THE NEW LIFE

Sometimes I get nostalgic, thinking about our old life. The one that was just Brad and I. Waking up on Saturday mornings to the roar of a jet boil and the smell of coffee brewing. Gazing up at the morning light streaming through a dew-covered tent and feeling the cool, mountain air on my face. Afternoons spent hiking or climbing or floating or skiing or whatever the hell we wanted really, with the only thought of logistics being which one of us was going to make sure there was beer in the cooler for afterwards. Laying in bed at night, scheming about which country we’d be able to get to next. Before the thought of traveling abroad brought up horrific thoughts of ruined nap schedules in 6-hour time-zones.

The adjustment to parenthood has been one of epic proportions. It really is a whole new life. One where get-up-and-go adventures don’t really exist. Where time spent in the outdoors must be plotted and calculated and planned for. Where chaos must often be tolerated and go-with-the-flow attitudes most absolutely assumed in order to survive.

We’ve tried our best to get out there with Ketch.

We spent our winter dragging hundreds of pounds worth of bottles and diapers and car seats and toys – along with skis and boots and polls and winter coats and hats from our house to our truck to resort lobbies and back – most definitely the hardest I’ve ever worked for a handful of days on the mountain.

We spent our spring road tripping through the desert en route to the Grand Canyon. Brad tolerating his Nazi-wife in the backseat who wouldn’t let him get out to pee under any circumstance if the baby was sleeping and who completely and utterly lost it on the 18 hour car ride back…eventually chugging four Starbucks doubleshots and driving through the night until 6am rather than subjecting that baby to another day in the car. 

We’ve spent our summer exploring Montana by Scamp. Trading in our light-weight camping gear for a 1,500 lb glamp-worthy trailer, which has proven itself quite useful when it comes to things like 96 degree weather and swarms of mosquitoes and sleeping outside with a kid.

And sometimes – to tell you the honest truth – it’s hard as hell. We’ve had nights where we’ve turned around and gone home at 11 pm, hikes where we’ve called it and retreated 15 minutes in. Sometimes it’s stressful and sometimes we argue and sometimes Ketch decides for us that we’ll all just stay home.

But I will say. That everything we’ve done, be it failed attempt or day spent in the sunshine, has been completely and utterly worth it. 

We’ve gotten to snuggle Ketch in sleeping bags while looking up at desert stars. Expose him to the taste of fresh mountain air and the feeling of dirt between his tiny toes. He’s torn apart leaves and thrown rocks and nearly poked his eyes out with sticks. He’s dipped his feet into fast moving rivers and splashed his fingers into cold mountain lakes. And although there have been some tears, there has also been wonder. Fascinations with tree bark and caterpillars and spiders and sand.

And even though it’s tested Brad and I’s relationship a time or two – it’s also given us moments together that we’ve desperately needed. Because as magical as is to raise a tiny human, it can also be so fully enthralling that you loose yourself. You can get so busy filling them up with love and attention and stories and snacks that you forget to feed your soul. And sometimes it takes walking through the belly of a canyon or staring at your husband through a flickering campfire to remember who you were, who you are, and who you want to be.

We always try our very best to respect Ketch’s limits. We always try to laugh through the disasters (or at least afterwards).  We always try to learn from our mistakes. We almost always have a post attempt beer.

Every weekend feels like a learning process. Every forgotten item is forever ingrained in the packing list memory. And now we know things. Like an adult hat can take the place of a baby one with some tissues, duct tape and a little perseverance. Like cheese is the magic solution to buckling a kid in a pack without any tears. Like baby bug wipes are way better than baby bug sprays. And that breaking for a bit in the shade can mitigate almost any meltdown. We’ve learned that progression is best achieved gradually, and that small victories (like getting through a three and then five and then six mile hike) should be celebrated.

And while I know we both miss the days of grand adventure – we’ve come to the conclusion that these small trips can be pretty rad too. That we can continue to do the things we love, all be them in a much modified fashion. The next few years won’t be about finding big routes or pushing ourselves beyond our comfort zones, but they will be about staying active in a way that makes us happy. That allows us to share what we love with our kiddo – who of course is the greatest adventure of all.

And, so – to all of my other outdoor loving parents out there sacrificing climbing years and braving aborted missions and risking ear piercing tantrums. I see you. I commend you for your efforts. I hope what we’re doing is worth it. That the outdoors will teach our kids curiosity and flexibility and perseverance and gratitude. And that the time spent there, helps us remember ourselves – and be the kind of parents we want to be

MOTHERHOOD

Motherhood is a mess.

A beautiful, disastrous, wonderful catastrophe. A land of sleepless nights and spit up covered shoulders and locks of hair tangled in tiny fists of drool. An oh-so-sweet and ever-so-exhausting place - where I am very ungracefully learning to live.

The first few weeks of Ketch were so unbelievably perfect. My mom and sister had flown in and the five of us laid on the couch in a pool of newborn baby awe, snuggling and listening to records and eating all the soft cheeses that tasted like heaven after 9 months of deprivation. It was an Indian summer kind of fall, and the mountains were purple and the leaves were green and the air was warm. And even though I couldn’t take more than 15 steps from that couch without my bladder feeling like it was going to fall out of body, we opened all the windows, loved on our brand-new bundle and soaked in every second of bliss.

But there was also so much that was so unbelievably hard in those first few weeks. The morning after Ketch was born, they told us he likely had a heart defect and would need surgery (which thank God and thank God and thank God again was a false alarm). Then he had an umbilical cord issue that caused him to leak a massive amount of blood all over me one night while nursing, a circumcision scare, which I’ll spare you the details on, an afternoon that lasted an eternity waiting in the hospital lobby for jaundice results and an all-out, hell-bent, full on brawl with breastfeeding.

In all my life, I have never experienced something that just feels so much like everything – all at once. Joy and fear and love and terror, panic and perfection all mixed and swirled and splattered over the canvas that once was your life. 

Here you are, with this utterly amazing little creature. That you love with such depth it can’t even be put into words – that you that you are so viscerally connected to, you physically feel their pain. And all you want is to give them the moon and the stars, to protect them from ever feeling any ounce of hurt, to make their first days on this earth – and every day after beautiful and wonderful and perfect. But you have no fucking idea what you’re doing. And you haven’t slept in days and your poor little body is beat, desperately trying to recover from the pelvic carnage that occurs when delivering an almost 9-pound child.  It truly is weary work. But I have never been so willing to be weary.

And I when I reflect on the newness and rawness of those first few weeks and months, I think there a few things that I wish I could have told myself. That maybe I’m still telling myself. That maybe all mothers at some point tell themselves too. 

First of all, be gentle with yourself. What you’re doing isn’t easy. And the weight of this new responsibility can feel so real and so heavy. Remember you’re new at this. You’re learning. You’ll make mistakes. But those mistakes probably won’t prevent your kid from getting into college or turn him into a serial killer. So relax a little. It will all be okay.

Call the pediatrician. Call your mother. Call the pediatrician again. Pray the worrying is for nothing. Remember the worrying is part of the job. And you are cut out for it. When they’re this little everything feels so big, but then again I’m sure it will still feel big when they’re not so little anymore.

That night, at 4am, when you’re half awake, standing beside the changing table in your lovely gauze underwear mid diaper change – and your baby starts to pee in every direction, while you also simultaneously and uncontrollably start to pee in every direction– just laugh. Because my God, it is kind of funny.

Rock and rock and rock that baby. Stare down the bridge of his perfect little nose and feel his tiny body with his feet curled up under his belly, heavy and warm on your chest. And kiss his little chick fur head and smell his little newborn smell and notice his little baby fingers with their teeny tiny fingernails curled around your big adult one. Because every morning you’ll wake up and he’ll be a little taller, a little chubbier, a little cheekier, a little different. And someday he won’t be this small. Someday you’ll wonder where 8 months went. And I’m sure that 8 months will be 8 years in a blink of an eye. So try to pause every once in a while. Because babies are the best reminder you’ve ever had that time marches on all too quick.

Be patient and understanding with your body. What it did is nothing short of amazing. Embrace the smush where your abs used to be, for it is a pretty comfy spot for a kid to rest. And that morning you notice that the hair along your forehead is all falling out and you’re starting to look terrifyingly similar to Payton Manning’s twin sister, don’t fret. It will grow back – before long you’ll have a whole slew of stick-straight-out-whispies in those bald spots…God, and hopefully someday some regular hair.

And sure, get back on that treadmill and vow you’ll loose the 35 lbs you gained during pregnancy, but really let go of that number, because you have a whole different reason to be healthy now – and it’s more about being able to keep up when that little boy wants to climb a mountain than it is about fitting into those jeans. And don’t deny yourself that pizza and beer either – because damn if you haven’t earned it.

Try not to compare yourself to others and try not to google or research or facebook forum too much. The way you do things is going to be different from the way other mothers do things, and while it’s nice to have guidance, in the end you just have to trust your gut and do what works for you.

When that woman at the airport comes up to you and feels it necessary to tell you that traveling with a baby would be a lot easier if you were nursing instead of bottle feeding, just tell her to fuck right off - or at the very least think it. She doesn’t know your story. And the fact that she thinks how you feed your baby is any of her business is insane. While you’re at it, try to let all of that other unsolicited advice go in one ear and out the other too. For whatever reason people love to tell you how they did things, and sometimes if you can stomach it – a smile and nod can go a long way.

Be thankful for your husband. For he is the ying to your yang. The person that probably keeps you from turning into an anxiety ridden lunatic. The one that reminds you that getting outside for a hike is probably worth the disruption in the nap routine. And that day, when you’re elbow deep in some book about some developmental theory, and you look up and say “Oh my god I just hope we’re doing everything right.” You’ll be thankful for his response, “Of course we aren’t, we’re just trying to love him and not screw him up too badly.” Truth.

When you go back to work, know that it will be okay. Your baby will be fine, and it will actually be pretty nice to get out of the house and interact with adults again. Sure, it will be chaotic. And there will be days when you feel like you can’t keep up with it all – because really, there isn’t a way to keep up with it all. Some things will have to fall to the wayside, but when they do, let them be the ones that don’t really matter. There’s always take out for dinner and that pile of laundry will still be there tomorrow. But that beautiful little baby won’t.

Make sure you keep doing the things that feed your soul. Write write write. Meet up with your momma friends and bitch about the lack of sleep and your pure unadulterated hatred of the breast pump over a glass of wine. Reminisce about all of the things you used to have time for before this. As hard as it is, carve out what slivers of the week you can to read books and do yoga and plant flowers. Take a bubble bath every now and again.

And lastly, when you need to cry, cry. Because holy hell this is hard and sometimes tears are the best release. Life will never go back to the way it was. But it will be better and more beautiful than you’ve ever imagined.

And to all my fellow new moms out there, just know I think you’re magic. You created a human. With cells and organs and eyelashes. One that breathes and smiles and blinks. And if that’s not some kind of wonderful witchcraft, I don’t know what is.

A BIRTH STORY

KETCH, 3 DAYS OLD - LIVINGSTON, MT

I won’t ever presume to speak about anything universally regarding motherhood – because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the four months I have been at it – it’s that the ride is different for everyone. Everyone has their own highs and lows, their own badges they must earn and battles they must wage - whether it be with the gods of birthing or the gods of breastfeeding or the gods of sleeping. And I think the moment you feel like a mother, the moment you experience that big huge love that you never knew existed – it varies. I wasn’t one of those women who got all weepy at the ultrasounds (even though I totally thought I would have), and even when I was 8 and a half months pregnant, I still felt like sort of an imposter wearing the “momma” shirt I was gifted at my shower. I’ve heard for some women it happens the second they see that little pink plus sign. And for some, it doesn’t happen until months down the road when their baby starts to giggle at them with intention, and still for others its hazy – a becoming that happens slowly over time.

But for me, that moment struck with such abrupt-icity, that I swear it knocked the wind out of my very existence.

Our little man scooted into this world on September 7th at 859pm. He was 8lbs 14oz, and 23 unusually long inches. He had ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, two beautiful almond eyes and a fuzzy little head covered in thick, black hair. We named him Ketch Cassidy…yes, Cassidy as in Butch.

This is his story.

It was around 130 in the afternoon, and I was mid conference call when I became keenly aware that something was going on. My body had been crying wolf about once every two days the entire week prior, and so when the feelings initially started I brushed them off and continued working. We were also whopping twelve days ahead of our due date and I had been convinced from the beginning I would be one of those poor fourty-one-and-a-half-week souls downing cod liver oil and walking in endless circles around the block. But after about 30 minutes or so I shot Brad – who was working across the table from me, an ‘oh-my-god-I-think-this-is-this-actually-happening’ glance and awkwardly excused myself from the call. The contractions were timed and counted and determined regular –and it started to sink in. This was for real.

It’s a pretty ridiculous moment. The one where you realize you’re about to meet the human that has been growing inside of you for the past 9 months. The one where it also sinks in that it is the size of a watermelon and is actually about exit your body one way or another.

Pretty much from the beginning of my pregnancy I was drawn to the idea of a natural birth. And it wasn’t because I’m against medication or wanted to prove how tough I was - but I guess I found comfort in knowing that female body was specifically designed for this shit, and had been doing it for centuries. I liked the idea of letting it do it’s thing – and the whole experience unfolding the way nature intended.

I also – after working in the hospital system for the past five years – wanted nothing to do with it personally. At first I had fallen quite in love with the little birth center in town – with it’s comfy beds and quaint fireplaces and beautiful gardens and and plush quilts and giant tubs equipped with all the essential oils.  But being the overthinking weeny that I am – also envisioned all worst case scenarios, and so we opted for a hospital birth – midwives rather than OB’s, a doula - and a quote, unquote “plan” that included staying at home as long as possible.

All of books and classes and movies I had devoured on birth made it seem like your first one was a marathon campaign that lasted pretty much, like forever – so we tried to calm ourselves down and settle in. Brad ran to the store and bought snacks. We cut up a watermelon. Played a few games of hangman. And attempted to go on a walk – which was quickly cut short because I became afraid I’d scare all of the middle school children passing by on their way home with my periodic pausing and growling. But before long the contractions started to become really intense. I kept insisting I was fine. It was normal. We had a long way to go. They weren’t at the pattern they were supposed to be at yet. And Brad kept insisting I had a high pain tolerance and repeatedly asking me with a nervous tone if I was sure it wasn’t time.

We made it until around 5pm before I gave in and we made a plan with my doula to meet her at the park near the hospital. That way we’d knock out the 30 minute drive from Livingston – and we could weather it out under some pretty pine trees before heading in.  

But as soon as we collected our bags and headed for the truck I changed my mind. All of a sudden, things felt terrifyingly immediate.

Brad flew 90 miles an hour over the Bozeman pass and we were greeted by a very nice elderly woman who took about seven and a half hours to get the spelling of McKenzie Burgtorf. I was given a wheel chair, we were directed towards labor and delivery, and then promptly got lost in a maze of hospital halls.

Once we finally made it to the room, we discovered I was already 6 cm dilated and baby boy was well on his way. The nurses drew me a bath and I got about an hour of reprieve before the party really started, the contractions turned into knife fights, the growls into roars.

I found myself in a myriad of whacky positions – sitting, standing, straddling – anything to relieve the pain. Nurses fawned over me and brought me wet wash cloths, my midwife kneeled for what seemed like hours while I draped my groaning body over her shoulders. Brad, who has an intense hatred of all things ‘feet’ – promised me unlimited foot rubs for life and pushed my hair back and kissed my forehead and told me I was strong.

And then, once my water had broken and the 10 centimeters had been fully achieved, came a suffer fest of such wildly painful proportions that it makes me want to fist bump every mother on the planet for their efforts…the pushing.

Forty-five torturous minutes later, I was at the end of my rope. Spread eagle, permeated in sweat, swapping exasperated curse words with subservient whimpers – thinking my skull was about to split down the center from the sheer force of the effort I was expending with each push. And just when I began to think that couldn’t take another single second, came this white-hot pain and blinding light, a whoosh of release, and a smooshy, gunk covered creature was placed on my chest. My eyes locked with his, and that was it. It felt like earth had been knocked out of orbit. And the universe stood so still that dust particles hung, sparkling suspended in the air. While my heart shifted from the inside to the outside. And my soul began to tell time in a new way. I knew in that moment that there would be a before him and an after him, but there was no going back. I was as new as he was. My life would never be the same.

In a way, I feel like Ketch and I were both born that day. He a child, and me a mother. And - like most worthy things – it was fucking hard. But my God, I would go through it a thousand times over if I had to – to know what it’s like to be somebody’s mom.  

I think that no matter how it happens, right away or over time — eventually the big, huge feeling finds you. And you realize, in the most profound way possible, that it really is everything it’s cracked up to be – that parenthood is love in its purest form – and the whole meaning of life can look right at you – through a pair of almond shaped eyes.

THE SECOND YEAR: OH, BABY

28 WEEKS PREGNANT - TOLEDO, OHIO

Babies babies babies. For the last eight months babies have been topic of conversation in little the blue house on 318 West Geyser St…because you see, in just few weeks or so, we’re going to have one of them.

Very soon there’s going to be this brand-new human that is half of Brad and half of me. And I spend my mornings wondering whose fingers he will have and what kind of faces he will make. I spend my afternoons folding teeny tiny tee-shirts and matching itty bitty socks, daydreaming of the itty-bitty feet that will fill them. I spend my evenings laying on our purple couch balancing bowls of popcorn on my belly – watching with wonder and a little weirded out-ness as it bounces and wiggles, morphing in odd directions, trying its best to accommodate the pineapple sized being in there, making itself at home.   

And all I can say is that I really don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy. Life feels sort of pink and hazy.…like I’m all wrapped up in this euphoric fog of just-couldn’t-get-any-better-ness. It’s kind of like the way you feel floating down a Montana river at sunset, or staring over a desert landscape at dawn – like everything is just so beautiful you can hardly stand it, and you don’t know how you got lucky enough to be part of it all.

But I haven’t always felt happy. And this journey hasn’t been an easy one. In fact, I would say it’s been one of the more difficult walks I’ve taken in my life. And while the thought of sharing this makes me that panicky kind of deep-down uncomfortable, I’ve learned that what I experienced isn’t that uncommon – and that a lot of what women go through during pregnancy and childbirth and mamahood stays tucked between bedsheets, behind closed doors – glossed over with Instagram pictures of perfect belly bumps and flawless family photos. And while I don’t mean to discredit any of the happiness that is shared, what I am saying, is that doesn’t always depict the full story. And that the constant exposure to everyone else’s highlight reel – can make you feel really really really alone. But imperfect moments are part of life – and what I think actually connect us most to each other. So in the spirt of full-fledged honesty – I wanted to write about how my transition into this phase of life actually happened.  

I’ll start by saying that a baby was always very much part of the plan. In fact, it was pretty much the sole catalyst responsible for sparking the first-year fire. We had wanted to spend time just the two of us seeing the places we had always wanted to see, doing the things we had always wanted to do, getting each and every last itch out of our system - and then bam, come home, start the job, buy the house, fill it with a couple of mini-us’s, and live happily ever after. La la la.

And man had we followed through. We had left our jobs. Seen the places. Done the things. Dished out the last of our savings on a two-story, three bedroom, steel-sided beauty, just begging to be filled with one more tiny tenant. The stage was set and it was time, but despite all of that, for some reason I had this visceral urge to dig my heels in to the dirt and slow this train of rapidly evolving life way down. I just didn’t feel ready. 

But after a few “you’re not getting any younger’s” and “you’ll never feel ready’s” from well-meaning family and friends, coupled with the fact that it was taking a lot of the people we knew a significant amount of time to get pregnant, I reluctantly gave the green light to dip our toes into the baby making pond. After all, there was no way it would happen right away. At the very least, I was sure I would have few more months to settle in and get used to the idea.

Wrong.

Three and a half weeks later, I stood – my bare feet pressed against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, my eyes fixed upon a tiny blue plus sign. The gravity of the situation pushing down on my shoulders with such a force that I swear my heart almost exploded out of my chest. Those delicate horizontal and vertical stripes which in reality only weighed a tenth of an ounce seemed to bear the weight of the world.

I had always envisioned what it would be like to find out I was pregnant. Maybe I’d giddily scream and shout and jump up and down. Maybe my skin would burst with happiness. Maybe I’d be all cute and buy a little pair of climbing shoes and one of those cheesy “you’re-gonna-be-a-daddy” cards to surprise Brad with and watch with glittering eyes as he opened it. But none of those scenarios played out. Instead, I walked directly downstairs. Sat in Brad’s lap. And started to bawl.

I just couldn’t even wrap my head around it. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. What were we thinking? We were still so very much in the getting-our-shit-together phase of life. We had just moved here. Brad had just started a company. I had just barely begun a job. We didn’t have money. Or a doctor. Or friends. Or furniture. We ate our breakfast in camping chairs that we had set up in our kitchen. Our date nights consisted of 10 baskets of free chips and a burrito split down the center. Our Saturdays were spent at bars unsuccessfully stalking potential friends. We were so unprepared and so alone in this very much unfamiliar place - and now we were going to add a BABY to all of this? No way. It was too much, too much, too much.

And maybe the normal me, would have freaked out for a second, been comforted by the fact that I had an amazing husband, supportive family and in all actuality, pretty darn good safety net. Maybe the normal me would have taken a deep breath and a step back and realized it wasn’t as dire of a situation as I was painting in my head. Maybe the normal me would have quickly moved through the freak out phase into the happy, giddy, excited one. But this wasn’t normal me. This was very newly pregnant me. 

And what they tell you about being pregnant – what you hear from the time you’re a very little girl - is that you’ll just fucking love it. You’ll radiate…you’ll glow. Your cheeks will be rosy and your hair will sparkle like sunshine and you’ll shoot butterflies out of your eyeballs. And sure you’ll  be a little “hormonal” and maybe get a little morning sickness (how cute), but it will be the happiest time of your life. There’s nothing better. But what they really don’t go into detail on, is the really yucky, really difficult, really hard stuff that can also accompany pregnancy. Like those hormones for example…they’re anything but cute. Those sneaky little bastards - they have the ability to take over your body. They can grab hold of your feelings and the pump them and inflate them and inject them with steroids – until this completely normal emotion you might have…like maybe a sense of unpreparedness or overwhelm…it will grow so large and so fast that before you know it, you have a battle raging within your veins and the only thing you’ll be able to do to cope is cry.

And man did I cry. I cried doing laundry. I cried in the shower. I cried into the refrigerator door while reaching for the kale. I sobbed until I was sure I was empty, until I was positive my body could produce no more tears. I started to hate the winter. And Montana and its gloomy wide-open, snow-covered spaces that felt so desolate and lonely and miserable.

And despite all of the reassurance in the world from Brad and the three-hour long phone calls with my mom, I couldn’t shake the sadness. It was like someone had taken my previously level-headed self, and replaced it with this pathetic blubbering mess. And to top it all off, I couldn’t even have a goddamn beer.

But the worst part of all was the guilt. I would see these photos of happy mommas and babies – I would start questioning what was wrong with me. Why did I feel like this? I had been blessed with this little miracle that I had wanted alllll my life and I couldn’t get happy or excited – what a horrible mother I must already be.

And then something happened. I walked into a prenatal yoga class and sat down. And listened as three other pregnant women told us how they were doing and started to cry. I wasn’t alone. These were my people. They understood.

The days ticked by and little by little I built my tribe. I found a therapist I adored, a midwife we love. I went to coffee with the wonderful women I met in yoga and listened to so many stories of anything but perfect motherhood moments.  Our jobs got more stable, our life started to feel more at ease. We bought a couch. And a kitchen table…even a few chairs. And as the sun started to peak itself out from behind the winter barricade, my fist-trimester came to a close and my hormones adjusted their levels back to normalcy. I started to feel more like myself again. Those feelings of terror and overwhelm began to fade – and in their place, the feelings I thought would have felt from the beginning – the happiness and excitement started to replace them.  

And now here I am in this land of blissful contentment (interrupted only occasionally by uncomfortable swollen knuckles or a pinchy lower back) so in love with the idea of this tiny person about to make his debut. And while I still feel a little guilty, and sad that the initial part of this didn’t happen like I had always pictured, I’m learning to let it go. To chalk it up to normalcy. Because while I think the transition into motherhood really is everything they say - beautiful and amazing and unbelievably life changing - it also isn’t all sunshine and butterflies. It’s a time of massive change and ginormous uncertainty. And while your body fluctuates in ways you can’t imagine, your soul has to experience a few shifts as well. I think it’s when we’re the most human we want to hide, but if we can reach instead, to someone who will listen – we might find we’re not so all alone. Maybe those difficult things we’ve gone through are more common than we’ve thought. Maybe the imperfection is just part of it all.  

And oh, my sweet  baby -

If you ever find yourself reading this I want you to know, that while I may have been wildly unprepared – and so so worried when you announced your arrival, you have always been – from the very first second of your existence –  wanted and adored and unconditionally loved. I think my biggest fear was that things might not be perfect when you arrived, but I’m so very thankful for the first lesson that you have taught me – which is that things don’t have to be perfect to be wonderful. And what I can tell you, with the most absolute certainty, is that we have a whole hell of a lot of wonderful in this household.

I want you to know that you picked the very best daddy in the whole wide world. He’s truly one of the good ones. One of those make-you-laugh, hold-you-when-you-cry, love-you-no-matter-what, stand up guys. He’ll keep you safe and take care of you. He’ll take you on great adventures and do his best to listen and understand, even if he doesn’t quite get what you’re going through. And if you ever find yourself in a fit of hormonal rage, screaming at him in the car (as I expect you might when you’re about 14), don’t worry - he’ll get over it…I’ve recently tested those waters for you.

The world is so big and so good and we promise to show you everything we’ve learned about happiness in it. To take you to all of our favorite spots and teach you all of the things we know. We promise to be silly with you and laugh. To snuggle you next to campfires and read you bedtime stories under middle-of-nowhere stars. To make pancakes and dance around the kitchen table on Sunday mornings and give you childhood that is wild and messy and free. We promise to show you that the biggest of joys can come from the simplest of things and that dreams are worth having and chasing  - and then chasing some more. We promise to encourage you and support you. To let you screw up and be there to catch you when you fall. We promise to worry about you sometimes and argue with you sometimes, to sometimes hold you close and sometimes let you go. And above all, we promise to surround you with a big, fat unending love that is never doubted and always felt -  wherever it is that you are.

I cannot wait to hold you. To look at your daddy’s face when we get to meet you for the first time.  To smell your hair. To kiss the fingers and toes that have been tickling my insides. I can pretty much guatentee I won’t be perfect  – but I swear I’ll give you everything that I am capable of giving, and then give a little more. So go ahead and bake a little longer, but know that when you’re ready to arrive we’ll be here. So in love with you already. So excited to see what life with you has in store.

DAYS 287 - 365: WYOMING, MONTANA, IDAHO, OREGON, WASHINGTON, CANAD

TETON NATIONAL PARK, WYOMING

Thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds.

Or eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.

Or three hundred and sixty-five days.

It doesn’t matter how you measure it really. One way or another, an entire year has unraveled through the fabric of time - into a pile of memories made and lessons learned. For us, it was a pretty big year. Our first year. The year we sold our possessions and quit our jobs and set sail for the unknown. The year we spent getting lost and meeting fascinating people and sleeping in unsanitary places in uncomfortable positions. A year that was crazy and beautiful and amazing and terrifying and completely and utterly life changing.

And now, it’s over. Time for us to hang up our backpacks, turn in our passports (at least for a little while) and return to the “real world.” To resume the former title of responsible grown-up. Start paying bills. Sleeping in beds. Showering regularly.

We used our last two and a half months of freedom to explore the northwestern US. Wyoming to Idaho to Montana to Oregon to Washington to Canada. We sat around more campfires than I can count. Perfected the art of burning things in a dutch oven. Stood in line at grocery stores and noticed we had sap in our hair. And I suppose the biggest thing that has happened along the way, is that we fell in love with a tiny town.

If you follow the Yellowstone River out of the park and into the vastness of Montana – it hangs a quick right and heads towards an old-timey main street surrounded by gigantic purple mountains. A town built by cracked rancher hands and founded on grit. It’s a small place. But it’s beautiful. With wide open spaces and room to grow. A place that we’ve determined feels like home.

Deciding to leave Denver is not a decision that we came to easily. It was one that was discussed and debated and meditated on and discussed and debated again. We made actual, physical scribbled down lists of pros and cons. We talked about it until we were blue in the face. There’s been worry, doubt, tears (because if you haven’t deduced already by reading these blogs – I tend to cry about things). We have friends, family, amazing jobs and fantastic co-workers that we’re leaving behind. But we’ve decided it’s something that we want to do because we know it’s the place where we can live the lives we’ve imagined.

So as we start to pack up what’s left of our stuff and transition into this new life, I want you all to know a few things:

To our families -  especially our moms, whose hearts we know we’re breaking by moving even just a little bit farther away. Please don’t fret. We are out in the world. Doing what you taught us to do. And we’re happy. We promise to work hard to bridge the gaps in distance. To skype and call and send letters and packages. To continue come home for holidays and summer vacations. We promise to take care of each other. Everything we are, and everything we ever will be is because of you. We’ll never ever forget that. Annnnd we’re also pretty happy you have to love us no matter what.

To all of our friends and neighbors and co-workers in Denver. Know that it is incredibly hard to leave you. You have become a close family – a network of people who have made our lives whole. We will never be able to replace you and we promise we’ll be back often to drink microbrews and share stories and catch up on the Colorado latest.

To all of those who have extended such kindness to us over this year - the strangers who have invited us in to their homes, the locals who have shared with us their secret spots,  the old friends who have blown off work to hang out when we passed through town. Thank you. Please come visit. Our door will always be open to travelers. We have a special place for them in our hearts.

And especially to my husband, who is my rock, my cheerleader. The person who makes me brave enough to dream big dreams and do things that are a little bit insane. Let’s go build a life we love. One we can be proud of. That’s on our own terms. And let’s remember always, the things we’ve learned over this three hundred and sixty-five day trip around the sun.

We’re not going back to a furnished home. Not hardly. I’m pretty sure we sold our dinnerware and I can’t remember if we sent our can opener to good will. But I’ve learned that we don’t really need much; we have enough. And that a warm bed is something to always be appreciated – even though I know we don’t even really need that either, as long as we have each other.

Until next time, 

Kenz

YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK, WYOMING

MOUNT ST. HELENS, WASHINGTON

RAINIER NATIONAL PARK, WASHINGTON

RAINIER NATIONAL PARK, WASHINGTON

HOH NATIONAL RAINFOREST, WASHINGTON

LA PUSH, WASHINGTON

SQUAMISH, BC