This post is sponsored by Sonnet James. Shot in a playground I spent my childhood summers in.
One of my favorite quotes circulating Instagram lately comes from Nayyirah Waheed.
I smell my parents
on my words.
and I weep.”
I find this quote is beautiful, painful, and tragically true. Every so often, when I am with the kids, whether it be a moment of joy or in the midst of a tantrum, when anger and frustration is at a level so thick you can slice it, this poem swims into my gut. In those moments, it’s like I am battling my mother and my father-–the good and the difficult in both relationships. What I find more poignant than anything else, is how so much of my childhood past drips itself into my adulthood, the present and, possibly, the future.
Now, as a mother, why is it still so? And why do I still feel this internal, this sometimes external, push and pull with my own parents?
In my quest to be honest about this, I’ve found deep, soulful connection with other mothers feeling the same. For a while, it seemed that if I wasn’t willing to discuss dumping poop out of the small potty into the big toilet at 2 a.m. half asleep, we had nothing left to discuss. But behind the literal shit, when I was honest, was the truth, waiting to be shared.
When I met Whitney of Sonnet James, that same truth was all over her. I had recently given birth to Oak, and during that hot summer day, with big hair and a tired body, excited to participate in her collection, we connected in that truth—the past, the present, the future, the good and the difficult in all of it….
It has been two years since we shot the last collection, but this connection holds true, maybe even more now than before. River is going into first grade and Oak has one more year of pre-school; we are still in the same neighborhood, two apartments later, and back on the same exact street.
Part of my adulthood struggle is navigating through the pain of my adolescence. And while I love New York with every morsel of my soul, I am often face that old reality, that old struggle. There are beautiful and painful memories scattered and hidden on corners like little eggs on Easter. Part of my mission, not only as a mother, but as a woman, is to not let those little eggs become bombs that blow my footing away. I owe it to myself to peel the shell off, reveal what’s underneath, and use it as a tool to not only become a better version of me, but a more qualified version of their mother. Call it, therapeutic, intentional mothering.
Shot in-front of the apartment I lived in when I found out I was pregnant with River. Wearing the Joy dress
Sonnet James’ mission has always struck a chord in me. While I am all for fostering independent play for my children, my ideal position in motherhood is being present, with and without them. Part of being present is discovering all of those little eggs around Brooklyn that evoke a memory for me. Peeling them away in front of my children, exposed and often raw, oozing in the middle. And, in the end, cooking up magic from every part of it, while also being really honest with it all. Even the ever-present, unresolved pain—the pain that kind of shakes you in the middle of the night and sticks with you during the day, while you plaster a smiling face and get down and scoot along an uneven Brooklyn sidewalk.