The Garden of Weedin'

In my grandpa's backyard, beyond two pear trees where a garage should have stood, was a garden. The Garden of Weedin' to be more specific. I remember him chuckling at the small black sign with all capital white letters. I also remember laughing along, even though I didn't get the pun at the time, because I desperately wanted to be in on the joke. The garden was massive, row after row of neatly organized plants and flowers. And not a weed in sight. 

Rhubarb, pears, and dandelions were picked and turned into strawberry-rhubarb pies, dried pears, and dandelion wine. I remember walking through the garden, plants towering over my three foot frame, mesmerized. At that time, I felt as though I could get lost wandering through each section.

In actuality, the garden was the size of a very large two-car garage--the one that my grandpa had built when he realized his gardening and weeding days were winding down.

When we bought our home five years ago, the backyard had a garden. During our first summer we grew more tomatoes than we knew what to do with (especially since only one person in our house actually likes them...and it's not me).  We patted ourselves on the back for the successful season, and vowed to make next year's garden bigger and better. And...that's when kids came along. For the next four summers the garden took the back burner. Sure, we planted the obligatory tomatoes, even attempting to grow seeds indoors one winter. But life got in the way. Daily watering, weeding, and general tending was not a priority, so the deer that roam through our backyard were treated to a vegetable buffet several summers in a row.

Earlier this spring, over casual dinner conversation, Colin, my four-year-old, declared that this would be the summer to get that garden going again. He started rattling off the various outdoor chores we'd each be responsible for: he would be in charge of the garden, and most importantly, the hose, which undoubtedly will be turned from the garden and aimed at his little brother on more than one occasion this summer; Jack will need to mow the lawn, which certainly seems like a logical chore for a two-year-old; and me? My job, he said, will be to bring them both juice boxes and popsicles. He concluded that we'd be a team, and the backyard would look beautiful. How could I argue with that arrangement?

So over a very warm Memorial Day weekend we got to work: weeding, digging, and mulching our way through four years of neglect. What I thought would be a quick couple of hours turned into a full day's project--alright, it took two days. We planted tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries, beans, peas, basil, parsley, and peas, along with some very high netting to keep the deer from getting anywhere near OUR vegetable buffet.

I know this garden will be a huge undertaking. I have a black thumb, and am  notorious for planting shade plants in the full sun and vice versa...but maybe this year, this garden of weedin' will be different. 

While I'm not sure the corn will be "knee high by the 4th of July," I'm determined to make this garden a success--to honor my grandpa, to get my boys to eat more vegetables, and most importantly, to finish something I start, black thumb and all. 

-Laura

Five Sentences

A few weeks ago Colin turned four. Four! Four? Not possible.

His teacher sent home a paper the week before his birthday asking for me to provide five pictures of Colin (one for each year of his life) along with one sentence that described an event that occurred during that year.

Five pictures! Five sentences? Not possible.

I take hundreds--make that thousands--of pictures of my boys on a monthly basis. I Instagram our life...daily...with hashtags. I write blog posts on huge milestones (like when my youngest learned to walk) as well as the minute details of life (like when my oldest discovered his pockets). As a writer and avid photographer, minimalism isn't my forte; documentation is. I could write a novel, a trilogy, a miniseries on Colin, accompanied by photos from close to every day of his life. This is not an exaggeration. You take your kids for a walk around the block? I do, too, but I bring my camera, take 100 photos, and write an essay relating stopping to look at bugs and being in the moment.

I joked with his teacher, telling her that I could put together a quick slide show (set to music) instead. She responded that five photos would be adequate. Humph. It took me days to comb through my painstakingly organized photo collection, year by year, month by month, to select only five photos. It took so long to make my final choices that I had to settle and get the pictures printed at Walgreens in lieu of my normal professional quality photo lab. So even though I had the perfect pictures, the color, tone, paper quality, and cropping was sub-par. Humph.

Next I started filling in the worksheet. I kept it simple, as the directions specifically stated in two separate places.

Birth: Colin was born on April 1. April Fools Day!

1 Year Old: Colin took his first airplane ride to Florida when he was one.

I stared at the page, over and over again. How could I possibly jump between birth and flying on an airplane?

So much happened between those two simple sentences.

Life changed. Life changed in ways I can tangibly put to words, and it changed in ways I will never be able to articulate on paper. My priorities shifted. I became calmer, more loving, more attentive, focused, and protective. I lived through sleepless nights, milestones, and the joys, pride, confusion, frustration, and excitement of that first year. I quickly learned that I, in fact, knew nothing. Four years later, I still don't. I leaned on those around me, gathering their wisdom. I stayed humble. Every day was a new challenge, opportunity, and adventure, and if I've learned anything in these last four years, it's that every day will include all of the above. 

In that first year, I learned to trust myself, my instincts. Although filled with fears (rational and more commonly irrational), I gained a new confidence. And most importantly, we survived. 

No.We thrived.

He is my greatest adventure, and I'll continue to marvel in his development, his vocabulary, and the little person he's becoming. I look forward to the big events of the next four years, and every single moment in between. 

So yes. There is so much that happened between those two simple sentences.  So much in fact that even a quick slide show (set to music) probably wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface.

-Laura
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Actually, I'm Not Fine--My Messy Beautiful

This essay and the Honest Mom Project are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

I don’t like to complain.

And as I re-read that, it may be too bold of a statement. 

Let me clarify. I don’t like to complain about the important things in life. I certainly do my fair share of complaining. Last week it was about the never-ending Cleveland winter, and just this morning, I was lamenting with a co-worker over the price hike in monogramming at Pottery Barn Kids (which is highway robbery if you ask me, although the additional $1.50 won’t deter me from personalizing everything I purchase there…but I digress). 

But the important things, I keep quiet. Or to my most inner-circle. 

Lately? I get a lot of, “How are you doing with your husband working in North Carolina?” It's usually followed by an overly exaggerated grimace.

And my response is the same every time. In an upbeat voice I say, “I’m managing! We look forward to Fridays in our house!”

And it’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. 

I am managing. And I do look forward to Fridays. But being a Monday-to-Friday single mom is challenging, more than I ever imagined. I’m outnumbered. I’m exhausted. I don’t get a break. I don’t get to breathe. I yell too much. We watch too much TV. We don’t read enough books. I microwave dinner. Or order pizza. I don’t give the boys baths every single night. I count down the hours, minutes, and sometimes seconds until bedtime. And when my bedtime finally arrives, I can’t sleep. My mind is racing with tomorrow’s to do lists and I lay awake for hours. I’m lonely.

But I don’t want to burden YOU with that. I don’t want you to think I’m struggling, that I can’t handle this. I’m not trying to create the illusion that I’m a perfect mom, or that I can handle this effortlessly. Because I’m not. And I can’t. 

I just don’t want to rehash my daily grind in casual conversation. I don’t want to talk about how lonely I am.  I just want to talk to you, about the weather, and your garden, and how much candy your kids are going to consume on Easter Sunday, and do you have a good deviled egg recipe? 

And I don't want to feel lonely.

As hard as my Monday thru Friday is, it’s easier than being on the other side. Because I know the other side. I was the one that used to travel. Before I left my corporate job for a job that truly promotes a work/life balance, I spent the better part of 10 years as a road warrior. I'd travel for weeks at a time, across the world. I saw the sights of Vietnam, yet I missed my son crawl for the first time. The night my son spent in the hospital, I was in China with a Blackberry that didn’t work. And every picture my husband sent me while on a trip to Singapore and Malaysia, I cried.  Because I was missing out. On life. On the big moments, and the very little moments. And every moment in between.

I know that’s how my husband feels. I think that kind of heartache is worse than any hectic day as a single parent. Hands down. 

So on my toughest days--the days I’m exhausted, discouraged, defeated, and alone--I look around at all that I have, embrace the support that so many have offered me, and escape in the conversations I'll have with you about those crazy cute and overpriced Pottery Barn beach towels. 

And there's always comfort in the fact that Friday is never more than six days away. 

-Laura

We're giving away a free copy of Glennon's book, Carry On, Warrior. To enter to win, share this blog on your social media pages and tag @thehonestmomproject. 

The Light-Up Shoes Lesson

I was certain that my boys would never like Superheroes. They wouldn't wear Superman t-shirts, or Spider-Man rain boots, or Batman Halloween costumes while shopping at Target...in July. I also said they wouldn't watch TV, or eat hot dogs, and most importantly, they'd never own those ridiculous shoes that light up when you walk.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, and much to my dismay, wrong. 

Superheroes? To say the boys are obsessed is an understatement. You name it, we've got a costume, mask, action figure, sticker, fruit snack, puzzle, vitamin, sleeping bag, or underpants with one on it. Last week, Jack got in trouble at school for pushing his friends. When we talked about it in the car on the way home, he looked at me, in complete sincerity, and said, "But I'm Hulk." Sigh.

TV? My three year old can operate Netflix with more efficiency than I can. I think our bookshelf is getting a little dusty because of the lure of Phineas & Ferb, Scooby Doo, and Super Why.

Hot dogs?  We might as well own stock in Hebrew National. Grilled, boiled, microwaved, or on a stick...always painstakingly cut into tiny bite-size pieces.

Which brings me to light up shoes. Up until last Thursday I had avoided them like the plague. In fact, I avoided shoes stores in general. Giving them the option to choose their own shoes? A complete recipe for disaster. Instead, I guessed their shoe size and ordered from Amazon. Cheaper, no possibility for public shoe store meltdowns, and I was in complete control of brand and style. Plus, I loathe shopping at the mall. 

Shortly after Christmas (and by shortly, I mean December 26th) Colin started talking about his birthday (which is on April 1st). He's constantly revising his wish list, with the exception of one thing: light up shoes. Apparently everyone who is anyone in the Sapphire room at school has them. And I suppose I should count my lucky stars that he didn't ask for light up cowboy boots like one of the kids in his class.

Seriously, they actually make those. OMG.  

As he was jabbering away about the shoes I had a flashback to my childhood--remember Keds? I wanted a pair so badly, and everyone who was anyone had them. But instead my mom bought me the generic version, with a little green rubber emblem on the back. I was mortified. 

So, with the newly surfaced memory that I had repressed from my youth, and the fact that Colin's toes were smashed into his size and a half too small shoes, I caved. After careful research on the Stride Rite website, I found a pair of light up shoes that weren't completely hideous, and we trekked to the mall. When we got there, I remembered why I only shop online. A few deep breaths, a squirt or two of hand sanitizer, and we continued on our journey to the mecca of light up shoes.

As we entered the store, Colin and Jack's eyes lit up, just like the overpriced shoes we were about to purchase. I guided them over to the orange shoes I had carefully selected, and by the grace of God, they loved them. So much so that Colin started squeezing his 11.5 foot into the much smaller display shoe in excitement, declaring that they fit!   

Over $100 later we left the store with two very satisfied customers, and four very bright orange light up shoes. I watched the boys happily stomp back to the car admiring their new shoes, giggling and shrieking in pure delight the entire time.

The lesson here?  Maybe the running shoes I've been buying for the last few years that don't light up are like the generic Keds I wore as a child. I needed to get over myself. In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter if they have light up shoes? They make them happy. Colin even took his shoes to bed with him the first night to use as a "flashlight." They get ready in the morning easier and faster. And to me, that is priceless.

Our preconceived notion of what our children will do, like, and be is often very different from reality. Trust me, I know. And it's okay. In fact, I'm the one at Target pushing the cart with the child dressed up as a Superhero (in March).

Luckily summer is around the corner, which means one thing: Croc season.

They don't make light up Crocs do they?!?

-Laura 

The Best Day of my Life

Last week I became a single mom. Not full time, but part time--Monday thru Friday to be specific. And it's hard. Really hard. Before this was my reality, I saw it as a challenge--something to conquer, to exceed expectations. Two weeks in, I feel like a complete failure. I'm stressed out, tired, and one night last week both boys were up crying in the middle of the night, and I had no idea what to do to get them both back to sleep, so I started crying, too.

I'm outnumbered at dinner time, bath time, bedtime, and every time in between. My hope is that as the weeks and months go on that this gets easier. That we can fall into a routine, find  a rhythm, effortlessly cruise through our five days, party of three. But right now, it looks bleak, and May 2015 (when the casino my husband is engineering in North Carolina is slated to open) feels like a lifetime away. I have a serious case of cabin fever induced by the second Polar Vortex of the winter, and it looks like I'll never cook a dinner anyone actually eats, or successfully get everyone to sleep at night...in their own beds. I don't think I'll be able to keep the house clean, or keep my sanity. But what choice do I have? I move forward.

Last night, Jack pushed a kitchen chair over to the counter (most likely to hunt for candy canes, or M&M's or anything with sugar). The small radio mounted under one of the cabinets caught his eye, and he did what every single 2 year old in America would do... started wildly pressing buttons.

First it was static.

Then really loud static.

Then...barely audible, we heard:

I had a dream so big and loud
I jumped so high I touched the clouds
Wo-o-o-o-o-oh

I reached for the dial and turned it up. A squeal of excitement followed.

Finally, the static subsided, and:

Oo-o-o-o-oo
This is gonna be the best day of my li-ife
My li-i-i-i-i-ife
Oo-o-o-o-oo
This is gonna be the best day of my li-ife
My li-i-i-i-i-ife

And we danced.

Right there in the middle of the kitchen.

The three of us.

Waving, flailing our arms. Bouncing up and down.

I yelled lyrics at the top of my lungs, the boys chimed in with "Oo-o-o-o-oo"

Jack busted out his signature move, "the sprinkler"

Everything is looking up, everybody up now
This is gonna be the best day of my li-ife
My li-i-i-i-i-ife

We held hands and circled the room, finally dissolving into a pile of laughter and catching our breath as the song ended.

Was this the best day of my life? Oh no, not even close. But it was the best three minutes of my day. It erased everything else. It reset my attitude. It energized me. It reminded me to take this new parenting challenge three minutes at a time, and maybe, more importantly, not so seriously. Who cares if the house is messy, and the kids ate frozen pancakes for dinner, and I didn't wash behind their ears at bath time?

We are another day closer to Friday.

And when in doubt?

Turn up the volume and dance.

-Laura

An Elephant in the Sky

One of my earliest memories, and one of the handful I have of my father took place on a summer day when I was three or four. He called me outside to the front yard and pointed up. An airplane was soaring above us, leaving a trail of smoke. He helped me identify each letter as the plane twisted, turned, dove, and rose though the sky. We both laughed when we put it together, P-E-P-S-I.


As the smoke began to clear, we lay down on the grass. The lawn at our house on Parkview Avenue was so thick, that even in the middle of a heat wave, you felt cool laying on top of it. I picked blades of grass from the ground absentmindedly and we stared at the sky. He was the first to speak. "I think that's an elephant." I laughed in delight. It did look like an elephant, or maybe a tiger? And so it began. We spent (what felt like) hours staring at the clouds, carefully deciding what each resembled, from frogs to princess crowns and everything in between. It was simple. It was carefree.  It was the most perfect way to spend an afternoon when you're three (or thirty-three).


I’m not sure why that memory sticks out in my mind so vividly.  I have so few from my early childhood. But it does, just like it was yesterday. Whenever I look up to see a cloud-filled sky I'm immediately transported back to the front lawn of my childhood. And as for the Pepsi advertisement? It must have been effective, because I certainly do have an affinity for an ice cold Diet Pepsi...

In our house we have chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs (and Mickey Mouse), french fries that look like smiley faces, fruit snacks with Scooby Doo and Spider Man and sharks, macaroni in the shape of bunnies, and on and on. And on.


The thing is, my boys are immune to it.  They could care less if their Spaghetti-O’s are letters of the alphabet.  They’ve never commented on the shapes, colors, or other various ploys of savvy marketing executives focused on appealing to the toddler mind and pallet.

Instead, my boys embrace their creative spirit.

A few nights ago, Jack had tortilla chips with his dinner. He stared at them intently, turning them around in his chubby hands. He looked up at me, smiled slyly, held the chip victoriously above his head, and declared, "It's a...DUCK!". Colin squealed in excitement and agreed, affirming Jack's statement. With gained confidence, Jack picked up another chip, and this time it was a goat, then a scary dinosaur, and finally a boat.

Colin had a corn dog on his plate that was now a snail, a turtle in its shell, and a lightning bug.

Did any of those items actually resemble in the slightest their vivid descriptions? No. Of course not. But with each revelation, I enthusiastically agreed, and we talked about it. What is the snail doing? Why is he hiding in the corn dog? Is he scared? Is he going to surprise someone? Where is the boat sailing?

We make up stories, laugh loudly, and turn a simple dinner into an adventure.  Although, I will admit, when the boys start comparing my spaghetti to snakes, I  tend to lose my appetite.

We live in an era where toy and entertainment companies feed kids a slew of pre-fabricated characters, story-lines, and props--it’s almost as if imagination has been silenced, or at least muffled. Why imagine that a stick found in the yard is a sword, when you can grab your light saber (with sound effects) and pretend you’re a superhero?

My husband is the best at finding simple, ordinary, around the house items, and turning them into something special. An empty beer box turns into a robot costume. Discarded shoe boxes turn into a parking garage for the boys' matchbox car collection with a few careful snips. A finished paper towel roll? Bingo! A pirate looking glass. Or a telescope to see the moon. A box of noodles transforms into a musical instrument, suitable for a parade around the kitchen. And on and on.

To me, creativity is a skill, more than it is a talent. We are all born with the ability to be creative. It doesn't necessarily mean to be artistic, or musical. Case in point? My three year old can draw a better stick figure than me, and I was kindly asked to take Music Appreciation class in 8th grade over Choir, yet I consider myself to be a very creative individual...and I'm an accountant.  Last time I checked, accounting isn't a profession generally associated with creativity.

I learned a simple, yet important lesson on my front lawn: creativity is something that we can foster, develop, and nurture in our children, and can be done without piano, dance, trumpet, or art classes. Creativity can be part of our ordinary, everyday life.

So when my boys dump a basket of freshly folded laundry on the floor, jump in their "boat" and start searching for sharks, I'm right there with them, shrieking and jumping onto the couch to escape the dangerous waters of our family room.

- Laura 

The Day I Didn't Yell

Last week I went an entire day without yelling at my kids.

I didn't yell when we were sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for a prescription and my youngest son Jack (just shy of two years old) grabbed his older brothers mitten and made a mad dash across the lobby and out the front revolving doors, shrieking in pure joy as he looked behind him and realized his brother was chasing him.

Or when hospital security had to lock-down the doors for several minutes to prevent him from running into the parking lot, and then escorted him back to me kicking and screaming.

I didn't yell when my boys pressed every single button on the elevator.

I didn't yell when they refused to wear winter hats in 18 degree weather, instead donning baseball caps. 

Or when they removed their shoes on the car ride (and threw them into the front seat, narrowly missing my head) all while hysterically laughing at each other’s antics.

Or even when they dumped approximately 1,057 Lego's onto the carpet then threw them in the air to "make it rain" seconds before I was going to vacuum it, and minutes after I picked them up in the first place.

I didn't yell when my oldest son Colin (who is almost 4… and knows better) fished a Reece peanut butter cup out of the trash and popped it into his mouth. And I didn't yell when I put two and two together and realized the peanut butter cup came from the trash… because not only did he have a half-eaten peanut butter cup in his hand, but a mouthful of blue paint (which I had discarded in the trash moments earlier from our morning art project).

I didn't yell when I attempted to wash off the blue paint, and literally had to wrestle Colin to the ground to get every drop cleaned off his lips, teeth, and face with a paper towel.  Or when a few splatters stained (permanently I'm sure, as my laundering skills are sub-par) his new Christmas PJs.

I didn't yell when naps were refused, lunches were left untouched and sippy cups were catapulted across the kitchen.

I didn't yell when the boys played catch...with my iPhone. Or when they flipped every last pillow off the couches to create an obstacle course. Or even when they pushed the kitchen chairs over to the counter to scavenge for cookies, candy canes, or anything they could get their hands on (you get hungry when you don't eat lunch...) 

No, I didn't yell once.

And this all happened before 11:45am. 

I wish I could say it's because I'm patient, or that I'm understanding. Or that I'm this amazing mom of two who can keep her cool in any situation. Or that it was Christmas Eve (which is was) and I was filled with holiday spirit. But that’s not the case.

The truth?

I lost my voice.

I literally, physically, couldn't yell. When I tried (which trust me, I did) nothing came out.

I could barely talk. Every word I uttered hurt.  So I was forced to choose them wisely.

And it made all the difference in the world.

In each of these situations (which are not isolated by any means) I thought before I spoke, carefully deciding how to handle the given circumstance in the least amount of spoken words possible. I calmly whispered to the boys. I didn't fly off the handle, or send them to their rooms. Or let myself get worked up, angry, and upset. I didn’t raise my voice.  Or mutter swear words under my breath, which I clearly don’t mutter quietly enough, because the boys love to bust out an enthusiastic “damn-it” every so often. 

I said what I needed to say and we moved on. I was calm.  The boys were calm.  For the moment, life in general was calm...and I thought to myself, why can't it always be this way? Why is it easier to yell than speak thoughtfully and with purpose? I'm not sure I can answer that, but I've been making a conscious effort over the past week to pause, gather my thoughts, and then deal with the given situation. 

While I'd like to say I will never resort to yelling again, I know I'm setting myself up for certain failure.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not some hot-headed mom who yells constantly, but I do have two rowdy, rambunctious boys, and sometimes, a loud, stern voice is required to keep them in line. 

My lost voice allowed me to step back and truly understand the impact of my words, my tone, and how the way I project myself affects the two boys who mean the most to me.

And for the record, even if I physically could have, I wouldn't have yelled at Colin for eating the peanut butter cup out of the garbage can...I would have been laughing too hard and too loudly at the blue paint covering his face to even begin to scold him .

- Laura

Meet the Team: Laura

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still. 

In photographs, I strive to capture moments, instances, and memories... big, small, candid, monumental, forgettable, simple, and most importantly, honest. 

First name: Laura
Kids: Colin Patrick (3) and Jack Rowan (almost 2, although if you ask, he'll say 3)
Five random things you like: Spell check. Diet Coke. Being on time. Flats. Reading books that don't require animal noises.
City: Avon Lake (just west of Cleveland)
Jobs: Financial planner for a software company. Family photographer. Shadow-puppet expert. Chauffeur. Self-declared Elf on the Shelf over-achiever.
Vices: Frozen peanut butter cups. Amazon Prime. Brunch.
Your Superhero power, if you could have one: The ability to freeze--or speed up--time.

Look for Laura's posts the first week of every month!