiting to break free into smooth, refined curves. Telling myself that the final draft, the one that will make me happy, is in there, helps me push through.

And then, as the week goes on, I publish and I send. From my desk, deep breaths and clicks intertwine to create the soundtrack to my week. Take a deep breath, here goes, godspeed brave words, and click.

It’s been a few months and this process is working for me, so far. I’m curious to see how it changes and morphs around my children’s changing schedules, my own efficiencies realized, my growing comfort with writing and editing and moving words and phrases. But for now, it works.

What is your writing process? Do you plan and organize and list? How have you grown comfortable with the various tasks of writing?

The post My writing process appeared first on Raising Humans.

I get that a lot.

“I have two kids – my daughter is three and my son is six months.”

“Oh, you’re really in it right now.”

I usually smile and nod and the conversation then moves along because, as I’m learning, once you’re out of ‘it’, you don’t really want to talk about ‘it’ anymore. You wave farewell to diapers and nursing pillows and bottles to make way for… well I don’t really know yet. School bags and homework and sports stuff, I suppose? I’ll find out soon enough.

That someday I will no longer be in ‘it’ or want to talk about ‘it’ or feel all of the feelings that ‘it’ inspires makes me sad.

Though, I get it.

Life is often rough here in ‘it.’ I don’t even really understand why I love it so much. Exhausting and overwhelming. So much time and energy expended on such little sleep. So much needing. Yes, I love to be needed but even I have my limits.

And yet, I do love it.

And I worry that I won’t love being out of it.

What do I look like as a mom of kids instead of a mommy to babies? How will I handle homework and sleepovers and… honestly, what comes after this?

The unknown of it all makes me cling to my receiving blankets.

I love carrying my babies. I love the feeling of a little body on my hips, arms clasped around my neck of grasping at my shoulder.

I love that thunderstorms wake my daughter. And that, once awake, she will only be calmed by being snuggled into my bed, next to me. Yes, it is awful to want her to wake but I know that someday, she will sleep right through the storm.

I’ve finally figured things out. I can weather the tantrums. I can fix dinner, one-handed, while carrying the baby and drinking princess tea out of little purple cups. I can handle this time. What use is all of this skill out there?

And I know I’m worrying well ahead of schedule. I’m in it. My daughter is three and my son, six months. I can see the exit out of ‘it’ but it is way out there, miles ahead. I’m in it and I have time. Maybe, most likely, by the time we get there, I’ll be ready. That’s probably the way it happens, isn’t it?

Are you in it right now? Do you love it or are you counting the days till you’re out?

The post In it. appeared first on Raising Humans.

She asked as we made our way from the frozen pizzas to the short but growing line of customers waiting to leave with their bags of groceries. I glanced up at the balloons.

“Nope.”

“Please, Mommy. Can we buy it?”

“Nope. That balloon says “Happy Mother’s Day.” Maybe you should ask Daddy to bring you back here and you can buy it for me.“

“We should buy it for us!”

“Well, you and Daddy could buy it for me.”

Her eyes grew wide, as they do when she is about to tell you something very important.

“Well, I’m a Mommy too. So we should buy it for us!”

She nurtures and loves and cares for three babydolls, a gaggle of stuffed animals, a fish, two cats, and a very lucky baby brother. Yes, I see her point. At not quite four years old, she gets it. Motherhood is love and cuddling. It’s playing and caring. It’s feeding. It’s picking up dropped toys. Responding to cries and wails and needs. It’s willingly putting another before you and loving every second of it. She gets how special it is. She gets that it is a thing to be treasured. It warms my heart that she’s figuring it all out this early.

But we still didn’t buy the balloon.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the mothers out there. The love you share makes such a difference and you deserve to be celebrated this weekend.

The post “I’m a Mommy Too” (Happy Mother’s Day) appeared first on Raising Humans.

Today, of course, is no different. I am so thrilled to feature the words of Tamara from Tamara Camera. Tamara and I have similar families – big sisters making their way through the preschool years and loving on baby brothers. Her words are always so honest and down to earth and her photos are simply stunning. I love the sweet moments she’s shared here so please, read her words and then go visit her space. And send her a bit of love, she’s running a bit ragged these days with an injured husband at home and could use some smiles!

~~~~~

There’s this inside joke, that’s not really a joke, that I’ve been using on my daughter for years.

Whenever she says or does something absolutely irresistible, or adorable, or clever, or innocent, or wise beyond her years, or anything at all that is just so her that I feel my breath catch in my throat, that’s when I say it. “Don’t ever change.” She laughs each time, and I laugh too, as she’s grown to love and expect it from me as much as I’ve grown to love and expect the awesomeness that is her awareness and connection with the world, and with me. Sometimes I can still be witty and adorable and she uses it right back on me.

“Don’t ever change, Mama.”

And of course we both do change. We grow and we change – sometimes they go hand in and hand. Sometimes they don’t. What I’m asking for is a lofty goal, but not impossible or even unlikely. I’m asking her to keep sacred the traits most entrenched in her core.

When she’s sleeping, I still see so deeply in her face the faint outlines of a baby. The bottom lip pouted ever so slightly. The pinch-worthy cheeks. A sweaty curl stuck to her forehead. They tend to get lost in the folds when she’s awake and sassy and loud and argumentative. I get flustered easily, especially while I’m tending to her baby brother who still has all of his baby-ness intact and also does irresistible things that make me constantly say, “Don’t ever change, Des.” I find myself saying it less but meaning it more when I say it to Scarlet. It’s not just a panicked grasp to hold onto my ever-growing girl, as she ever-grows away from me.

It’s because the changes she’s making are astounding. She can tell me knock-knock jokes about farts and Doctor Who. She can talk about her fears of some bees – “mean stingers” and about how much she loves the other bees who – “make honey for us.” However nonsensical. However much she believes in dinosaurs and dragons as real beings, as she makes connections betweens stories, dreams and realities, and relationships with her planet, her family and her friends, well, we find that some of our interests and passions align.

During both of my pregnancies, I never thought past the baby stage. I would say, “I’m expecting a baby.” “I can’t wait to have a baby.” “I’m going to have a baby!” And of course there rushed forth so many images of the future – all mental pictures of myself or my husband or both of us with a baby. I confess I was terrified of raising kids. And forget pre-teens and teens and adults!

I can’t pinpoint exactly when she turned from baby to toddler and toddler to preschooler, because I imagine it happened in a series of moments and days and even years, but I still felt like I had a kid before I noticed I had a kid. As if her kid-ness was sneaking up on me the way my own adulthood has and continues to do so. I have always had what I believe is seemingly more trouble than most with transitions. I nearly had panic attacks before her first birthday – for real. Her second birthday was smoother and easier for a lot of reasons, but still I felt like my chest was being squeezed by a large and invisible force. My baby! Melting away another year and another few layers of baby fat at the height of every summer. My summer baby turned summer girl turned…whatever is next.

They say it’s all gone in the blink of an eye. Babies into adults. And yet, there’s still all those full in-between days and years, stretched out like promises in front of us that we will be blessed to fulfill. She won’t get to adulthood on her own. Birds fly from secure nests.

Sometimes, often, the days are as long and hard as the years are short. Like many three-year-olds, she shrieks at me and argues with me around every bend. I can’t win no matter what I do. There are constantly new rules and new languages I must follow and learn. Or else. I throw up my arms in frustration that it’s so much harder to bond with a kid than it is a young baby, but every day she teaches me that is simply not the case. There are many benefits to all of these changes and growth and tough stuff. There’s certainly no visible awards or trophies or medals to parenting – we don’t even get a finished product. Not at three and not at 100. Our children are ever-finishing products as we work to raise, not babies, but as my fellow blogger’s website title says – we raise humans.

And they raise us as parents. I grow more accustomed to this life process every day. Growing her as a child and growing me as a parent. We both are making new connections as we navigate life both together and as apart. I used to think that her need for me was lessening by degrees, all of the time. Now I think it’s just changing with us – expanding and collapsing sometimes within one day – and that there is a power in that I will always be her mother and she will always be my child. At three. At 30. At 100. Not my baby..

..but my person.

It caught her eye at the same time it caught mine – our reflections across the room in the reflective glass of a framed Phish poster. It was a rare morning in which I woke up with her and not the baby. My husband was out on early errands and I was almost too sleepy to stand as I contemplated making her waffles or pancakes. Even though it was April, she was wearing bright orange Halloween pajamas. She asked for a hug and as I held her and swayed, we both glanced over at once to see ourselves reflected back.

“Look! It’s a kid and her mama.” She said. And so it was. And so it is. I took in our mirror images, and I marveled at the wonder that no matter how separately we grow, we will always find a way to fit together.

~~~~~

I am a professional photographer, a mama of two, a writer/blogger at Tamara Camera Blog and a nearly professional cookie taster. I’ve been known to be all four of those things at all hours of the day and night. After two cross country moves, due to my intense Bi-Coastal Disorder, I live with my husband, daughter and son in glorious western Massachusetts. Pets are soon to follow. We like it here and we aren’t going anywhere, but we dream about northern lights, moose and whales always. I also like caramel lattes and rainbows more than most things.

The post Growing Together: Don’t Ever Change appeared first on Raising Humans.

~Fun

First, let me just say that if you ever want to form a band, name it something like Smiles or Laughter or, yes, Fun. I’m not actually such a huge fan of the band but typing out, “I’m not a big fan of Fun.” just feels wrong. The uppercase just makes it worse.

Still, a fan or not, I’ve recently become obsessed with their latest song, “Carry On.” And it’s all because of that one line.

As we approach the midway point of the year, I’m looking back and reflecting on how far I’ve come. I set some pretty big goals for myself in the early hours of 2013. Goals that take work and drive and pushing far beyond the space of comfort and safety.

Goals that change my words from, “I want to be a writer.” to “I am a writer.”

I started out thinking that all I needed was that goal. Set it and forget it and watch it happen.

Of course, it has not worked out that way. At all.

And so my year has been a series of small ups and some pretty low downs. In moments of blind confidence and optimism, I’ve put myself out there, sending my words out into the world and expecting that people will latch on and take them and run with them. And sometimes, that’s happened. But more often than not, it hasn’t. And the rejections have set me back.

In other moments, ones of fear and self-doubt, I’ve stopped myself before I even got started. I string words together in my head and then convince myself that my ideas are flawed before I even open my laptop. I read the words of others, those who have built careers around calling themselves ‘writer’ and I tell myself I am not that good. I see those who have been at this same goal, “I am a writer” for nearly as long as me, making great strides and accepting new positions and seeing their words and, importantly, their by-lines, in well-read places. And I wonder why. Why have they gone so far and I am still here? Barely steps ahead of where I was this time last year. Or the year before that. How did they get there and why can’t I go too?

It’s all there in that one line.

The sound of my feet upon the ground. The sound of my feet is faint, a mere pitter patter of tip toes across a carpet. Sometimes, there is no sound at all.

I’ve always done well with externally placed deadlines. Tell me what to do by when and you can count on me. Deadlines that I have to place on myself? Those are squishy. Nobody will be let down if I don’t meet that one. Or so I’d tell myself.

Now I’m realizing that yes, someone will be let down. Me. I will be let down if I don’t meet that deadline. My dreams will be let down. My family, who is supporting me and giving me all the motivation in the world, will be let down.

And so I’m starting this second half of the year with a renewed focus. At the end of the six months ahead, I want to look back and hear my feet upon the ground. I hope and I pray that there are results there too but, results aside, I want the evidence that I tried. Let the queries and pitches and words fly from my fingers in swarms. Let the rejection letters pile up if they must because I know it takes some of those to get to the moments of smiles and celebration.

“We are shining stars. We are invincible. We are who we are.” ~Fun

Because nothing motivates like having someone (or several someones) to report to, I will begin to report my progress here. I want you, my friends who come here and read my words and support me in the most amazing ways, to keep me accountable. I need that.

I can feel the tides shifting. I’m ready now.

“No one’s ever gonna stop us now.” ~ Fun

After watching this video, I may be changing my opinion about the band. They are Fun.

~~~~~

I’m collecting a fair amount of helpful resource as I carry on right now. For my writer friends out there (and, selfishly, for my own quick reference) I’ve created a page to collect everything I’m finding helpful. If you are a writer, or don’t think you are yet but want to be, check this out and check back often as I keep it updated. And if you have a resource that you’re willing to share, send it along and I’ll add it up there.

~~~~~
linking up with Shell

The post Carry on appeared first on Raising Humans.

There is an ad campaign out and about right now that aims to say to women, “You are more beautiful than you think.”

This seemingly simple and positive message is creating quite a bit of buzz. Some people love the campaign, some people hate it. Some poke fun at it and many criticize it for not going far enough.

As a woman who has struggled greatly with issues of self esteem, self confidence, and self love, the whole controversy interests me. I don’t yet know where I stand on it but it is almost cathartic for me to think through and define my position.

As your mother, however, the campaign and the surrounding controversy… well it scares me. It reminds me of how desperately important it is that I pay particular attention to how I talk with you, around you, and about you. How incredibly important it is that I pay attention to what I show you and how I frame things for you. How my role now is to guide you and protect you, but, mostly, to arm you so that you may walk down a path different than the one I traveled.

I want you to watch this ad someday and find yourself shaking your head and scoffing,“Yeah, I know I’m beautiful. This ad is silly.” And I want you to know what makes you beautiful. I want you to be able to describe it.

I want you to know that you are crazy smart and witty and and there is a brilliance to how you learn and know and remember.

But you are not just ‘the smart girl’ with the beautiful brain.

You are exceedingly caring and kind in a way that is mature far beyond your years and there is the most genuine quality about how you nurture and love that attracts people to you.

But you are not just ‘the sweet girl’ with the beautiful heart.

You have a presence that is comforting and calming, while energizing at the same time and your spirit spreads smiles like wildfire.

But you are not just ‘the spiritual girl’ with the beautiful soul.

You have thick, dark, sleek hair and big, deep, brown eyes that pop and sparkle and, already, people tell you that you are beautiful.

But you are not just ‘the pretty girl’ with the beautiful features.

You are smart and kind and spiritual and beautiful.

These words are your armor against the images and insults and negativity that is out there in the world. Believe these words. They are true.

They are true of you. And, as your mother, I am beginning to accept that they are true of me too.

All my love,
Mommy

The post Your real beauty appeared first on Raising Humans.

It went on and on about how, in the beginning, everyone asks how it’s going and what’s it like now, being a mom of two. But who really knows what something is like after doing it for only a week or two or even three. And then it went on and on about how being a mom of two is hard and exhausting and plagued with guilt before, in typical me fashion, turning it all around to the positive.

And it’s true. Being a mom of two is hard. And it is exhausting. And I feel guiltier about the time that I don’t spend with my children now than I ever did before.

And maybe, someday, I’ll write the post. With a glass of wine in hand, at the end of a long day that will cap a longer week, the ‘it’s-so-hard’ post will flow. It does need to be written and I’ll be powerless to stop it.

But today, I’m not there.

Today, I balanced my baby on my hip as I guided my girl into school and I soaked up the oohs and ahhs and the “oh my goodness he is so cute!” and “he looks like your girl!” And I loved every minute.

Today I walked through the grocery store, pushing an infant in a stroller while a little girl in a fairy princess shirt skipped along next to me and I felt myself smiling a big goofy smile but I couldn’t stop it. It just felt so perfect.

Today I sat my children next to each other on the couch, trying to take our monthly photo so that someday, I’ll look back and watch them grow over and over and over and I caught the most precious moments between big sister and little brother.

And she was his strength as we took his bandaids off, the ones that covered the place where the 6 month injections went in today. And she moved her game of school clear across the room to involve him in her imagination. And when he was barely hanging on, struggling to stay awake as bedtime neared, it was her face that elicited his brilliant smile.

Being a mom of two is hard. Somedays it is so very hard.

But oh man is it simply too beautiful for words.

~~~~~

Pour your heart out.

The post Mom of two – the good appeared first on Raising Humans.