Author: kliketheletter

“Hi, my name is Mama and I am tired.”

Do you ever imagine life as, like, the opening act of a big screen support group? No booze. All talk. Just drunk on no sleep, motherhood, and love? Because I do.

I imagine most would share stories with ease, proud of their success and the upwards direction of their lives. Others would relay their story sprinkled with tears, struggle, heartbreak, and loss.

How humbling it would be to see and hear moms in a brutally honest, safe space, unclothing their hardships in a room where it was accepted. Where little ears couldn’t hear.

I imagine how it might feel to stand in a room with people who call you by your name instead of calling you “mama.” What it could feel like to sleep at night instead of living with your demons or rocking your baby? To have a friend, a sponsor? To be one? To talk about it?

To be connected. To anything.

What might it feel like to say “I am struggling” to a room full of people who will say it back? To be a bad mom. To have yelled too loudly far too easily. To make a mistake. To relapse and to still have this community, so loyal to the honest acceptance of life and its challenges, that it would not ever question its members’ missteps.

I imagine myself there standing, watery eyes, messy bun, and yoga pants. The warmth in the room would be palpable at my truth; the booming joy would be contagious as moms clapped in solidarity.

I would be seen in all I’ve overcome in my motherhood, I would be supported in all of the places I am yet to go. Here, you would see just how much moms need other moms—just how much women still and always will need support.

Because we are all recovering from something.

And YOU, you mama are not alone.

Some say that actions speak louder than words, but I would argue that words are really, a very honorable start. So, I want to start this conversation: Hi. My name is Mama and I am tired.

—Wallflower Writing
#detroitmom #momswhowrite
Originally posted at @detroitmoms

It’s the 100th day of school.
100 bouncy balls have been packed.
Items to dress like we are 100 in tow.
This day is one to celebrate the kids who made it 100 days in their first year of education.

Never mind the masks.
The half days.
The uncertainty of the start.
The shut downs.
The off days for tracking stats.
The staggered starts.
The canceled class parties.
Disposable lunch bags instead of boxes.
The days of zoom.
2 weeks on and 2 weeks off for unknown amounts of weeks.
Never mind the distance.
The small groups.
That you haven’t met your child’s educator.
The half days.
The snow days.
The prohibited playground.
Never mind no Valentines boxes.
Or dropping things off 7 days in advance for proper quarantine.

Never mind all that, it never mattered anyways. We made it to 100 days.

And last year, this time of year, I remember counting 100 days and thinking – how could this still be? A global pandemic I somehow believed would last 2 weeks, quickly absorbed into 100 and more days.

In a normal year it’s a staple of passing half way through the year of the first year of formal education. And guess what? It’s not any different this year. Because together and part, we made it another day more, with our kids leading the way.

Showing us their strength! With our kids at home or in school, or some weird exhausting combination of both. Happy little heroes, adaptable, tenacious and growing. Reminding us all to crawl, to move forward even just another day more.

So, celebrate we will!

It’s the 100th day of school! Cheers, to another 100 healthy, happy days more.

-Wallflower Writing

#storytellingmama #motherhoodunplugged #michiganwriters

He cleans the kitchen to avoid me.

I don’t mind because I’m avoiding him too and the kitchen gets cleaned. Silver linings.

Sometimes things will break under the weight of it all. Legs are going to shake.

What can I say? It takes a lot of work. It’s easy to be polite when that’s how you’re trained to be. But sometimes you have to fight.

Sometimes you have to let it fly.

You have to let those ugly feelings turn into words come out and you have to say what you need to say.

You have to meet in the middle.

You have to compromise, apologize and you have to grow through what you go through.

You have to have hard conversations.

And you just have to be real.

Because loving someone, really LOVING them, is risking looking ugly when ugly is how it feels inside.

It’s permission to let it fly.

To be shaky, to be ugly, to be soft, to be real when it’s storming.

To let go and learn from the bad times.

To challenge each other.

To grow together on merged time lines.

Both because of each other and In spite of each other.

But nevertheless, together.

It’s understanding that just because you love eachother doesn’t always mean you’ll like eachother.

So, let it fly and get that kitchen clean. Take time away and take the time to talk.

They don’t promise you it’s easy, they just promise you it’s worth it.

-Wallflower Writing

#parenting #momsofinstagram #storytellingmama #motherhoodunplugged #wallflowerwriting #michiganwriters
Catchfly Photography LLC

The year has been a hard one for a lot of people.

As we reflect through the hard things we went through, I want to remind you that even though none of this was normal and even though it sucks, a lot of people are doing a good job right now.

Some of us have cancelled our weddings, our baby showers, graduations and yes, even funerals.

We’ve modified plans, vacations, holidays, places of worship, and school programming.

Some of our houses have turned into dictatorships run by five-year-olds. Some of you are surviving on chicken nuggets and repetitive prayer.

We’ve refrained from hugs, kissing our loved ones, close contact kinship, and things that fill us up. Some have lost their lives in the absence of that connection.

Some of us are missing rent, waiting for a call back that won’t come, and letting bills pile, while some are working double with no hazard pay.

Some of you said goodbye forever to people you love. Through a video chat on someone else’s phone. Some of you were the ones holding those phones, and holding the hands of those leaving this world.

Some of your hearts are broken. Some of your grief is big. Some may never recover.

But even if your forward motion is at a crawling speed, I urge you to go on, even if you’re crawling.

Because no matter the size of the character of someone else and their story, the truth for all of us is this: this is all around just pretty freaking hard on every level and nothing about this is or was normal and you are doing a good job.

Look to the future with hope.

If this year has been hard for you, please, walk with faith knowing that you are better and wiser because of it.

Wherever you’re at, however you’re handling it, I just want you to know that I see you and I think that you’re doing a really good job.

—Wallflower Writing

The holidays and Christmas look a little different for the kids who grew up on the Angel Tree at the local Walmart, for the ones who stood in food bank lines to collect holiday dinner, the ones whose profiles hung at the Salvation Army for the months before Christmas came. Kids like me. Kids who generally grow up to be wonderful, compassionate adults.

The gifts my angels gave me changed my life’s trajectory and challenged me to grow bigger than the obstacles around me. Many programs intend to help low income and struggling families, whether an agency that provides money for Christmas shopping or charities that provide resources for specific assistance, or individuals who rise to the occasion. Angel trees, Salvation Army, Toys for Tots—all of these programs aim to purposefully put Christmas and resources back into the local communities. The biggest thing these programs have in common is that they curate the spirit of broken homes, struggling families, and above all—future adults.

It’s Not the Same for Everyone.

Food stamps don’t buy Christmas gifts. While the season fades into the many millions of dollars we spend on gifts and the lavish holiday meals piled high, the truth is that some families and children will not see the same spread on their tables and will wake with no presents beneath their trees, if they even have trees. In a world where most kids believe in Santa, there is a entire body of children who don’t have the choice to even believe. Every family has a different story. Some children are in foster care, some belong to single parents with no family, and some belong to families who are just barely getting by.

When I was a kid, I often was on the receiving end of these gifts. I remember being 14 or 15 years old writing my list…”an Abercrombie sweatshirt to make me cool like the popular kids and one for my sister, so she can fit in, too.” It was all I wanted. Didn’t matter what it looked like. We never had another gift, or a fancy dinner or family. But that morning, I opened that Abercrombie sweatshirt and my sister did, too, and I remember feeling, “someone heard me.” For some kids, this is the only version of Santa they know. And, it makes for very humble adults when they grow to be my age.

The gift you gave me changed my life and the way I thought about living it. The truth is that sometimes it is not just merely a physical gift that we are gifting to these children. It is hope. It creates a mold for future angels. Future humans who have a fresh perspective of going without the experience of what it is like to be fulfilled, or who know personally what it feels like to have wishes come true after someone took the time to provide them to you.

It provides autonomy to children. For me, the Christmas presents were always carefully selected in size and preference right down to the color and brand. It took me a long time to understand this. As I grew from the programming curated to meet the needs of my adolescence, I recognized that through the years at Christmas time, even if it was just one, a present would show up for me in my size and taste. Just for me. Not some random item that would go largely unused, but something that I coveted, and really needed or wanted. Wrapped or not, I always knew someone saw me for who I am inside, not just as a profile on a public Christmas tree.

As an adult, I now understand the vitality in the gifts that were given to me and to my siblings through the years. It was about more than giving and receiving. The gifts they gave me was all about believing in the power of kindness and entirely embracing the mobility of mankind. Poverty is not an excuse to let children experience a Holiday season without the staples, love and resources that chalk it up to the “magic” that most of us know and love.

This holiday, season I challenge you to be an angel. To give the gift of hope to a child who is in need of the spirit of Christmas and the spirit of goodness. I challenge you to understand that all that is good of any of us, can be condensed into one small glimmer of hope within any one of us. I challenge you with each moment that you’re picking a name, a family, a gift—to consider just who these children might grow up to be because of your kindness. Because I promise you this, children like me, grow up to be incredibly thankful, hopeful, and compassionate adults.

The gift you gave me changed my life.

Dear Lonely Mom of One,

I see you working twice as hard to keep your child’s busy mind occupied and challenged. Your partner works full time, so you take the weight of it all, not having nearby family or another child to help with the teaching or playing.

I see you take long strolls down the aisle at Target to help pass the hours. Often, you find long ways there and leave early just to get out of the house. You would do anything to move the time along until you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

I see you, still new to this game. Some of the challenge is just the practical new mom difficulty like being inexperienced and young. It’s the internal chaos that you’re doing this with unsplit time. Some of the heartache is that you can’t or won’t have the chance to raise a baby a second time, so you’ll never really be experienced in any age of raising a child.

So, you feel immense pressure to do it perfectly this time.

I see your child struggle to reach a compromise or diffuse a situation. Their only regular practice is with you. Just you and baby every day, all day. You count their frustrations when they don’t know how to share their toys, their feelings, or, God forbid, their mama. The number is infinite.

I share your fear that our children won’t be prepared for the realness of emotions and the challenges of a social setting; they haven’t had much firsthand practice. For a lot of us, our first crash course in social dynamics comes from growing up with siblings. It also seems that some of our strongest and most reliable techniques as parents come from refereeing those experiences.

I see you when you’re leaving the park with your screaming toddler, who doesn’t want to go because there is “no one to play with at home.” You walk to the car anyway with a stiff-legged doppelganger in tow and dodge judging gazes of moms who can afford a minute to stare while their children play together.

You scroll through photos of your friends’ children running together in the backyard. They don’t even have to leave the house to play. I know you wish your child could laugh happily with a built-in best friend, too. You work double time, so you can give them that on top of being their mom.

I see your puzzled looks when your kid asks you about siblings, wondering, “Why don’t I have one, Mommy?” I watch you grow a little smaller, maybe wishing they could have that, too, whether in another season, or for some of you, maybe a different lifetime.

A three-hour round trip to your kid’s closest cousin’s birthday party gives you a lot of time to think about the people your kids are growing up without.

You shrink when people say, “They’re ready for a sibling” or “Just wait until there’s two of them! That’s when it gets hard.” They may not even consider what your timeline entails or what stands in your way. I get just a little smaller too, sister.

I see you slink down when hard working moms of multiple children receive your feelings as insignificant. You have “just” one child, and you “just” can’t hang. So, you begin to feel that way: like you’re not significant. It can feel like the magnitude of your child’s life and the magnitude of yours is lessened because there is “just” one.

But, how you feel matters. You are not less. Almost every mom started with just one.

Some day, your child may not be your only, but this season they are. In this season, there is less laundry and fewer dirty dishes. There is much more time to cut the grapes in half and more one-on-one cuddles.

More quality time together will be had, discovering the nuances of this perfect person you created. In this version of your story, your child gets 100% of you, 100% of the time. And you get all of them, too. As moms, we get to learn more about ourselves throughout motherhood, and the resilience that we come with. In this chapter, there is more physical time and space.

Sure, we have to leave the house a lot more than if our children had built-in-buddies, but we get to go on adventures, enjoy live music, and have on-going momentum to leave or get outside…even when it’s easier to stay.

We can pull up to an event, and it only takes just one second to get out of the car and into the excitement. There’s just one car seat and that takes just one moment. There is nobody else to wait for, and we don’t have to slow down.

You don’t  spend as much money on yummy treats or spend twice as much at Christmas time. There’s more routine, and with that, more consistent family traditions and scheduling.  You only have to keep your eyes on one human in the chaos of life, and you can bet, it’s all eyes on them. All the time. 

When you’re caught in defense of raising “just” one child, just know that they won’t be a child for long. As you teach them and grow with them through these first short years, you’ll learn that these first short years are “just” a season.

To the lonely mother of an only child, I’m in your corner. I know it’s just as hard for you as it is, and was, for every mom. Some day, this unsplit time becomes divided with independence, other children, and life’s experiences, and as parents, we’ll wish we could get it back. It won’t be like this for long.

I can hear you, and I promise, I can definitely see you.

Love, a Happy Mom of One

If there’s one thing I have learned about motherhood, it’s that it always surprises me.

Sometimes the surprise surfaces in tears when my daughter doesn’t want milk in her fruit loops, or when I make her say goodbye to her super relevant best friend at the PlayPlace whom she met just five minutes prior.

Other times it’s my tears when I’m stumped, wondering how I’m even qualified for this caliber of a job, even though I grew a human inside of me and brought her here.

Or when it’s quarter after four in the afternoon and nap time is a tale told long ago, I’m always shocked that I can make it that next 30 minutes until her dad is through the door without literally blowing the roof off the joint.

I’ve heard that kids say crazy things, but at times it’s more surprising the things that come out of my mouth.

Too often I’ve had to convince my kid the whole world shuts down promptly at 8 pm just so she agrees to get in bed, and I can regain enough energy to do it again tomorrow.

Many preached, “It goes so fast, take it in!” and somehow my jaw still drops that these first years are flying right by.

We all look forward to and adapt to the endless surprises of motherhood no matter what form they arrive in.

No matter how exhausted, lonely, or downright surprising it can feel, a mother somehow always finds the grace and the patience needed to raise her children.

My grandfather’s second wife, Kathy, stayed in our life way longer than she had to.

My grandfather died and she just kept coming.

When my dad and his siblings all bottomed out before me and my cousins were even born, my Gram insisted they stay on track.

When they called from jail, rarely, if ever, did she bail them out.

And when my dad and his wife divorced because of drugs and alcohol and his wife took the kids and ran, she insisted then too.

Motherhood is about more than being biologically connected and literally maternal.

It’s voluntary closeness.

To me, it’s about warrior women who persist.

There are other mothers beyond the ones you see with children.

She could be the woman whose unknowingly guided you in roles you never saw a mother in at all.

The ones you thought really just couldn’t get “it” because they didn’t birth a child.

She could be the mother whose never had her own children but rose to the challenge of raising another woman’s.

Or my Gram – the woman who helped raised 4 children she didn’t birth at all – and whom today is burying her last.

That’s the woman warrior love of motherhood.

It’s not a one size fits all skill. Just like no mother has a one size fits all kind of love.

It’s any woman who persists in pursuit of a good life for children no matter whom they belong to, no matter what age they become.

It’s understanding that well after they are gone, a mother’s love lives and lingers on.

My grandfather’s second wife Kathy will always be in my life.

In fact, I’m sure and I hope that my Gram will outlive me, too.

Motherhood is not about where you came from, it’s about how you rise to the occassion.