In The 12 Week Year, a business and productivity book, the authors write, “If you are not in control of your time, then you are not in control of your results.”

I agree to an extent, and before I say anything else, I’ll say this book and productivity concept has been very helpful for me. But the authors clearly are not talking to moms. Because this is one of the greatest frustrations I’ve had in my 7.5 years of motherhood: I am not (entirely) in control of my time.

Sure, there is a great deal I am in control of. I can control how I use naptime. I can control the activities my kids engage in. I can control our calendar and our schedule and what I write down on our to-do list.

My husband and I went away recently to a cute little Airbnb a couple hours from our house. It was part writing retreat for me, part babymoon before we welcome our fourth. My brother and sister-in-law held down the fort at home, entertaining our three other kids with movies and ice cream and all the things the best aunts and uncles do.

We had two nights to enjoy kid-free quiet, and yes, in many ways it was as luxurious as it sounds (despite my pregnant body feeling slow and uncomfortable and reckoning with the reality that I’m not exactly in my 20s anymore!). On Saturday morning, I slept in (8:30am!), drank coffee while it was still hot, stayed in my pajamas until lunchtime (OK, that’s not that uncommon these days), and generally moved at a glacial pace.

While my husband roamed around the house not quite knowing what to do with himself, I commented, “I’m finally going at a pace I can manage.”

I felt like I could keep up with the day, like I could move my body when it was ready. I could exercise, then rest. I could read a book, then write. And for once in my life, I wasn’t rushing out the door or running late.

I love when my husband makes me coffee in the morning––and I love really good, black coffee.

I love homemade bread with plenty of butter and a pinch of sea salt, sunny fall days, and unexpected acts of kindness.

I love fresh flowers and good quality candles, a big mug that feels comforting––like a well worn sweatshirt.

I love people who love my kids, cozying up under a soft blanket, and donning an oversized sweater. I love afternoon thunderstorms and leafing through beautiful cookbooks with doable recipes.

I love listening to my kids laugh, their giggles and grins spreading joy through the whole house. I love when they crawl into my lap first thing in the morning, sleep still in their eyes as they nuzzle their way into my chest.

I can tell they’re nervous. My son, Elijah, says as much, and my daughter, Isabel, sits quietly in the car. She’s almost never quiet, her silence a sure sign of apprehension. We pull into the parking lot and climb out of the minivan, my twins donning new backpacks, lunchboxes and masks. As we walk down the sidewalk, their nervousness spills over with a few tears and a thousand questions.

What if we don’t know where to go?
When do we eat lunch?
Where will you pick us up?
What if we forget something?

“I’m pregnant,” I tell my husband, matter-of-factly. By the fourth kid, the announcements get a little less creative and a little more impromptu. We stand in the middle of the kitchen, dirty dishes piled high in the sink and a stack of unopened mail next to us. I can see him start to lean on the corner of the counter, trying to gain his composure.

His eyes grow wide. “No… you’re not. Seriously?”

We’re planners and preparers, prone to meticulously calculate my cycle and predict when pregnancy can and cannot happen. This one takes us both by surprise.

I show him the positive pregnancy test, revealing those two pink lines like a confession. I always wanted one more; he was content with three. I’m unsure how to interpret his stunned silence.

“Are you mad?” I ask, trying not to cry.

“I just need to lay down for a few minutes,” I tell my husband, Colson, as soon as he walks in the door from work. It’s been a day, and I can feel the exhaustion in every muscle. The head cold making its way through our home seems to have camped out with me longer than everyone else. I also feel like I’ve been on the verge of throwing up pretty much all day long.

I collapse into bed, basking in the quietness of my room. Not three minutes later, I hear screaming.

You know the kind—it’s more than a tantrum and more than a bump or bruise. I should probably go see what’s going on.

I throw off my comforter and stomp down the stairs, a bit too annoyed at the audacity of my child to interrupt my precious alone time with her yelling.

“What’s going on?” I ask Colson, with more than a hint of frustration.

“Izzy fell. I think it’s bad.”

One of my goals this past year was to have more fun.

I am pragmatic to a fault, so I confess, I had to put “fun” on my to-do list. As I write, I can see the notecard taped above my desk with my goals—fun written near the top in pink permanent marker.

Maybe you can guess how well that goal is going. I think I can safely assume 2020 went nothing like anyone planned and 2021 hasn’t been much easier. Maybe fun has been hard to come by. Even if this season has brought sweet moments at home or unexpected gifts, maybe you’re still feeling pressed down by a thousand tiny weights. Or maybe it’s one big boulder you’re carrying. Whatever the case, whether you’re anxious about this fall’s school situation, grieving injustice, fearful about the future, discouraged, or just plain tired, I want to remind us of something.

You are still allowed to have fun.

My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.

I’ve never been great at keeping plants alive. Every year, I eagerly purchase tomatoes and cucumbers, lettuce and green beans. I block off time on a weekend to put them in the ground, optimistic this will be the year I finally make salads and sauces, sides and stews with what I grew in my own backyard. Last year, the tomatoes withered by July and a rabbit ate the entire lettuce plant within 24 hours. We got a few green beans and a cucumber—a successful crop, I suppose, if you compare it to previous summers. But there are only so many side dishes you can make when you harvest two or three green beans at a time.

Almost every morning, he brings me coffee.

He sets the cup on my nightstand, and I grunt and roll over. I’ve never been one to start my day jumping out of bed with a smile. A few minutes later he squeezes my shoulder before walking downstairs, offering a gentle reminder that my beloved drink is getting cold.

Even on the rare day when I wake up before everyone else, I know the coffee will be ready. The night before, he sets the pot to brew first thing in the morning. He puts my favorite mug next to it—the oversized one that will hold enough caffeine to keep me fueled for at least a few hours.

At my childhood home, we had a massive oak tree that towered over almost the entire yard. It housed squirrels and birds, provided shade as we played in the grass, and supported a tire swing we enjoyed for hours on end.

But I never noticed the tiny movements that made its branches stretch over the lawn or its roots dig deep into the earth. I never saw it grow, yet somehow that tree changed from a seed to a towering oak.

Apparently tiny movements add up.