I’m so thrilled to have Story here today.
Story was the first of the Mama’s Comfort Camp Den mothers. Story was my sounding board when I just started dreaming this dream, and supported me throughout the whole process of bringing it from a handful of friends to the thriving constantly growing community that it is today: 700 members, oh my…
Story was one of my first coaching clients, we bartered: coaching for copy-editing.
She would catch my numerous typos, I helped her disarm her PPDemons and introduced her Non Violent Communications skills. Turns out she was born for NVC. She became the best NVC communicator I have ever seen.
Mama’s Comfort Campers benefits from her astute kindness daily, and I am grateful to witness that. These days, I find myself learning from her regularly. Got to love that.
Passing the mic to Story:
I am sitting on the couch with my sleeping baby on my chest. My toddler is asleep in her bed after the shortest naptime fight we’ve had in two weeks. My left leg is tucked under me and my right foot is up on the coffee table, creating a somewhat uneven surface on which to perch my laptop. Outside my window, snow is blowing and the sky is white-gray.
And in my head, it is quiet.
Two years ago, I would never have imagined that last part.
In those early days as a mom, I didn’t really want a lot. All I really wanted was peace and purpose. I am so glad I have my blog on which I can read the entire journey of how I slowly came to know what both of those mean.
My whole life I’ve wanted to be a mother. My nickname in high school was Mom. When I was teaching, my students used to tell me they were sure I’d be an excellent mother.
And so, when it happened, and it didn’t feel that way, I was crushed. I didn’t know if I was doing it right, I didn’t know how to ask for help, and I didn’t know why WHY it wasn’t enough to make me happy.
I sat, with my first baby screaming on my shoulder, reading lists of ways to make babies stop crying, following rules, subscribing to theories. I laid on the couch with her on my chest and turned on the Food Network, surrendering to the horror of the witching hour, certain that I would never get it right, that it would never get better, that I would never feel like me again.
I suppose I was partially right.
When I came out of the haze, when I started to feel like it wasn’t just about surviving, I realized that I needed something more. I needed to connect, to create, to educate, to counsel. I needed to do those things because they are things that make me me.
When I would tell all my kindest friends, though, that I wanted to do more, they would all tell me, “No, honey, you’re doing enough. You’re doing enough to be proud of.”
And I was. I WAS. I am. But really that’s not what I was talking about.
And so, in the end, it was the laptop perched precariously on my uneven knees that brought me back, that taught me how to be both myself, and this whole new person.
– – –
Story is @story3girl on twitter. She blogs at Sometimes It’s Hard and I cannot recommend her writing enough. Every time I read her blog I feel like she read my mind, and just said it better.
Please help us bring the Mama's Comfort Camp to more mothers by sharing this post via: