I brought my girls and a friend to the beach yesterday, and happened to plop myself in front of a group of three moms and their kids. Clearly, they knew each other and had the afternoon planned well in advance. Based on the conversation I overheard and behavior I observed (one of the moms took 20 minutes to test her daughter on time tables), I deduced that these three were homeschooling moms.

“Sorry, you get a front row seat to all of this,” said one of the moms after lots of kiddo action transpired three feet from my beach towel.

“No worries,” I said. “I have another one at home who’d typically be adding to our chaos if he was here, so I totally understand. No problem at all.”

“How old is your son?,” she asked.

“13,” I replied.

“So you know way more than we do,” she said.

“Well, looks like two of yours are boys, so you’re quite experienced as well,” I added.

And that was it.

That was my interaction with ONE of those THREE moms.

After that brief interchange, we went about our own business. She continued conversing with the two moms. I continued chilling on my beach towel, watching my two girls and a friend play in the water.

I’ve been a mom for nearly 14 years now.

In the first 12 years of motherhood, I experienced the whole realm of working motherhood. I worked FULL-TIME, FOUR days a week, THREE days a week, TWO days a week, and ONE day a week at some point or another during those 12 years. All things considered, two and three days a week seemed to be the best fit for me.

But then I was called to step away from my work as a speech-language therapist to pursue writing and photography. In order to make a real run at writing and photography, I KNEW I needed to stop my therapy work entirely. So for the past 18 months, I’ve lived this very ODD life of being a full-time stay-at-home mom AND a mom who’s trying to launch two work-at-home careers.

Let me tell you, I’ve learned a great deal about stay-at-home moms during these past 18 months. More than I ever thought I’d learn. More than I ever cared to learn. Enough to give me a TRUE perspective on what it’s really like to be a full-time stay-at-home mom.

First of all, staying at home full-time in America is NOT a cake walk. For the most part, it is NOT valued by our capitalistic, work-centered culture. I don’t know the statistics and no need to go into the details, but everyone knows that the majority of modern-day moms work outside the home in some capacity. And most of the moms who stay home full-time have children on the younger side. So if you’re a mom of children of mixed ages like me (13, 11 & 4), the whole stay-at-home mom situation gets even more awkward and makes you even more of a rare bird.

In America, if you’re not actively making money, you’re not as valued. We like to believe we value full-time stay at home moms, but to be honest, now that I’ve experienced full-time stay-at-home motherhood, I’m not sure we do.

In America, if you can’t answer the question “What do you do?” with a real, active job title, you’re up a creek. “You stay at home full-time? Oh.” (Awkward pause. Person doesn’t know what to say. Person wonders what you DO with your day. Person wonders WHY you have an education but you’re not using it. Person wonders WHY you have solid experience in the workforce and aren’t “working” anymore. Think I’m making this up? No way. It’s humiliating and humbling.)

In our neighborhood, streets are pretty much EMPTY during the daytime. I’d go so far to say that our neighborhood streets are pretty much EMPTY during the daytime, even in the summer. When I’m home alone with my daughter during the day and she wants to play with kids, I can’t guarantee even ONE child will be available in the neighborhood. Maybe yes? Probably no. Let’s just say this…I’ve resorted to texting the neighborhood daycare lady so we can meet at the neighborhood park once in a while.

In America, if you’re a highly educated woman who’s staying home full-time with her children, you have days where you feel incredibly vulnerable. Is this really the right choice for me and my children? Am I wasting my college degree? Are my children really better off with me at home, or would they be better off at daycare or day camp where all the other children are having fun socializing and doing fun kid stuff together all day? Honestly, most of the time, I’m not really sure.

I’m new to this staying at home space, and won’t be here much longer. Only 14 months of staying home full-time before all three of my children are in school full-time. Once they’re all in school full-time, I’ll be focusing solely on writing and photography and other related PAID and UNPAID endeavors during the daytime hours. So honestly, I’m not really seeking long-term answers for myself. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have experienced stay-at-home motherhood, and when I look back at this time of my life, I know I’ll never regret it.

But here’s the thing.

Many days, I wish I could step outside to a village full of moms and children doing this motherhood and childhood thing together. The moms would chat about all the things that matter and don’t matter. Perhaps they’d begin dinner preparations together, or enjoy lunch together. The children would run, play and entertain themselves. There’d never be a shortage of kids, because staying at home to raise the children would be the norm. You’d always know that if you stepped outside, the village would be waiting. Kids here. Moms there. Support everywhere. People who understood your stay-at-home mom lifestyle everywhere. (I’m unrealistically optimistic, okay? I fully realize I’m not in Africa anymore.)

Since we don’t live in villages in America, it’s imperative that we not only embrace, but adopt and whole-heartedly support secret societies of stay-at-home moms that are already in existence.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms at the gym.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms at Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) groups.

Secret societies of stay-at-home homeschooling moms.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms doing playdates together.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms at the maze on Monday, toddler Tuesday at the mall, the park reserve on Wednesday, swimming at the pool on Thursday, and the zoo on Friday.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms who bring meals to one another when life gets crazy.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms who can lend a hand for an hour or two when you just can’t do this anymore.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms who get it, who understand it, who can say “yep, been there, done that, I totally get it!”

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms who can love and support and care for one another in the best and worst of times.

Secret societies of stay-at-home moms who do life together, who honor one another’s hard, hard work, who understand that this lifestyle has value and worth beyond measure.

I think I was sitting behind a secret society of stay-at-home homeschooling moms yesterday at the beach. Good for them! I’m grateful they have a space to joke “We need to go to counseling together,” and “I get so agitated with her dyslexia, dysgraphia and ADHD.” I’m grateful that one of those moms felt comfortable enough around the other moms to scold her child “Stop kicking that sand, move away, it’s getting in our faces!” and NOT feel like a “terrible mom.” I’m grateful they were able to eat lunch together and chat while their children played in the sand. I’m grateful they had an opportunity to feel supported and loved and cared for. I’m grateful they created this secret society for themselves.

Stay-at-home moms. Rise above the mainstream. Keep up those secret societies! Build them. Support them. Nurture them. Invite other moms to them. Never, ever forget that America’s in desperate need of secret stay-at-home societies. Never, ever forget that moms are in desperate need of secret stay-at-home societies.

If staying at home full-time has value and we want it to be more highly valued in the United States of America, we MUST find a way to support our stay-at-home moms and children.

Secret Societies of Stay-at-Home Moms.

They’re a solution to an epidemic of a problem.

Moms and children need support. Moms and children need community. Moms and children need love. Moms and children need to know they’re not going crazy. Moms and children need to know they’re making good choices for their family.

Period.

End of story.

 

This is a guest post written by my younger sister, Tiffany, who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. Tiffany has shared a monthly guest post on my blog since February 2015. The purpose of her regular posts is to raise awareness of what it’s like to live with mental illness. Last month, Tiffany honored our mom’s unique journey through motherhood with a guest post thanking her for all the ways she’s supported my sister from childhood to current day. This month, Tiffany is honoring our dad with a special post for Father’s Day. If you’d like to read all the posts written about Tiffany’s journey, check out the mental health page. Without further ado, here’s Tiffany.

Who is my dad?

Those who have interacted with him know he loves people, always making small talk with people he comes across in life. My dad has always been a role model to me, and I’m sure to others as well. My dad is waiting another month to be put on the lung transplant list. My hope for my dad is for him to live a few more years without having to rely on oxygen. To take walks together, to talk a few more years and to have my dad around a little bit longer.

My dad has always been my cheerleader. I always remember him saying when I was younger and many times now, “Way to go Tiff, you can do it.” His encouraging words always seem to make me feel better. My dad has always pushed me further than I thought I could go. I feel that I succeeded in many activities and stayed strong because of my dad.

My dad worked two jobs while my sister, brother and I were growing up. He was a band director and a car salesman. He always left time to hang out with his family. Our family would have dinner each night and hang out with my dad while my mom was cleaning up from dinner. We would practice our instruments, fly kites, go to the park and play what we would call “tricks.” Our “tricks” consisted of being held up in the air with my dad’s feet and arms. We would sit on his foot and be pulled around, and we’d ride around on his back. My dad was the one who taught me how to pray. He would pray with us, and us kids would fall asleep afterwards.

My dad and I have always taken walks together. Before he was sick I could barely keep up with him. We’d talk about whatever and look at the stars together. One of the only consistent stars I can point out is the big dipper. We still have our talks, which we’ve had since I was younger, but they’re just different now. I am looking forward to the future, so we can take walks and fast walks again.

My dad has been through my life during the ups and downs. After completing my bachelors degree from the University of Minnesota – Duluth, I worked for a few years in Minneapolis. After that, I decided to check out The Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising (FIDM) in Los Angeles. My dad flew out to LA to look at the school and for places to live. I was going to live in Venice Beach.

During one of our trips to the Los Angeles area, we took the bus a few places. My dad was communicating with everyone. I told him that in LA, everyone doesn’t talk to each other. We had coffee at a place that ended up being my favorite in the hood. I left my dad at the coffee place and took off to hang with some new friends. We played music together. Then I went back to pick my dad up.

My dad came to visit a few times during my time in Los Angeles. On one of his lasts visits to me in LA was mass confusion. I was working with Jim Carrey as an extra in an airport scene in a movie, and I had to go and pick my dad from another airport. The people I was working with wanted me to change my wardrobe, and I did not want to stand in the wardrobe line again. I was crying and Jim Carrey asked what was going on with me. The issue was resolved. On my way to pick up my dad from the other airport, the battery on my phone died. I started getting psychotic! My dad was in LA for over two weeks, and I rarely saw him. I get very emotional when I think of our times in LA. My dad always introduces me as an actress. The truth is that I never envisioned myself as an actress. I do NOT have good memory skills. I was pretty good in the background, and I miss all the lights and cameras.

My kids have been able to utilize my dad as a father figure. He enjoys when they’re around if they are behaving well. We are working on that. My dad’s energy is very low right now, but we’re doing what we can. My dad has a boat that we try to go on as much as possible during the summer months. He reads a lot with my kids. He treats my kids similar to the way he raised us, always playing and big hugs and have a good day. I know my growing up years were great. I know that my kids and I are being helped the right way by my parents and others.

One guy in my history of my living has asked my dad for his blessing to marry me. I’ve known for a few years that I was not in the right place to get married, not yet. I wasn’t sure if my dad would be strong enough to walk me down the aisle. It just makes me sad. As I was walking out from an appointment at the hospital the other day, I was thinking to myself that I am prepared to take this journey alone. Then I looked down and noticed a fairly large diamond. I told the hospital I found it, but nobody has claimed that diamond, so it’s mine, I guess?! Either way, I am prepared for whatever God chooses for me. If I could find some guy who treats me as my dad has, maybe I’d make some sort of decision?!

My dad has always been the person in my life who I can talk to without being judged or feeling judged. My dad is a very positive person, most of the time. I have learned a lot from my dad’s style of living. I wish him many wonderful years ahead, full of love.

Tiffany

This is a guest post written by my younger sister, Tiffany, who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. Once a month, Tiffany documents a single day in her life. The purpose of these posts is to raise awareness of what it’s like to live with mental illness. I’m also hoping the posts will help readers recognize that we all have hopes, dreams, challenges and mountains to climb regardless of our mental health status. If you’d like to read the posts I’ve written about Tiffany’s journey and all the guest posts she’s shared on this blog, check out the mental health page. Without further ado, here’s Tiffany.

My daughter, Raegan, started kindergarten yesterday. The process of changing routines was a bag of mixed emotions for both of us. I turned my daughter over to very educated, caring and knowledgeable individuals.

Prior to placing the kids in kindergarten classes, testing was done on each child. The kids were placed in rooms evenly, based on their current abilities. While Raegan was being tested, I sat with other parents and filled out paperwork. I had a difficult time concentrating on what needed to be filled out. I noticed my mind drifting at times. Questions needed to be answered, such as “What calms your child?” I was overthinking, including focusing on my grip. I wondered if I seemed out of place. During this process, I was also going through medication changes, so my self doubt was high. I have since started a new medication for ADHD, and am feeling calm.

During the testing, I was attempting to figure out how Raegan was going to get to and from school. I have decided that most days I will be delivering her and picking her up. One of the teachers in the room said to me, “This is Kindergarten, no worries. Everything works out.”

The day arrived when we would meet Raegan’s teacher and classmates. Raegan picked out a pink, black and white dress to wear with one of her favorite sweaters. My mom suggested that she wear her new black boots with the outfit. I did not want to tell my mom that I hadn’t seen the boots around for days. I searched and searched for the black boots and could not find them, so I put some tennis shoes on her and they worked. But my mind was focused on the black boots. They were eventually found at the neighbor’s place.

We left for the night with plenty of time to spare. We arrived at the meet the teacher event, and Raegan went running in front of me. I could sense her excitement and confidence. We arrived too early, so we decided to play outside. A former classmate of mine and his son were playing in the same area. Raegan begged me to play with her. I told her no. She needed to know that I am not always going to be able to walk beside her, holding her hand. Raegan soon yelled, “Hello, I need someone to play with.” The boy on the playground came right over. I was happy she had the confidence to speak her mind. Raegan will fit in just fine.

We proceeded inside and looked at the class lists. We also participated in a scavenger hunt, getting to know the school. We met some of the other kids in her classroom. The little boy she was playing with outside happened to be in her class and sits next to her as well.

There was a letter to open the night before the first day of kindergarten. I decided to let Raegan open the letter on Sunday morning while my brother was in town for the weekend. Inside, there was a letter from the teacher and sprinkles to put under her pillow for a good night’s rest. Raegan placed a few sprinkles under her pillow. Still to be determined what will happen with the rest of the sprinkles.

All preparations for the first day of school.

The first day of school arrived. I set my alarm early so I could get ready before the kids woke up. When I woke Raegan up, she started screaming. She wanted to sleep longer. I’m hoping that school wears her out. We had a wrestling match getting her clothes on for the day.

Then we stopped over to my parents’ place to relax and take some pictures. I left my son, Xander, with my parents and Raegan and I were off to school.

I did not really feel sad, because as I stated earlier, Raegan is being well taken care of. I feel she is ready for this new venture?! We sat with a couple neighbor girls and their moms for breakfast at school. I brought Raegan to her room and said, “See you later.” She was more concentrated on school than saying anything to me.

All the preparations for this big day, my firstborn’s first day of kindergarten, were worth it. Overall, I felt completely comfortable with the day. Raegan seemed to adjust to her new life, and got to be a line leader for having good listening skills. I’m learning the ropes of having a child in school, but still need to conquer the listening skills at home. I anticipate a wonderful year for Raegan. Thanks for reading!

Tiffany

Dear Maisie,

Today when I was getting you a fork for your mandarin oranges, you kindly reminded me you’re not a baby anymore.

“I don’t need a little fork. I’m big. Babies need little forks.”

You slid that baby fork with rounded, metal prongs and a pink, plastic handle across the counter quick. I gave you an all-metal, big girl fork instead.

How silly of me.

I have to admit, I did find baby spoons in the silverware drawer yesterday and wondered why I’d kept them there all this time. You haven’t used those baby spoons for at least 2 1/2 years now. Maybe I was saving them for some other baby. Either way, it’s probably time for those baby utensils to go in the garage sale pile.

This isn’t new to me. I’ve been in denial for months now. Okay, let’s be real. I’ve been in denial for at least a couple years. For goodness sakes, you’re closer to four than you are three, now. You’re most certainly NOT a baby anymore.

Back in May, before the big kids finished school, I forced myself to un-baby your bedroom. At least a little bit. I took off the changing pad you hadn’t used in months. I put away all the baby books. I cleaned out the baby clothes I had sitting on the side of your dresser, and put half in a Rubbermaid and half in the garage sale pile. I put your beautiful, handmade burp cloths in your memorabilia box. (They didn’t get burped on that much, right?) And I finally turned off the baby monitor and receiver I’d been OVER-using for years. Daddy had been annoyed by that thing forever and a day, and asked me to shut it down a hundred times. I just couldn’t. So that day, I finally turned them off. But they’re still sitting on your nightstand and mine, you know. Just in case. Someday. We haven’t had it in the budget to get you a big girl bed, so you’ll stay in the toddler bed for now. It’s okay with me as long as you don’t grow too big before spring.

You start preschool tomorrow. Preschool.

Half days, I think you’re still a baby.

But half days, I know you’re a big girl. You’re bored. You’re ready. You wish and want for something more.

I’ve seen you since school started for the big ones. Longing for 3 and 4-year-old companionship, you run, at least once a day to the neighbors’ houses to see if your tiny friends are home to play. But they aren’t home. They’re gone. To daycare. To grandma’s house. To school. You’re not so hot on me anymore. You’d rather be with them.

This is a sign.

A sign you’re ready for preschool.

A sign you’re not a baby anymore.

A sign you’ve grown beyond 24/7, mama/baby cuddle time.

It’s been a journey, that’s for sure. We weren’t sure if we were going to have you. Meaning, we weren’t sure if we were going to have a third child. For years and years, we pondered, worried and waited. What if? What then? But when your daddy and I were growing in years and realized I’d be 35, near 36, and he’d be 38, we knew it was time to decide. One last baby now. Or nevermore.

So we prayed on you. We prayed over you. Separately. Individually. God said yes to both of us. Yes. It’s time for a third.

Your birth changed everything for me. Everything.

In many senses, your birth meant I was no longer free. No longer free to do what I wished five days a week during the school year. No longer free to run errands anywhere, anytime while dad watched two big (and fairly easy) kids. No longer free to workout at my leisure. No longer free of daycare costs. No longer free to clean the house and work whenever and however much I wanted. No longer free of diapers, wipes and breast pumps. No longer free of baby costs, preschool costs, and still-to-come big kid costs. No longer free of baby seats, car seats and strollers.

But in so many other more important senses, your birth freed me. Freed me to realize God has grace, gifts and good things in store if only we trust. Freed me to start my blog. Freed me to pursue things I love and always wanted to do. Freed me to become myself. Freed me to laugh and love more than I thought I could. Freed me to chill out a bit. Freed me to use those diapers and wipes, breast pumps and strollers one more time. Freed me of the burden I’d carried for years, wondering if we should have one more child. Freed me to try full-time stay-at-home motherhood, even if it was for one, last kid. Freed me to feel much more complete with my family, myself and my life.

In other words, you’re worth it. We’re glad we had you, Maisie.

I’ve battled a bit between wanting you to stay a baby forever, and wanting you to grow up so I could have my mom-of-big-kids freedoms back. I’ve held you like a baby, tickled you, laughed and stared into your sparkly eyes far too long. And I’ve encouraged nap times so I could have a moment to myself, to do what I want and need to do. I’ve despised when older moms tell me to “enjoy every moment,” because I don’t think that’s realistic. And I’ve enjoyed every moment because I know you’re my last.

My last baby.

My last baby to lift and hold in one fell swoop. My last baby to read books to by the toddler bed. My last baby who can’t brush her own teeth yet. My last baby who still likes applesauce in cups. My last baby who thinks McDonald’s toys are the bomb. My last baby who calls me “mama.” My last baby whose week’s worth of clothes, blankets and shoes can fit in one tiny duffle bag. My last baby who’ll squeal in delight when we go on the Dumbo ride next month at Walt Disney World. My last baby who’ll have her first airplane ride. My last baby who needs help cutting her pizza and meat. My last baby who needs me at the playground. My last baby who cries when I drop her off at Sunday school. My last baby who’s going to preschool.

Bye, baby. You’re a big girl now.

You’re going to preschool tomorrow.

I’m so excited for you. And I’m so excited for me.

It’s a new journey.

Time to move on to what’s next.

Time to move on to what God has in store for you, for me, for our whole family.

You’re not a baby anymore.

But you’ll always be my baby.

Love,

Mama

This letter to my 3 1/2-year-old daughter, Maisie, is last of a three-part letters series I’m writing to my children as we’re entering major transitions for each of them. I wanted to capture my thoughts and feelings before the moment passed. If you want to read my letter to my near 13-year old son, Cooper, click here. If you want to read my letter to my 10-year-old daughter, Elsa, click here. 

Dear Elsa,

You started middle school this week. 5th grade to be exact. I’m not sure where the years went, but here we are. You’re 10 1/2 and minutes away from completing your first week of 5th grade.

I have some things I’d like to discuss with you before you get any bigger, before you go any further in life. These things I want to talk about are important. Really important. They’ll impact your life potentially forever, so it’s best we address them now. (I know, I’m such a mom.)

First off, you started talking about being the “middle child” last spring. Enough of that. Okay? Can we be done with all that “middle child” talk before it goes any further? I want you to know with all of my heart, with every ounce of my being, that we were 1,000% aware of this so-called “middle child syndrome” before we decided to have a third child. We knew that having a third child would mean you’d be in the middle. But we reread the birth order book and asked the experts, and according to them, any gap between the second and third child that’s more than 5 years messes up the whole birth order business. Do you remember there’s almost 7 years between you and your baby sister? That means that we see YOU as our first baby girl. And while your sister is the third child (the baby of the family) she also acts as a functional only child because of the large gap between the two of you. We never, ever want you to feel like a slighted, less than, overlooked “middle child.” A parent never intends that for their child, and we certainly thought and overthought that a million ways before we had you. So please, before we go any deeper with these “middle child” references, can we just stop? If it’s our favorite “The Middle” TV show that’s influenced you wrongly, please don’t let them talk you into this “middle child” business. Your place in our family is unique. We thought of you most extensively before we brought your baby sister into the world. And we love you as our daughter. You are your own person with your own set of beautiful gifts and talents. So please rest assured in who you are, your unique place in our family, and your unique place in this world. There’s only one you.

On a similar note, I noticed that a deadly word started creeping into your vocabulary this summer. Perfect. Ugh. You know how much I hate that word. You must know now. There is no such thing as perfect. No human being, no circumstance, no place or thing is perfect. You’ve referenced the fact that you like your clothes to be perfect, that you want to make sure your hair is perfect. I just want you to know that seeking perfect, that striving for perfect will get you nowhere fast. Your longing for perfection will only be found in heaven. I’ve called you on your perfect references, and I’ve explained why it’s not a goal I want you striving for. Let me tell you something. I’ve been there done that. Perfect? It’s been my goal, the thing I’ve been striving for, the thing I’ve been longing to be, the thing I’ve been trying for so long, the thing I’m dying a slow death over. SO done with that. SO not attainable. I’m still working it out at 39+ years old. So sweetie, just let go of perfect now. Okay? Right now. Before its snares grab ahold of you tighter. Let it go. Let go of any and all notions of perfection.

I have some more things to say, if you don’t mind. This is sounding more like a preaching session, so before I go any further, please accept my apologies and acknowledgement that I am being sort of preachy. I want what’s best for you and I do believe these items are critical for a girl in middle school who will soon be a young lady.

Now let’s move on to some things that are amazing about you!

I love that you’re SO confident in your skin. Body image isn’t a concern of yours one bit. I’m so grateful. I’m so glad. I’m elated beyond words. Can we keep it that way? Because as far as I’m concerned, the more years we can squeak by with you feeling completely confident in your own skin, in your own body, the better! Odds are, there’ll come a time when you’ll wake up to the world of fashion models and movie stars and how you’re “supposed to look” and you’ll turn that ugly corner. But for now, I’m LOVING that you’re LOVING yourself and that body of yours. Don’t let your friends, boys, TV or YouTube videos sway your opinion about yourself. Be confident. Rest assured that you are awesome! You are cute! You are beautiful. You are sweet, smart, social and hard working.

Keep being yourself. You have a crazy-good, fierce blend of my sensitivity and your dad’s extroversion. That’s a powerful blend for you, girl. You’re going places. You love people. You love socializing. You love being in the center of the action. You love to know what’s happening and where it’s happening and how long before we can get there and go there. Am I right, or what?! You love fashion, and you love style. You love styling hair, and you love doing nails. (Where in the world did that come from? I hate painting my nails!) You’re sensitive. Empathetic. So much so that you cry when I cry. Maybe it’s a curse. Maybe it’s a blessing. It’s all good. You’re a sweet soul. Keep being who you are. I’m not here to stop you. Sure, I don’t like socializing or hair or nails nearly as much as you, but I’m in. I’m fully in to whoever you are, whoever you want to be, wherever you are. I’m in. All in. So go, girl. Be yourself. Do your thing.

Last, but most certainly, not least. Don’t stop asking questions. Like “Why do the clouds get dark when it’s going to rain?” “Why do I have everything I need and want, and they don’t have anything?” about children living in extreme poverty. And “Are God and Jesus the same?” It’s good to have questions. It’s good to ask questions. You will continue to have questions as you grow up. Keep asking. As human beings, we must keep asking the hard questions. We must keep allowing ourselves to wonder WHY. Don’t stop asking. Keep that curiosity. Keep that open mind. Keep questioning status quo. Keep wondering why and how and why not? Those questions will bring you far. Those questions will set you apart from those who choose to look away, from those who choose to stop asking, from those who just don’t care to ask anymore. Those questions will help you see things others don’t see. And eventually, those questions will make you wise beyond your years.

With those deep thoughts in mind, I guess that’s about all I have to say today.

I’m proud of you. You’re awesome. You’re a sweet surprise. And a beautiful delight.

Keep being you, just as you are.

We love you,

Mom

This letter to my 10-year-old daughter, Elsa, is second of a three-part letters series I’m writing to my children as we’re entering major transitions for each of them. I wanted to capture my thoughts and feelings before the moment passed. If you want to read my letter to my near 13-year old son, Cooper, click here. If you want to read my letter to my 3 1/2-year-old daughter, Maisie, click here.