slings and things

write I'm starting to realize that 98% of my "blogging" is happening on Instagram these days, so feel free to join in the fun - my handle is @eskjess

---

Which brings me to finally talk a little about a project near and dear to my heart. I recently wrapped up 6 months of writing, photography, and a sprinkling of art as a "sling diarist" for Sakura Bloom (www.sakurabloom.com). I've been a big fan of their ring sling baby carriers since Arlo was a baby, almost three years ago. My trusty linen sling became my go-to method of getting that boy out of the house - oh the walks we took, and the beautiful things I showed him. For a stroller-hating guy, it was the only way.

After Oscar was born, I was selected to write about motherhood and babywearing for volume 5 of Sakura Bloom's Sling Diaries series. It was a beautiful way to mark and remember the passage of time during what, quite honestly, was one of the hardest stretches ever. Our lives were a roller coaster in 2014, and having a creative outlet and community to share with probably saved my sanity on more than one occasion. My sling became more than just a baby carrier: it became a point of connection between me and my sons; and between me and thousands of other mothers, identifying with the same struggles and hopes and fears. It's a wild ride, full of lonely, hard days. And I learned that I am never, ever alone. 

So much more to say about the experience, which I'll save for another day. To read my full series on motherhood and babywearing and raising two boys, and to see some of the lovely photography that my very (VERY) patient husband did for me, hop on over to Instagram and visit the #jessicaslingdiary hashtag. 

On magic and tents and trying.

Yesterday there were tears and screaming and yelling and fighting and everything was chaos. Attempts at an absolutely necessary nap failed (like they do, every day). Everything was wrong. Everyone was tired and sniffling and miserable and everything was just wrong.

Screw it.

I made up two big bowls of ice cream, one for each of us. And we ate our ice cream while baby brother smiled and gurgled in his chair, still so unaware of how awesome ice cream is, and how it has the power to turn the day around.

But sometimes even ice cream isn't enough. Sometimes there is no enough.
---

Last weekend I found a brand new IKEA canopy at the thrift store and I was saving it for a moment when it was needed. We needed it.

I put it together and hung it from a low branch in the Japanese Maple. The fabric spilled out over the softest moss-covered patch in the yard, ground that springs and gives a little from the empty mole tunnels hidden underneath. A blanket billowed and settled. Giggles and smiles and dappled light. Books and quiet, looking up, pointing at leaves. I congratulated myself on really knocking it out of the park this time.

Bravo, mama. Well done. You are so spontaneous and magical and you totally were not about to lose your shit 20 minutes ago.

Five minute later, books were thrown. Every truck and toy in the yard ended up in the tent. If my idea of utopia is a twinkly patch of moss beneath a tulle tent, my son's idea of utopia is the exact opposite. And it most certainly involves trucks and lawn mowers and garbage cans and moving and running and dogs.

A bee flew into the tent. The baby cried. The tent got a hole in it. A truck crashed into my thigh over and over and over again. We hugged and tried and hugged and tried.

More books went flying.
Everyone's gone mad.

I piled everyone into the car, stopped at a drive-thru for a ridiculously expensive and unnecessary frozen caramel something-or-other, and I drove up into the hills. That's what I do now, when I don't know what else to do. I drive up. In five minutes, he was out and I sipped liquid caramel and listened to "All Together Now" on repeat for the 432nd time, blinking tears out of the corners of my eyes.

One, two, three, four, can I have a little more?

We passed horses and powerlines and fields of tall grass and brambles. The sound of baby blowing raspberries in the back, oblivious, happy. Little bare feet kicking, thunk thump.

Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, I love you.
---

Back in the driveway, parked under the shade of the big-leaf maple, I pulled the baby's carseat out and peeked at my firstborn, my big guy. Head slumped to the side, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, a truck in his hand. Dappled sunlight and softness everywhere.

in thirty years

in thirty years, I hope that I still feel good about most of the decisions I've made as a mother. I hope I go easy on myself, and I hope I don't harbor too much guilt.
(there is always guilt, it seems, with motherhood, so I'm expecting it. at least a little.)

I hope that mamas are wearing their babies like crazy, and that they don't get weird looks when they go to the grocery store with a baby slung to their side. mostly, I get curious looks. and the occasional "gosh I wish something like that existed when my kids were small," from kind older mothers. I hope it's nothing but another way to carry your little ones and not a "fad" or something that only crunchy (god I hate that term) mothers do. because it truly just makes life better. 

I hope the focus is on drawing our babies closer and letting them be small. I swear, my kid hit 18 months and suddenly everyone was looking at each other wide-eyed and frantic going, "where is he going to preschool?" what? really? no. calm yourself.

I hope that it really, truly, doesn't matter when or where a mother chooses to nurse her baby. and I hope that no mother ever feels bullied into covering up, or going to a separate room, or nursing in her car, or worse yet, in a public restroom. we are working hard to change that now, and in thirty years, I hope it's a shock to think that any woman was ever made to feel shame for feeding her baby however she chose to.

I hope that it's shocking that I had a cesarean delivery with my first son. I hope it's no longer one in three. I'm grateful that the medicine and technology exists to save babies. I'm not grateful for the mentality that babies are to be born on a schedule, or within a specific set of unrealistic parameters. I hope that birth is recognized as unique and beautiful and that it does not ever follow a textbook. I hope that every woman can find peace, power, and healing in her birth experiences, and not be left with trauma, however big or small.

I hope my sons grow to know how hard their mama tried. I hope they choose kind and gentle partners, and if they choose to have children of their own, I hope they come to me for support while navigating through the wilds of parenthood. And even if they don't become parents, I hope they come to me anyways.

I hope they wanna hang out. Not all the time, but every once in awhile would be cool. I'll make cookies.

I hope they feel loved.

I hope they don't remember the times that I lost it and yelled, and if they do remember, I hope they forgive me for it.

I hope that they find happiness, but I hope they know it's ok to not always be happy sometimes. I hope they are simply OK with being alive, and being human. there is greatness in simply existing.

I hope they know that it's OK to ask for help. I hope I know that, too.

I hope that it's easier to find a tribe of like-minded people to stick to. because that has been hard for this introvert.

I hope that technology exists so that socks automatically pair up the second they're pulled out of the laundry. because jesus h I cannot keep up with the socks.

I hope I have some really badass tattoos.

And a couple of chickens.

that's all.

warm

the past few days have been full of sunshine and sticky hands and sandy diapers and eating every meal outside. glorious.

(he's almost 6 months old and rarely stops smiling.)

I frequently post and mini-blog on Instagram - follow me @eskjess if you wanna keep up with the daily happenings. I'll still post here when I can, but I love how quick and easy IG is for me these days.

sunshine for all.

sunshine for all.

Doing stuff.

After Arlo was born, my husband and I would look at each other and marvel at all the time that we used to have. What did we do with all of it? Play around on the internet, watch TV, maybe. Yard work and house projects, on occasion. Mostly, it felt like we wasted it. And now that our second baby is here, I still find myself wondering what I did with "all that time" when I was the mother of just one kid.

You know what I did? I slept. I napped when that absolutely exhausting child napped, because MY LORD was I ever beat most of the time. So at least I feel like that "extra time" was well spent.

Now that there are two, and time is even more precious and naps for mama are getting harder and harder to come by, I am trying to do stuff. This winter I've forced myself to pick up the paintbrush or dust off my sewing machine, mostly to keep my sanity in my currently kid-centric universe. I need mama time. I need projects. I need to create.

I almost killed myself making hand-carved stamps for our holiday cards, but it was worth it. I love how they turned out.

And then I worked on a few sewing projects, mostly with a baby strapped to my chest in my trusty ring sling.

And most recently, I've been making some new jewelry pieces for my online shop. I also discovered that giving a toddler a pair of pliers and some beads makes for HOURS of entertainment. Seriously. 

And HOLY SMOKES, speaking of online shops...major changes with my old Etsy shop. Etsy was just getting too hard for me to work with, from the fees they charge, to keeping up with expired listings...it was just becoming less enjoyable and more costly than I wanted. So I have moved my little Window Ledge Shop to Storenvy, and I could not be happier. It's been so easy to set up, highly customizable, and very user friendly. Please check it out - I have a bunch of new earrings and necklaces up, and try to post new stuff every week.

You know. In my spare time.

Hello, Oscar.

Just a very quick update to say that baby Oscar arrived 11/8/13 after an absolutely intense and wonderful labor and birth. We're three weeks in to being the parents of two kids, and I've gotta say that it's going so much more smoothly than I could have ever expected.

It ain't easy, but as a wise friend once told me, nothing worthwhile ever is.

More soon. I hope.

toddler brain

You know, it was really therapeutic to do this simple and spontaneous little exercise and attempt to draw the contents of my 2 year-old's brain. This is maybe 1% of everything going on in there -- my hand got tired. But truly, it slowed me down and made me realize, yeah, there's a lot happening in that tiny noggin. Be patient. Breathe.