Here I am, gazing out across the wildly beautiful expanse of the Ulster hills. I’m twenty-two years old, just graduated from college, with nothing but time and possibility in front of me. There’s probably a fresh Irish wind nipping my nose and the smell of the sea, salty and wild, intoxicatingly close. Chris and I are on a post-graduation ramble, drinking pints in pubs, with only a vague return-to-the states date, spending our days exploring the Northern Irish hills.
And yet - I can tell you that at that moment I was tired. We were on yet another hike where we were lost. We had missed our bus that morning, followed sheep tracks instead of trails, taken a much longer route than we meant to, and then, when we finally found our way down, we passed a number of dead sheep, fellow lost travelers with fewer resources than us. The whole hike felt bleak. I barely remember this view.
I wasn’t appreciating the moment.
Here I am, turning my camera behind me to capture a photo as I ride a Highland pony named Angus deep in the Scottish Highlands. This is the wildest part of the ride, the western expanse that many say inspired Tolkien’s vision of Middle Earth. It was beautiful and I remember gasping at the enormity of those hills. What an experience - a coast to coast ride across Scotland with my sister.
And yet - more than the views, I remember how much I was looking forward to dinner that night. This was a long riding day, 18 miles or so, and before it was over it would involve hopping off our horses and slogging it through a muddy bog. I had injured my ankle rather severely on the first day of the ride and so each day involved throbbing pain, shoving my swollen foot into my riding boot and gritting my teeth, hoping one of my fellow travelers would offer me a nip of Scottish whisky. I think I had argued with my sister that day when she forgot to turn the GoPro camera on. I was petty and hungry.
I wasn’t appreciating the moment.
Here I am, Land’s End, Cornwall, England, on my study abroad. Chris and I are studying at Oxford and we’ve taken the train to Penzance to visit Jackie, my wonderful British au pair who was a second mother to me during the first eight years of my life. She lives in an old stone house steps away from the spray of the coast. It is incredibly, wonderfully, wildly beautiful here and it is a gift to see Jackie after so many years.
And yet - we are so cold. That jacket I’m wearing? It’s incredibly thin - suited for a fall outing, not the ripping, bracing coastal wind off the cliffs. Chris and I are both getting the sniffles and feeling sick and hungry. We haven’t eaten and we’re bone tired.
I wasn’t appreciating the moment.
Here I am, pregnant with my second daughter. Her aggressive kicks and violent rolls earning her a reputation at the perinatal clinic where I get regular non-stress tests - “your baby is crazy!” the nurses say with a smile, indicating this ‘crazy’ behavior means a healthy, happy baby. I carry my growing toddler, rest her weight against the weight of her sister, growing in my womb, and think about the strange in-between moment of pregnancy, of being the mother of one in the world, one ‘under my heart,’ and how impossible that is to grasp.
And yet - what I remember most from that pregnancy is (to be a bit dramatic) misery. I barely appreciated the miracle of those much-desired kicks and rolls because I was sick and tired, taking care of a very active toddler with a high-risk pregnancy (gestational diabetes since twelve weeks), pricking my finger four times a day, meticulously meal planning, craving pasta and a glass of wine, having blood-sugar crashes and anxiety attacks.
I was most definitely not appreciating the moment.
I could go on and on, but I’m sure you get the idea. I have had many incredible experiences in my life and I am truly, honestly grateful for each one of them. But I wasn't always grateful in the moment.
This isn’t simply a tale of ‘a picture is only half the story’ (which is true) or ‘we only share the good stuff’ (which is also usually true), but more a story I’m trying to tell you about how rarely we live in the moment - and how that is truly, honestly okay.
There are many moments (not photographed) with my two small children that I’m sure look adorable - there I go down the lane, my two year old waving to our neighbor on his tractor, baby in her stroller, fa la la. Yet what you don’t see is the fact that the baby kept me up all night, the toddler has said nothing but “no” to me for the past four hours, and the only thing I’m really looking forward to that day is my next cup of coffee.
Us parents often have that looming threat, uttered out of every well-meaning, kind-hearted person’s mouth - “it goes so fast! CHERISH every moment!” (I’ve said similar things to other parents so don’t feel bad if you’ve said this to me!)
During the 6th week of Lucy’s life she would scream for sometimes one, sometimes two, hours every night. Witching hour, the pediatrician said with an understanding but dismissive nod, Nothing to worry about, it goes away. (It does - she’s a very smiley baby now). But on hour two of rocking that screaming baby I thought DOES it go so fast? really? It doesn’t feel fast enough right now!
Well, of course, you might say - nobody misses that, but what about those times when the kids are happy and cute and it’s a beautiful day? I’m not saying there aren’t plenty of moments like this. There are. And I’m actually very happy with how much time I do spend simply delighting in my children. I genuinely find them fun, interesting, hilarious people and I willingly make them the absolute number one priority in my life.
I had a wonderful childhood all round but it wasn't very slow and most memories of my parents are go, go, go. When I became a mother I decided I would spend lots of time doing all those simple, beautiful nothings that make up life - counting clouds, making dandelion crowns, taking long snuggly baby naps, reading books 10, 20, as many times as they want. I take very seriously Pope Francis’s advice - Waste time with your children! I do, and it’s beautiful.
But -
I don’t want to spend my toddler’s childhood missing her babyhood. I don’t want to look at Lucy and despair every time I see how big she’s gotten and sit in a pool of nostalgia about time and how I didn’t appreciate her enough when she was a newborn. I also don’t want to feel bad every time I wish I had a minute to myself or get a little frustrated when there’s something I want to do, but can’t.
“Put a plate on these girls’ heads! Stop growing!” my grandmother would wail to my sister and I. (don’t ask me about this expression - I have no idea what it means really…) I would always feel sort of sheepish in these moments. You see, I liked that I was getting taller, stronger, smarter. I was proud of my growing up.
A wise mother once told me every age is the best age. I like this advice. Do I sometimes miss the pudgy, sweet baby that Jo once was? Yes, of course. But mostly, I don’t. I like learning who she is right now. And I don’t beat myself up for how often during her infancy I was feeling exhausted, filled with self-doubt, wondering when she would gain a little independence and I could sleep. Those were genuine, entirely understandable feelings.
Always living and delighting and cherishing the moment might be asking you to be less than human.
I think this is partially because we demand so often that everybody be happy all the time! “I want my kids to be happy!” every parent says. I hope this for my kids too. But I also hope for them to be brave and kind and self-sacrificing. I hope they give more to others than they give to themselves. I hope they are thoughtful and engaged in the world. I hope they recognize injustices and aren’t afraid to fight against them. All these qualities may not ensure “happiness” (feeling good all the time) - but they will ensure a well-lived life.
“I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life; I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”
Theodore Roosevelt
Having a good life means there will be times when you are tired, frustrated, angry, in other words, feeling less than happy emotions. There’s also a reason trips like that Ireland adventure and (honestly) much of parenthood is only appreciated in retrospect. Because as I looked out across the expanse of those Irish hills I was so tired and hungry I simply couldn’t feel the full joy of that moment.
The good news? I get to feel it again. When I think back on those memories, when Chris and I laugh about how unprepared we were, how hungry we were, how exhausting the whole trip was, I feel a lot of joy and happiness when we talk about these things - especially the hard stuff, especially about the moments when I was miserable.
Isn’t this is a strange paradox?
I think it’s the same reason parents look through pictures of their kids after they’re asleep. With an hour or two to yourself, a full belly, and a glass of wine, you can really appreciate the beautiful day you’ve had and just how absurdly adorable those exhausting kids are. It’s not nostalgia, it’s delayed (and ultimately prolonged), joy.
Of course I sometimes think, wow if I only knew how rare and unique the amount of free time I had before kids was, I would have written the great American novel! or what I wouldn’t give to go back on that Scottish ride, I had no idea how lucky I was! But frankly this is a waste of time. I couldn’t know better! I hadn’t lived what would come next yet!
That’s life. Welcome to it! In all it’s exhaustion and misery and beauty. I’m not putting a plate on my kids’ heads, or my head for that matter. I welcome the wrinkles and the gray hairs someday for me - the growing taller and out of my arms for my kids.
So yes, slow down, kiss those pudgy baby cheeks, give the toddler a big hug, but don’t feel bad about the times when you’re not all there.
I refuse to be threatened by time - the cherished and the un-cherished.
So when someone says, ‘it goes so fast!’ or when you look at some pictures from college and go, ‘wow, life was easy then, had I only known!’ you can just give your present, past, and future self a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
All of this can be true and all of this can be okay and good and beautiful.
Now I have a wide-eyed beautiful baby smiling at me demanding I be here with her, in this moment, right now.
I think I’ll go do that - and make another cup of coffee, too.
I love this message. I've been thinking about it an coming back to it. My kid slept in this morning so i had time to think (HA!) and write.
My thoughts:
-No one posts pictures and talks about the negative aspects. I guess that would be pretty depressing over time. But as a "consumer", particularly on Instagram, you can start to enter into idolization at best and envy at worst.
-I listened to one of your podcasts recently and you said you were in Italy, freezing, looking at the stars and you made an intentional mental note that you were going to remember seeing a certain constellation. I have sometimes used that strategy too but I didn't know what it was until you spoke and wrote on it. It's not an emotional outpouring of gratitude in the present moment but sometimes a rational, willed action to remember something, a "cementing" in the brain that you can then (hopefully) later reflect on with gratitude, sentiment, nostalgia, etc.
-To your point on your grandmother saying to "put a plate on these girls' heads"- there's something off-putting about someone you love and adore seeming to be unsatisfied (?) disenchanted (?) unappreciative (?) about the process of life... Maybe when you're a kid with such short lived experience and you hear something like that from a loved adult, it can take away from your sense of goodness with the world and the way things are.
-"With an hour or two to yourself, a full belly, and a glass of wine, you can really appreciate the beautiful day you’ve had and just how absurdly adorable those exhausting kids are. It’s not nostalgia, it’s delayed (and ultimately prolonged), joy. " Love this thought. Yes. You can laugh about the struggles when you aren't in the thick of them. You have space from those emotions, more objectivity. And you can appreciate the good times more.
-"Of course I sometimes think, wow if I only knew how rare and unique the amount of free time I had before kids was, I would have written the great American novel! or what I wouldn’t give to go back on that Scottish ride, I had no idea how lucky I was! But frankly this is a waste of time. I couldn’t know better! I hadn’t lived what would come next yet!" I get caught up in this type of thinking and am constantly reminding myself that 1. the grass is always greener and 2. sometimes you just don't know until you live it and not to judge your younger self harshly for it.
Also, as an aside, I cannot express how much I enjoy your writing (and podcasts- I'm listening to them and am maybe halfway through...they're my car ride treats when trying to get toddler to sleep or chill) . You have a talent for putting thoughts into words and I enjoy learning about different things that you tie in.