carrie and the summer

Carrie’s skin bronzes in the summer sun. Her hair turns lighter with bright highlights. She is a child of the summer, no doubt about it. Meanwhile, her sisters with their red locks and ivory skin crisp in the sun with anything less than SPF 1,000.

Carrie is a tree climber and a pool jumper and a zip-liner. She sinks her feet into the muddy sand at grandma’s and pulls out worms and rocks and other treasures with glee. She catches small perch in a net and joyfully hoists them into the air.

“Mom! LOOK!”

In so many ways, Carrie is her dad’s daughter. She doesn’t know yet how to enter a room with anything less than full volume. It’s how she was born, truly:


She wants to help cook and help clean. Her big personality is surprisingly humble in many ways. She is fascinating to watch. She is rarely in a bad mood for long, bopping along to her own rhythm.  She has never met a person that was not meant to be a friend.

I look at her in wonder, often. Who is she becoming?

“Mom, when I grow up, I want to live in a house on our street, near you.”

I love that she wants that now, but I would be lying to myself if I believed that would be the outcome. She is a child who could strike out on her own, destined for big things. But man, I would be delighted to have her close by. A mom can dream, can’t she?

Carrie wants to be a “fashion styler” when she grows up. Her fashion choices are fascinating to watch – truly a matter of mood and expression for Carrie. A bright multi-colored tennis skirt and a red Parisian graphic top with blue Alaska-themed socks – she is the only girl I know that can merge the sophistication of the Champs-Elysees and the wonder of the glacial carved mountains of Sitka Alaska.

“Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom.” “Yes, yes, yes, YES!” “Hey. I forgot.”

She takes things in, observes, processes. She’s smart, but she’d rather be funny.

She has my feet, she has her dad’s eyes. She loves to draw her characters with curlicue hair that flows out to impossible lengths.  She’s our resident lefty.

And in the summer, she is in her glory. Bright, bold, a sunbeam dancing into the kitchen, ready for the day ahead.


ellie in the sun

Ellie is squinting in the sun.

Wild honey-red curls, pulling straighter under the weight of her ever-growing locks. Freckles gather on the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes are framed by pale red lashes. The red hair isn’t going anywhere, for now.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows remind me of younger pictures of my mom. I examine Ellie as she speaks, looking for my own mother somewhere in the rise of Ellie’s eyebrows, the perfect span of her nose or the sparkle in her eyes.

Ellie holds her self upright, wound-up in a way, observing and considering. Today, the object of her evaluation is a playground with an intentionally-rickety bridge and several sets of monkey bars and slides of all kinds. When she thinks no one is watching, she moves like a cat. She is faster than she lets on. Almost rhythmic in her movement. When she senses someone is watching (me) her movements become more childlike, her speech a little more baby.

She is not ready to grow up today.


Ellie is squinting in the sun.

She is watching me as much as I am watching her. We are mirrors, reflecting each other’s imperfect attempts at perfection. No matter how I’ve tried to subdue my own anxiety or self-doubt or fear, she found it in her DNA, woven in with my mother’s eyebrows and my freckles and a distant ancestor’s red hair. She examines the doubt, the fear – the whole package – like a crystal in the sunlight, turning and turning and turning. Sometimes she turns the crystal over so frequently in her mind that I am the only one who can help her put the crystal down.

Ellie is squinting in the sun.

She says things sometimes that sound like me and then she looks at me, watching for my reaction.

Is this OK, Mom?


Ellie is squinting in the sun. She stops between monkey bars and slides to tell me everything she learned about honeybees as she watches a honeybee in nearby a patch of clover. Nonfiction, she explains. The word is big and bulky in her mouth, but said slowly and emphatically nonetheless.

And she is off. She climbs a ladder, turns and pauses for a breath before flying across another set of monkey bars, her long limbs swinging.

She laughs and it is bells ringing across the meadow of the school yard.

Ellie is squinting in the sun, forever in my mind.


anything plain can be lovely

When the Barenaked Ladies (BNL) took the stage at the Genesee theater in Waukegan this week, tears inexplicably rolled down my cheeks in spite of the big smile I was wearing.

My on-going co-habitation of conflicting emotions has baffled Frank for years.

Watching X-Files with no lights on… dans la maison… 

The single One Week went big in 1998, the year I graduated from high school. The song piqued my interest with it’s quirky, fun, often non-sensical lyrics. It became a staple on local radio stations throughout that summer. I had two jobs that summer, one at a Hallmark store and one at an insurance company. I was living life in between childhood and adulthood with only a very vague sense of where I was headed. It was free and exhilarating – although maybe also scary, but hindsight changes things. The song fit my mood that summer: fast and light, maybe bordering on frantic.

The foam on the creek was like pop and ice cream…

In college, songs like Light Up My Room transported me away to a colorful world filled with imagery that illustrated my own juxtaposed emotions. College was a lot of struggling and joy and frustration and hope all hanging out together. As Ed Robertson admitted last night, most of his songs only use three chords. These simple songs with quirky lyrics and imagery were a perfect escape and salve for the emotional bumps and bruises from growing up in college.

What if I lost my direction…

Life after college became predictably busy. We dated, we were engaged, we married. We worked and worked and had some kids. Throughout all of it, I perk up when I hear a BNL song on the radio or on a long-forgotten playlist. The BNL Christmas album, in particular God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, has become one of my all-time favorite Christmas albums/Pandora stations at the holidays. BNL’s songs have been artfully woven throughout a tender period of my life where I was jettisoning my childhood and growing up. The music remains with me even as I find myself in a similarly transitional period of life, although with less tumult than high school, college and my early 20’s. It occurs to me that I am becoming the person my children will remember. These years may only represent their early, somewhat foggy memories, but their impressions of this time will endure.

This is where we used to live…

I wish I could take the girls back to our younger selves to show them, to make them understand how fast time moves and how quickly life changes. I could impress upon them the things I think I’ve learned. And yet again, I don’t wish that at all. Let them find out on their own wonder-filled adventure with their own soundtrack. There is more magic in that, I think.




Adulting often means doing mundane, responsible, grown-up things instead of the thing you probably really want to do.

For example, I don’t really love making dinner a lot of nights.  Truth be told, I would probably make the kids scrambled eggs and toast or, gasp, cereal most nights if I didn’t have a voice in the back of my mind saying, “EMILY! Be a grown up; feed your children!”

Since I have yet to find a way to kill that voice, more nights than not, I will make my children a respectable meal with vegetables and a fruit and a protein and a grain… and they will hate it. They will look at me as though they are about to vomit in their mouths and, once they muster up the strength, they will say, with lower lip trembling and with wide eyes, “is this … ::gulp:: … dinner?”

Instead of saying, “OF COURSE THIS IS FLIPPING DINNER! WHAT ELSE COULD THIS POSSIBLY BE? IT IS DINNER TIME. FOOD IS ON THE TABLE. SWEET HEAVENS TO BETSY PEOPLE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!” – I pull myself together and I advise them that their response is inappropriate and that this is dinner and they will try everything and sit in their seats.

And I will probably tell them another twenty times to sit in their seat. And one of my children, who I will not name here (Carrie) will likely take three meager bites and then run to the garbage to spit it out.

See why cereal would be so much easier?

But instead of cereal, most nights, I adult: I make a meal.

A lot of days adulting is fine. Sometimes even fun. Or good.

Even though I am in my mid-thirties, I am often still pleased with myself when I am adulting. I give myself an internal high five when I take the garbage to the curb early, thereby avoiding the morning race down the driveway in my pajamas with the always helpful garbage truck operators waiting to see if I fall this time.

I say “atta girl” to myself when I manage to get the kids to school, on time, with all the things they are supposed to have.

I stand proudly in the laundry room when both the washer and the dryer are empty, the clean clothes folded and put away. (This is an exceptionally brief moment)

And this one time, I had my minivan professionally cleaned out and nearly wept at the adultishness of it all.

But there are many days of adulting, especially with little people in the house, where I reach the end of my adulting capabilities. I am done adulting. Someone else needs to show up and adult. Que: husband.

Then there are other adulting times…

Like when Frank and I sat the girls down to tell them that their grandfather passed away last July.

It was such a vivid moment. Frank came home from the hospice, we walked upstairs with the twins and sat together on the floor of their bedroom. Frank started to tell them and I watched as all the things they thought they knew about life shifted. They knew sometimes that people died, but they never knew anyone that they loved who died. All of the feelings flickered across their face in rapid succession: shock, sadness, anger…

We helped them navigate their grief and questions as best we could.

Even months later, questions still arise. “How do we get to heaven? Is there a map? Will someone take me? What if I get lost?”

Truly, it reminds me of the hardest part of adulting. Harder than cooking a hated dinner. Harder than herding my children in the morning.

The hardest part of adulting is helping your children grow up to be adults.

Last summer, the girls shrugged off their preschool ways. They abandoned their smallish light up princess backpacks that contained finger-painted artwork for larger backpacks that carry lunch boxes and library books. They reached up on their tippy-toes in August and grasped the first rungs of the monkey bars on play equipment that had previously been too tall and too scary for them. They skipped through the double doors when the bell rang as though they had been doing it their entire lives.

And that’s the goal, right? To give your children the time to be children and the space and tools to grow up. But that needed space keeps growing. First it was sleeping in their cribs and now it’s a full day of school.

If I’m adulting correctly, then eventually these kids will strike out on their own. I am sure it will be terrifying and marvelous at the same time, as these moments often are.

The good news is, they will come back to visit (and do laundry and raid the pantry and bum our wi-fi). And hopefully when they come back they will pull up a chair to the dinner table and say, “Oh this! This is my favorite dinner! Thanks mom.”

Hey, a girl can dream.


has anyone seen emily?

Well hello, 2016.

My lack of blogging begs the age-old question: if a mommy-blogger type doesn’t blog, does that mean nothing happened?


But with three small-ish children, that’s unlikely.

What I want to tell you is that I spent 2016 becoming a student of life. I want to say to my three readers, one of whom is my mom, “Guys, I didn’t blog because I was soaking in all the things that make life rich and full and meaningful.”

And while I do feel like there was a lot of soaking and learning and experiencing this year, the truth is, I just had a terrible case of over-sharer’s writers block.

See, I told all of this stuff about my marriage and my life in late 2015 that I kind of felt like if I was going to write something down, it better be something my kids are going to be shocked and appalled by.

“Uh, mom, you wrote about your marriage issues on a public blog? Sweet heavens-to-Betsy, have you no sense of dignity?”

Although, I doubt my kids think I have much dignity left to lose, especially considering my horrific dance moves and equally traumatic vocal stylings that are regularly on display.

Dignity aside…

This year I read some books. One of the books I read was Love Warrior by Glennon Melton and one was Present Over Perfect by Shauna Neiquist. What I learned was this, in summary: Do what you love and breathe deep, full, belly breaths. I’m still working on applying these lessons to my daily life… I’m terrible at breathing.

So anyway. Here are some things from 2016 about our little family:

Frank. Frank is a major source of joy. Also, hilarious stories. But mostly joy.  This summer, while we were speeding home from church with the windows down because Annie was vomiting in her car seat and the twins were gagging at the horror-show, I thought, “God, I love Frank. Thank you for Frank.”

Frank is awesome at noticing moments, defining seasons and enjoying them. He also knows when to pull up stakes, pack stuff up and get out of town. We did a little bit of both this year. We soaked up family time at Disney World in February, but in June we hauled tooshie to get home from a nearly disastrous excursion to Dallas where 66.7% of our children vomited at some point in the trip. One of our children scream-vomited into a sick sack in the galley of an airplane on the way home from Dallas. I wasn’t going to name names, but it was Carrigan.

We spent a lot of time on the porch, drinking wine and talking this summer.  We also purchased our first season tickets for Great America. And Frank taught me how to drive a pontoon boat. Just doing life stuff.

The Kids. First of all, they have become more fun with each passing year. And more emotionally complicated. The twins can read! And write (ish)! And count! And spell! And ask really challenging questions about life and death and “if God is Jesus’s daddy, then who is God’s daddy?”

We wrapped up preschool for the twins in May and then with no warning whatsoever (aside from all of the letters from the school district, paperwork, school supplies, new shoes, etc), the twins started Kindergarten in August. I cried like an idiot. See – there was this moment in the NICU when I was first meeting Elliana and I looked down at her and despite being quite premature, she opened her blue eyes and looked up at me and I was just hooked.  And there was another moment, in the same NICU where I met Carrigan and she gripped Frank’s finger so tightly and we knew she was our ferocious little warrior. And I swear, those moments happened like ten minutes ago.

And then Annie.  Good grief.  That kid is talking… and talking and talking and talking. Who knows where she got that from? She grabs my face in her tiny, sticky hands and says “Mama, I love you. You’re beau-i-ful. I love your necklace. Did your mama get that for you?” I was worried about how she would do in her two year old preschool Christmas concert, but she strut right up to the stage, took her spot and waved at us before belting out an enthusiastic “Happy Birthday Jesus” with her classmates.

There were so many good moments in 2016. So much sweetness and love and kindness and joy.  And there was some sadness and frustration; it was a year like many years.



So that’s it. For now.

I’m baaaack!

a complicated season

Last Thursday I had an ultrasound scheduled to check on the progress of my pregnancy with our fourth child. Simply looking at the faces of my ultrasound tech and doctor confirmed my fears: there was no heartbeat.

It was not entirely surprising that this baby had stopped progressing. There were warning signs along the way – signs that indicated a less-than robust progression for this sweet little baby. Still, we didn’t lose hope for a miracle and we didn’t stop cheering this little one on.

Before the appointment, I ran through the possible scenarios in my head, trying not to think too much about the worst-case scenario.

And yet, despite my hopes and prayers and pleadings, there we were: the worst case scenario.

I was surprised by how much it hurt to hear that the baby stopped growing in the days prior to the ultrasound and that there wasn’t a heartbeat. Somehow I had thought that because we had other children and we’ve had other losses, it would soften the pain. And it didn’t. A loss is a loss is a loss.

It felt like an out-of-body experience. Here I was, in this situation I had hoped to never experience again. I was profoundly sad about the loss of this baby.

“I’m so sorry,” my doctor said.

My doctor carefully outlined our options and we decided to have a D&C the following day, if possible.

I was escorted into a large room with a round table and four chairs. I sat with my back to the window and the door closed in front of me, alone. I was glad to be alone and I cried for this little baby we would never know and never hold and never snuggle. I was grateful for the 7 1/2 weeks that we had with this sweet one. I was grateful that I remembered during this pregnancy to have little chats with the baby and let them know that they were loved. I felt myself letting go of the vision I had for next summer: a June filled with fresh baby snuggles, a July spent teaching Annie about being a big sister and an August watching a new little one exploring this world with wide eyes.

At some point, trying not to cry in front of the staff, I told them that I was grateful for the three daughters that we have at home. My nurse nodded, “but it’s OK to be sad about this one, too.”

Telling Frank was the hardest part. We were both surprised by how utterly sad we were about this pregnancy loss. It is our fourth and last pregnancy loss. We knew we did not want to try again.  We knew that we would continue to be happy and content with our “party of five.” And still, we both felt the heavy weight of the finality of this loss.

The weekend that followed felt like the fullness of the human experience all in a 72 hour period. Loss, grief, hope, gratitude, peace, sadness, joy and anger – all fluttered in and out of our hearts in no particular order. And often, we felt all of these things all at the same time.

Over the weeks that I was pregnant, I felt a whisper of gratitude weaving through my days. I found myself reflecting on the difference between feeling grateful and being grateful. I wondered about what it would look like to live a life OF gratitude: a life where every moment is appreciated and enjoyed and adorned with gratitude. But… what does it look like to practice gratitude in the face of sadness and loss and grief?

We are beginning the holiday season. Christmas decorations are unapologetically filling the aisles of our favorite big-box retailers. There is a hyper-sense of GRATITUDE and JOY and HAPPINESS as the must-have items this holiday season, available for purchase in the form of wreaths and toys and stuff.

We are not the only people who are experiencing loss and sadness and disappointment and grief as we enter the holidays. So many people will sit down to Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner with a freshly empty chair. So many people are living a “new normal” with out someone that they dearly loved. So many people are saying, “this is my {first, third, tenth} Christmas without…”

The message seems that in order to be truly happy and fulfilled, gratitude and joy must occupy all of the available space in our hearts. That if we could only have more gratitude and more joy, we would not have space to be sad.

Life is just not that simple: I cannot manufacture enough gratitude to drown out everything else. BUT. Gratitude and grief can exist together.

On Friday night, I crawled into bed with Ellie for our usual tuck-in ritual.

“Which songs would you like tonight, Ellie?” I whispered.

“The usual,” she said with a small, content smile.  She closed her eyes and curled up under her covers, waiting for me to sing her the same two songs I sing to her every single night.

My heart filled up with gratitude for that moment and gratitude for my daughters, but it also swelled with sadness for the baby that we will never get to hold.

Gratitude and grief in a single, complicated moment.

I’ve been learning through this experience, and really this year, that very few moments are “good” or “bad” – that so many experiences and situations can evoke a range of emotions. When I had the twins I was scared and happy and nervous and elated at the same time. When I left my job to stay home with our kids I was apprehensive and hopeful and afraid and free and sad. There are so many moments like that – moments that defy singular categorization.

And for all of these complicated and beautiful and broad moments, I am grateful.

part three: the walk

This is part three in a three part series. Read part one here and part two here.

So if our marriage had been drowning in the first part and rescued in the second part, part three should surely be our “happily ever after” right?


When I was 16, I would think through the years of my life and how I thought it would all play out:  I would graduate high school, go to college, graduate college, get a job, get married, have kids… and then my life would be over and void of any personal satisfaction or meaning.  What a stark vision of the future! In this entire vision of the future, the wedding was the pinnacle of it all. It would be the happiest day of my life and all the days before would be the crescendo and all the days after would be the sad denouement.

I figured the best years of my life would probably be the years between college graduation and marriage – full of wonder and potential and hope and excitement – and the cherry on top would be a wedding.

Funny story: there were only 18 months between college graduation and our wedding.

There is so much emphasis on having The Perfect Wedding. The perfect dress, an idyllic ceremony that is both representative of your separate histories as well as of your hopes for the future, a party-inducing play list, the right lighting, and so on and so on.  And I am the first to admit, I do love a great wedding!

I love watching the groom see his bride for the first time. I love watching the bride’s family give her away to a teary-eyed, clammy-palmed groom.  I love a great ceremony. I love the first kiss.  I love the celebratory walk up the aisle.

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

The first steps back up the aisle truly begin a journey of a thousand miles. The walk back up the aisle, full of hope and promise and purpose and joy, signifies how we intend to began our marriage. It can be so easy to lose that momentum, though.

Marriages aren’t perfect, but marriages are beautiful and complex and unique and messy. It’s just that most of us don’t really know how anyone else’s marriage truly works except maybe our parents’ marriages. We see weddings and we see 50th wedding anniversaries.  Sometimes our friends let us see under the tent – a peek at an argument or an accidental glance of tender moment. But it’s hard to get context. We don’t often truly understand the inner-workings of most peoples’ marriages.

Writing this series presented that very problem. I am giving you a very specific peek into our life – into a part of our life that was particularly messy and difficult. This period of time certainly shaped our life moving forward, but it is only a picture of a moment in time.

I sometimes find myself wondering: what are other peoples’ marriages like? What do they talk about? What do they like? Do they talk at dinner or eat in silence? Do they go to bed at the same time or is one person a night owl while the other is a morning person?

Is it normal to want to talk to your spouse all. the. time? Is it normal to always want to hold hands or touch each other as much as possible? Is it normal to be grateful your spouse travels?

Are we normal? Are we OK?

I’ve come to the conclusion, after much thoughtful consideration: WHO CARES what is normal!?

Instead of normal, I’ve found myself craving people and experiences that are authentic and genuine and real. The uncomfortable thing I’ve discovered is that very few things live inside a comfortable little box of good/bad, wrong/right, beautiful/ugly.

In this new space of intimacy and knowing and closeness, we’ve come to realize there is so much in life that is beautiful and messy, delightful and terrifying, or happy and sad – all at the same time.  Even when I really reflect on the way that I felt on our wedding day, it was a broad and brilliant array of emotions that included everything from sadness that many of our grandparents couldn’t share in our day to elated to celebrate our wedding with so many family and friends. Life, as far as I can tell, is full of moments that defy limited categorization.

That being said, I would love to gloss over our post-drowning marriage and say, “Yep, all good here! There’s nothing to see here! Move along!”


A few weeks ago we had a pretty big fight that started before church (AWESOME) and concluded after lunch (C’MON!). Frank had a bunch of feelings and I had a bunch of feelings, but we were afraid to talk about these feelings because neither of us wanted to burden the other with these feelings. So we actually fought about how he answered a question that I asked. The exchange in question was no more than a dozen words between us, but all of the feelings came bubbling up. For quite a few hours we snipped and argued back and forth. It took us hours to realize that we needed to go back to the now familiar territory of compassionate and honest communication. Once we started talking, we realized that neither of us was burdened and that both of us actually had very similar feelings on the issue at hand.

It wasn’t the similarity in our feelings, but the authenticity of our feelings, that gave me the biggest sense of relief. I knew Frank’s heart and he knew mine.  We couldn’t really do anything about the feelings or even the issue we were upset about, but we could encourage and walk alongside each other.

So here is what I have to say about our life together: it is messy and imperfect and complicated, but it is ours.

Frank and I try to set aside time weekly to talk in person without distraction. Sometimes we talk about what we are thinking and feeling, sometimes we talk about what is going on in our lives, sometimes we talk about dreams and ideas and sometimes we talk about practical matters. Sometimes we talk about our strategy for dealing with a zombie outbreak. Our conversations are not confined by anything – sometimes not even reality!

And so, we keep finding our way back to one another. I met another couple who found their way back through a shared hobby. Some couples exercise together and some couples travel.  The important thing is that they create space for connection.

I feel like people often mistake the act that creates space for intimacy as actual intimacy.

I know that I used to get confused on this issue a lot. I used to think of sex as intimacy, when it is an opportunity for intimacy. I used to think that going on a date is intimacy, when it is a space where connection can happen.

Intimacy is closeness and knowing and understanding.

I think that sometimes I get lazy and I want to check the box and have intimacy without having to be vulnerable, without having to put myself out there. Sometimes I get scared to hear what Frank really thinks and feels – worried that I will be responsible and blamed for his feelings.


It is worth it to be brave in order to be known, to be seen, to be heard. It is worth it to be brave enough to know, to see, and to hear another.

We’ve had a challenging year. We’ve dealt with quite a few different illnesses and transitions and minor floods – just a lot of stuff.

And yet…

We are on this journey of a thousand miles that began with both of us holding hands and smiling big, toothy grins. If all goes well, after walking through jobs and houses and kids and life together, we will still be walking, holding hands and celebrating the joy of our adventure.

My 16 year old self would be relieved.