Brittany Kelley's Motherhood Story
I drank a whole French press of coffee today every day this past week. They say that too much caffeine in a mother’s milk supply can sometimes cause an upset stomach in babies who are breastfeeding. My boy must be immune to the effects (‘atta boy, Judah).
My life is glamorous. No really, I mean it. I mean it in the way that most days my Dolce & Gabbana light blue is my 3-month-old’s spit up, my mascara can be recognized as flaked gifts from the Sand Man himself, and instead of channeling Donna Reed’s meat and potatoes on the table every night at promptly 5 o’clock, I can be found clambering about the kitchen fiddling with smoothie bowls and kale chips because that’s all I can spare time for. Darn you Donna Reed. When I say my life is glamorous, I mean it in the I just drank an entire French press by myself and wouldn’t trade it for anything kind of way.
I’m a full-time mom, a full-time wife, a full-time free-lance artist, and a full-time new business owner. On top of that I dream of being a women’s pastor, author, and coffee-truck owner. Oh, and I think I would like to have another baby in there somewhere. I am bonkers, and I genuinely believe all these occupations, titles, and dreams will flourish. I also believe that the road there will be ugly.
Four summers ago I worked on an organic produce and flower farm deep in a valley, nestled story-book like in the Smokey Mountains. I held tiny seeds in my palm, let the darkness swallow them, and months later ate their bounty as they emerged out as some kind of beautiful. Some kind of beautiful post a some kind of ugly journey.
Worms, competing roots, dampened and soiled black pressing in from every angle. The things that shaped them. The things that strengthened their own root systems, their own stalks, their own fruit. Their worms likened to the spit-up that has currently set up camp on several portions of my ponytail. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
That’s how I (try to) stay real. That’s how I (do my best to) stay bona-fide. I let the muck be muck because I trust the process. I don’t compartmentalize my life, I just let it flow as one big adventure. I trust the tears, and the sleep-less nights, and the dreams that everyone says are too big for my own good. I trust them to be my frenemies, the necessities in the tempering. I trust that they are in and of themselves the worms, the dark, chilly soil, the rooth-less neighboring root systems; that they are the very things, the very grounds in which my fruits, my beauty is meant to be deposited.
Don’t get me wrong; there is a lot of doubt, harnessed negativity, and brief moments of baking-until-there-is-no-more-flour-sugar-or-butter-left-in-my-kitchen along the way. The wormy moments, the ones that will make it worth it…and the ones that give me a lot of great baked goods in the process.
I trust in the beauty of the bounty and trust that the unseen is often much better than the seen, the glamour that only you can see. I also trust in the power of freshly baked cookies.
I trust in the process because my God, how great are those moments when you break through the darkness, and see the blue sky again for the first time. The moments where you ache for life’s pause button because it is all so sweet. Where dreams become realities and you see the fruit of perseverance—whatever that looks like for you.
The secret? Claim it all as glamorous. The good, the bad, the down right ugly. It’s YOUR life after all. Let it be alive, regardless of the season. Oh, and eat a lot of cookies (and kale chips) along the way.