Parenting

Honking at Me?

Applying sunscreen to a two-year old is now a two person job. This morning, I held the wriggling creature, as her dad tried to make her laugh. One hand on her waist, the other trying to hold hair back from her neck, I counted to five as we swiped the deodorant-like stick across her face. In our juggling she paused, “Earrings Mama!”

“Where?” I asked.
“Right there, on the counter.”
“If we get this sunscreen on your face, you can pick a pair.”

She agreed and the wiggling subsided. As she calmed, her focus turned toward selecting the perfect pair of stick-ons, she started humming to herself.

“Which ones do you want Mama?” she asked.
“You pick first.” I said, sucking my teeth as I looked at the clock.

“No, you.”

She insisted. And I succumbed, being given a pair of pink daisies with blue petals.

I remember once seeing a meme that said if a toddler gives you something, you must accept it. They have so little tangible things and most are connected right to their hearts.

Few people saw me out in the world today. I’m not sure if the clerk at the post office noticed my ears. But I knew that little gift was there.

On my walk back to my office, my head full of thoughts of what-ifs and anger about the current state of certain things, I noticed I was getting honked at.

“What the hell?” I thought, looking down the street.

But no, the looming big trash truck wasn’t honking at me.

They were tooting the horn for the gaggle of school children flocking to the fence at recess.

As the blue truck moved towards me at the crosswalk, I watched grown men in green vests delight small children in their green Catholic school clothes.

Tears came to my eyes.

Yes, the world is hurting, but the trash men are honking. The children are laughing. And giving gifts.

We must slow down to notice them. What’s getting in the way of your ability to receive?

I’m still wearing the earrings tonight. Those suckers are surprisingly sticky. If they make it through the night, I’ll be sure to remind my daughter just how grateful for them I am.

It’s Glittering

I’ve been working with an editor to turn this blog into a book. It’s a humbling experience, having a trusted partner cut ten years of musings into under 200 pages. As Stephen King says, “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

I fear that after ten years, what I appreciate may have become repetitive. Yes, my attention has been on gleaning and refining rather than generating new ideas, but I know in the cuts, I’ve held back here. I don’t want to bore you. Perhaps I’ve drawn attention to similar noticing many times before.

This morning, standing in the garage in negative temperatures, I counted to five in my head, trying to get my toddler into her carseat. The exercise tests my patience and my invites profound mindfulness. As I waited for her to pull her growing body up into her seat, on her own of course, I turned to wait.

Just beyond the driveway, I watched ice crystals glimmer in the sun and the frigid breeze.

“Look baby!” I exclaimed. “It’s glittering outside.”

And with that invitation to redirect attention, she sat her tiny butt in the seat in awe.

It’s glittering outside.

A good developmental editor can review thousands of words and find themes, building story arcs in the bulk of material. She is helping me find the glitter.

I’m not one to usually run out of words, but I am changing direction here. Posts will slow as I work to turn this collection into something with a cover. I hope you’ll continue to read when a post does emerge.

With ten years of practice, the exercise in looking for beautiful things has become a part of me. I focus on the connections in conversations happening next to me at coffee shops. The excited hellos, an older gentleman leaning down to pick up a glove my kid dropped on the sidewalk, the warmth found in a cup of tea.

In these divided times, calls to action seem loud and demand quick and constant attention. I’ve committed, though, to the appreciation for the mini moments that bring us hope in our moments of frustration, disconnect, and grief. Small is mighty. Repetition can turn to ritual.

Today, the branches were blowing, offering light in the cold. Tomorrow, there will be something different.

Maybe I’ll capture it here, but really, I hope all of this work helps you remember, to capture these beautiful things in your own hearts. Our world needs more calm and compassionate seekers.

Stay tuned, a book is coming, and in the waiting remember, we need the beautiful things. More than ever.

Find your darlings. Find your darlings. Delight in something beautiful.

PS – If you feel compelled to help finance the project of turning the blog into a book, I’ll happily accept support. I’ll also be building a book launch team later this year. Send me an email at katie at katiehuey.com and I’ll send you the info.

Confirming the Milk Order

History was made this week. In the same ten minutes I absorbed the results, I asked my husband to confirm the milk order.

John Lennon said it wisely, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

Or when you’re tackling to-do lists while watching the possibilities for humans literally shift in one direction or another.

Regardless of what you were hoping for this week, I hope you have found chances to be kind to one another. I hope beauty surrounded you. I hope comfort abounds.

It’s hard to write in times like these. Cautious fingertips pause paralyzed, intending not to offend. I hope we can agree to open our hearts to the good things in front of us.

In a coaching session with a friend today, I recalled a mantra I learned from my compassion colleagues. Strong back. Soft front.

May we stand true in our strength, letting our values guide our interactions and our hopes. And may we be open to the very magic that happens when we truly see one another. Fears, scars, hopes, wonderings. May we crack open, just a little bit, in the direction we want to move, with softness.

Because the milk orders beckon. And, so too, does the future we are writing for our children.

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light“. – Albus Dumbledore

Don’t Know What You’re Going to Get

Surprise.

I’m back in therapy.

This choice isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s a beautiful use of time, unpacking the stories and truths that make me who I am. When I filled out the intake form, again, the counselor asked how much my grief was present. I wrote, “Currently, grief is managed well.”

Surprise.

That was wrong. As I sit and examine what’s coming next, my therapist gently reminds me, perhaps, grief too, has something to do with the unsettledness I feel as I wonder what the rest of the year will hold.

“Shit,” I said through tears. “Of course.”

So yes, grief and unexpected loss still sit next to me as I imagine a life of what could be’s. I was on a call today with wonderful women doing brave and courageous things. And most of them were at this point as a result of a lay-off. Luckily, that’s not my story. But layoffs have been a part of our family’s. And a friend lost a baby last week, and still another said good-bye to a brother from whom she is estranged.

We don’t know what we’re going to get handed to us.

At my best, when talking to my therapist, I’m reminded that we have a say in what we want to create. My energy resonates and vibrates when we believe beautiful things are possible. I fill with a glow emanating out through my fingertips when I can not squelch my fears, but turn to them and point, saying “Nope, you don’t get to drive. Instead you can sit right behind me.”

So, no, I don’t know what I’m going to get. But fear doesn’t get to lead.

I am working on choosing.

Choosing joy in the evenings as my daughter insists on eating all of the cherry tomatoes before we get in to the house before bath time. Choosing to invest time in continued healing, pattern eruption, Choosing great and grand appreciation for what is. We’re healthy. We have each other. Our toes can sink into cool green grass at the edge of the patio.

Choosing to savor, if just for a moment, in the changing light of the early Autumn days. We leave the fan on at night, and the cool air in the mornings kisses my little family’s cheeks as the alarm blares us to life again each morning.

It has been a season of wondering this summer, pausing to ask what comes next. We’re working on big goals, investing in dreams, and tucking ourselves into bed at a speed that seems much too fast.

September. Already. Well, almost. Don’t fast-forward too far ahead. We don’t know what we’re going to get.

Surprise.

Now. Now. Now.

I’m hoping to choose more ease, more celebration, and more amazement as the year brings us to hibernation. The nights of summer sun are setting.

Will you join me?

We don’t know what we’re going to get. Perhaps that can be a beautiful thing.

Four Plastic Eyes

In recent conversations with friends and colleagues, I sense a foreboding wave of uncertainty rippling out amongst us. I went to lunch with a friend, and over fifteen dollar sub sandwiches (hello inflation), we talked about our hopes and our fears in this season of life. “It feels like people are just holding their breath” she said.

I nodded deeply. Yes, and in this unsustainable hold where elections loom, I don’t want to restrict my movement so much that I pass out.

Sure, reminding ourselves to take a breath is self-care 101. I’m trying to start my mornings with breath, reassurance that this is the day the Lord I has made. I can rejoice and be glad in it.

Another kind friend reminded me, too, that we have a choice in what stories we want to stand next to and welcome with us as we dress. Shame, no thanks. Foreboding, take a splat next to my dirty socks in the closet. Instead, may we shroud ourselves in love. Allow the silk of compassion to brush over our heads like cashmere. Or, since it’s hot in July, maybe we can just tuck little kerchiefs of kindness into the pockets of our shorts.

My daughter has taken to wearing her Elmo slippers most evenings. A stall tactic, she places the red balls of fluff with plastic eyeballs onto her feet with care while we do the bedtime routine. She insists I leave them on as she begins to self-soothe her way into another evening of rest. When she wakes early, I pad across the hall to retrieve here, allowing her an hour of comfort in our bed before we begin another day.

This morning, after the alarm went off a few times too many, I lay with my eyes glued to the ceiling. I took a breath. And in my exhale, turned to see four big, plastic eyes staring up at me from under the sheets. Joy, tucked into a place of safety and rest. Little inhales. Little exhales. A reminder that we get to choose what we put on as we start our day. Comfort, care, connection. Less foreboding.

These are the things that are going to sustain us when, as always, the world seems to be falling just a little bit apart. I want to put on joy and leave the rest with the dirty socks. Elmo, and the patience he requires, is reminding me to do just that. A beautiful thing.

Twirling

We made it through another one. Father’s Day mixed with emotions – gratitude, remembering, looking forward, hating for just a moment, Hallmark. As we sat around a shared table for dinner, I thought to myself, my husband is the only adult at this table who hasn’t lost a father. Odd to be in similar company of people my parent’s age. Odder still that where I put the apostrophe matters.

And as with most holidays, I twirled between wanting to be present and wanting to turn towards the ache of missing someone so profound without forgetting those still here with me. How do I celebrate life and mourn the dead?

I tried.

“Now I enter the “safe zone”, I spat, ruminating to myself sarcastically. While no month is “safe” from grief, there’s an ease that comes with the end of June as I look out towards the rest of summer. From now until October, the gremlin seems to behave herself.

Most evenings these days we turn on music after dinner, and if I’m lucky, my toddler will let me pick her up to give her a squeeze. We spin and hold hands, dancing in the kitchen. “More Mama, more” she’ll often request. And in the twirling, memories are made.

There’s a new sweetness to this summer. Her sticky neck and red cheeks from the days heating up. She insists on putting on sandals by herself, requiring deep levels of patience and persistence from both of us. She finds exuberant joy in learning how to control a hose. Popsicles are messy work. You forget how much you take for granted already knowing when you’ve got a little creature soaking in so very much.

And in this early-summer space I want to remember the evening spins, as I watch the roller coaster slow. The trolley care has been put into neutral, shifting down the grief hill we’ve been climbing for quite some time.

I want to be twirling in colors and sniffing the deep scent of tomato leaves off my hands, as I watch a little human grow. Maybe I can be more kind to myself, allowing what comes next to appear.

More Mama, More. Hold on tight.

We go pretty fast. But it’s in the early evening light, as the sun sets and my patience gets tested, where beauty is found. Twirl with me.

Just a Little Bit Scared

Today, my dad would have been 67.

As I typed that, I sat and inhaled. My brain can’t fathom 67. He died at 58. That’s a big gap.

I stared at the sentence, letting the weight of it seep into the virtual page. 67.

I have a hard time imagining what he’d look like today. In the gap, my appearance has changed. I’m softer in some places, and gray pieces of hair grow in where postpartum stole clumps from my scalp. My mother’s hands are changing, while his remain stuck in old photographs. We have a child who didn’t exist when he did. He didn’t get the chance to age.

Instead, our memories of him are aging. We went to breakfast this morning to celebrate his birthday. In the corner case sat mugs of yesteryear – with over ten different styles taking the restaurant and its branding back in time. As we honor his birth, I noticed those mugs and thought there are versions of ourselves that sit and watch, and those that get to keep moving forward.

I don’t think of Dad stuck in the past – he’s present with us in different forms. But sometimes I wonder, how would he have aged? And how have I? What does the new mug say to the old? How much have the windows witnessed as diners came and went, throughout decades of life.

I’m working with a coach lately to get more clarity on what I want to bring into my life next. I’ve got a vision and hopes and dreams. In our call today I told her that where I was sitting, in my own office at the foot of the stairs, is a dream come true. Five years ago I had a vision, and a hope for such a place, but no sure path to get there. Yet, here I sit, talking on Zoom or typing these blogs, in the manifestation of a dream come true. The reminder was refreshing. I know what I want, but I’m not quite sure how to get there next.

There’s a scene in the newest Little Women movie, where Jo is telling Marmi just how angry she is at the state of being a girl. Marmi responds, “I am angry nearly every day of my life.”

Today, when the coach asked me, “What does scared Katie need to hear from brave Katie?” I thought of Jo. I, too, have been a little bit scared, most days of my life. And most days, I don’t let the scared stop me.

I held my daughter on my lap as we ate hash browns in a booth this morning. Her hair brushed my chin as we shared a cinnamon roll. The choice to bring her into the world scared me deeply. Yet, if I’m lucky, perhaps we’ll keep bringing her to the same place where my dad liked to sit at the counter and sip coffee. My hands will change. She will grow. And the story will continue to change.

My hope is that I can be just a little bit scared. And go ahead, and do it anyway. What a beautiful thing.

If you’re interested in following along with what I’m hoping to create next, visit my website and sign up for e-updates. I look forward to growing and aging with you. Scared or not, here I come.

Slowed

I stood in the famous valley, my toes coated with sand, as I watched my daughter and her small friend learn how to wade into winter run off just barely melted. As the sun kissed my shoulders, and my back rounded forward to support her tiny hands, I thought to myself, these are the moments I need to be present for.

We traveled this weekend, to Yosemite Valley, and visited friends who have walked with me for over fifteen years. Now, their daughter, too, will walk with mine, as we figure out how to be together as small families. Our days started early with cups brimming full of dark coffee, avocado smeared on the floor and on faces, and we fell into a rhythm of watching our small people while passing cutting boards and tortillas to nourish us. Nap time was a must, and in the afternoon siestas, I snuggled with my daughter while also allowing myself time to rest.

I didn’t realize Ansel Adams spent much of his time at Yosemite, and while I strolled at the foot of waterfalls, I let the mist kiss my pale ankles, again wondering how different things look as artists if we slow to see them. Toddlers have a way of speeding us up, and slowing us down. While we wanted to “hike”, instead I held hands and helped climb logs and jump off rocks that seemed small to me, but surely were mountains to our little girls.

They say Americans are bad at taking vacation. We know, even with allotted PTO, we don’t step away from our work. While we were only gone for a few days, I could feel my brain slowing as my feet sunk into mountain meadows. I woke and saw flowers on trees and I took cuttings from lilacs, bringing the outdoors in. In the process, I turned down the volume, and allowed my to-do list to shrink. I let others drive me around for four days, friends planned meals, and laundry got mysteriously completed as we threw our dirties in with their loads. To be in shared space, being nurtured, and nurturing is a beautiful thing. We all were in bed by nine. In this allowing, I welcomed presence.

Now, please hold my hand as I climb back in the seat, responding to emails, planning to-do lists, tackling mountains of laundry. Presence is what matters here, not the rushing. I hope I’m not ramping up too quickly.

Shifting sizes, watching us all grow, perspective, slowing, angles, flowing water, wild flowers. The gifts of this weekend allowed me to slow. And those are beautiful things.

In My Own Little Home

I recently had a coach ask me the question, “Seven years from now, how will you know the choices you made reflect the social change you want to be a part of?”

You can’t answer a question like that in one sitting. There are so many layers to my answers as I think about the next seven years. In seven years I’ll have a third grader. Hopefully there will be a president with a name we have only barely heard of today. Hopefully, we’ll have better care for children and the cost of groceries will go down. It is so easy for me to spin into possibilities of what might be that I miss what is, right now.

What I liked about the question, as mind-blowing as it was, is the reminder that the choices we make today also matter in the large scope of social change. As I spend my Friday afternoons with my daughter, I’m choosing to honor caregiving in a different way. I highlight the myth of work-life balance and sit in the truth that our choices reflect how we want to be in the world. I type. Baby naps. I feel guilty for being away from the office.

A follow up question the coach asked was, “What will you gain by making this sacrifice?” At first, I was angry. I don’t want to have to sacrifice. I want to “have it all” or at least be proud of what I’m giving up, which I think was the intention behind her question. After further reflection I’ve come to my answer – I’m gaining the freedom to live into the social change I want to see.

I want my choices to build spaces where mothers are welcomed and given space to nurture their children and also be valued as employees. Spaces where rest is valued and treasured as much as outcomes and outputs. Spaces where grief and loss and uncomfortable, hard realities are named and held with compassion. Spaces where we hold one another with tenderness and then get back up again, holding hands, to face whatever comes next.

I’ve spent a lot of this week angry at the system – the motherhood tax, the war overseas, the scary political situation that still exists here in the idealized version of America. I get frustrated at a lack of empathy or care for one another. And my anger has told me that, again, it is in our choices where we get to make change.

So, for those of you wondering how to make sense of what’s unfolding for you, I hope you remember you have power in what you say yes to. And power in what you say no to. And power in holding dear the change you are trying to make in your own little world, on your own little street, in your own little home.

And those choices are beautiful things.

Mama Loves You

Last night I put an overtired toddler to bed. We asked too much of her – dinner was late, there was a tich too much t.v. while we cooked said dinner. I insisted on a bath. The offer of picking out a book pushed her over the threshold, and her tears started to flow. I’m learning to respond with more kindness when these moments happen, rather than pushing through, and as we closed the books, and turned out the lights, baby continued to cry.

Luckily, I wasn’t pushed past my limit just yet and I was prepared to sit with the tears for as long as it took. However, her distress is also distressing, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I started rubbing her back and singing a tune, listing out all of the people that I know to love her.

Mama loves you and Daddy loves you.
Pop Pop loves you and Gigi too.
Nahna loves you and Sam loves you.
Gaga loves you and M&M too.

Over and over I sang the made up rhymes until eventually, baby began to calm down. Her breathing slowed, eyes drooped and she fell asleep, awash with words of love.

I’ve been having so many conversations with hurting people lately. We’re tired, scared, nervous for another tumultuous election year. Layoffs are happening. The need for collective exhales seems to persist. And in those moments of distress, I’m realizing I’m gifted at being grounded, unafraid to sit in the dark. However, in order to do so well, I believe we need to be awash in words of love.

In a recent conversation with a wise friend, he encouraged me again with the invitation to stop and remember how incredible it is just to be alive. To sit in a warm coffee shop, with gloves on my cold fingers, and have intelligent, heart-warming conversation is a miracle in times like this. We woke up today. The cars started. The coffee brewed. How many things had to go right just to get us to this point, wherever you are now, reading these words.

Yes, there are a million stimuli, and the desire to melt down like an over-tired toddler is an active one. At times, we may need to let the tears flow. And when they do, for whatever reason, may you start to make your own version of the song.

You may not know Nahna or Gaga, but I’m sending love to you. Be awash in words of love. A beautiful thing.