My husband took a day off of work this week. The morning began as normal, but by 8 a.m. it spiraled into kids crying and me taking a timeout behind my locked door. I needed help, space, an extra set of hands, and someone with the dose of patience I lacked.

As I watched him take the kids to the park, make their lunch, and put our two-year-old down for a nap, I felt guilty that I didn’t contribute and guilty that he carried the load of two parents. Rather than being grateful for my husband and his flexible job, I resented needing the help.

This is no ordinary cider. Browned butter, brown sugar, and flaky sea salt get added to a steaming cup of mulled apple cider. It's fall in a cup.

I’ve said it before, and it’s still true. Motherhood has revealed my own need to me more than any other experience in my life. I have never felt so in over my head than I have in the last five years. I overanalyze how I handle my twins’ fighting, I beat myself up for too much screen time, I fear the thousand more important and life-altering decisions to come in the next 15 years. And I’m just so tired. 

We haven’t had a hard road to growing our family. We haven’t even had hard babies for the most part. Sure, having two newborns at the same time proved quite the challenge. But even the most ordinary of parenting experiences puts me on my knees.

There’s so much I carry in my head. Most of it would seem useless to many people. But I can tell you exactly which stores have two seats in the cart and how prices of diapers on Amazon compare to prices at Costco. I remember my son’s fire truck pajamas need to be washed because otherwise the tears will flow at bedtime. And, not that you’d ever want to know this, but I could tell you the last time each one of my three kids pooped.

Somehow over the years the practice of memorizing Scripture has been pushed aside in my brain to make room for remembering where my twins’ shoes are or that I need to take the meat out of the freezer in time for dinner. But a couple year ago, a few friends and I slowly memorized Romans 8, and it was nothing short of life-changing—especially during the most wearying days of motherhood.

A couple years ago, I called my dad to check up on him while he was in the hospital. I can’t recall what sent him there this particular time, but he picked up the phone, light-hearted and positive as ever. “How you feelin’, Dad?” I asked. 

“Everything’s all good,” he told me. “I’m perfectly healthy.” 

I rolled my eyes and recounted to him his current ailments. The “perfectly healthy” part was an exaggeration, to say the least. And was he really “all good”? 

I made my skepticism clear, to which he retorted, “Well, this is nothing compared to being shot down in the middle of a war.”

Okay, well played, Dad. I don’t know what it’s like to fly a helicopter and get shot down. Even so, I shook my head, both annoyed at my dad’s apparent denial of his poor health and wondering how he could be so upbeat in a hospital bed.

This past spring and summer, I felt stuck in a cooking rut. This activity that usually gave me so much joy left me feeling completely depleted. I didn’t want to cook for my family. Having four-year-olds complain about what you put in front of them certainly didn’t motivate me to work harder in the kitchen. I didn’t even really want to cook for the blog. I felt lost in a sea of food bloggers and writers, not totally fitting in in either space, and I felt creatively depleted.

If you’re a writer, maybe you bristle at the thought and feel like the “p-word” is as vulgar as any four-letter-word out there. I’ve felt that way, too. (Just so you know up front, this post won’t include practical advice on how to grow your platform. Kind of the opposite, actually.) The thought of “having to grow my platform” in order to ever write a book is daunting and frustrating. Can’t I just write a book about Jesus and pray someone will buy it?

“I can actually eat all of this stuff.”

That’s one of the greatest compliments in cooking for me. It’s become an unexpected joy to watch someone breath a sigh of relief as they fill their plate. This chicken dinner recipe is a simple one with a short ingredient list that fits a variety of diets. Serve the chicken thighs with roasted asparagus, a green salad, or your favorite vegetable for an easy weeknight meal. It’s simple and nourishing for (almost) everyone at your table.

My husband and I collapsed on the basement couch after making the bedtime rounds. We wanted to spend time together but after work days and diapers and tantrums and laundry and all the normal chaos of life, we felt completely depleted. We opted to watch Harry Potter, a regular entertainment choice when we want to escape without venturing somewhere too terribly intense.

There’s a scene in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone when Harry comes upon The Mirror of Erised. As he looks into the mirror, he sees who he eventually recognizes as his parents who died when he was a baby. He brings his friend Ron to the mirror, hoping Ron can get a glimpse. Ron looks and sees not Harry’s family but himself as head boy and Quidditch captain. Harry later finds his way to the mirror yet again, only to run into Professor Dumbledore who explains that the mirror shows the “deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.”

I grabbed the remote, hit pause, and turned toward my husband. “What would the mirror show you?” I asked.

I balance the aluminum tray on one hand and hold a paper grocery bag in the other. As I set my goods on the steps to knock on the door, I rehearse what to say. They’re good friends of mine, people I feel comfortable with and love deeply. But I want to be careful I don’t make their loss hurt more. I walk into the kitchen and the screen door closes behind me. Like a nervous reflex, I blurt out in a bubbly, high-pitched voice, “How’s it going?!” The perkiness sounds abrasive. 

Just like my kids, I have to eat a good breakfast in the morning. A granola bar just doesn’t cut it for me. I notice hunger strike just an hour or two later or a crash in my energy level if I don’t eat a protein-rich meal. But too often, starting my day with the cries of my kids means my breakfast gets put on the back-burner.

Enter the frittata. This version is hearty, wholesome, and perfect for breakfast, brunch, or even an easy weeknight dinner.

In this essay at Coffee + Crumbs, I share my story about grieving the loss of my mom and finding unexpected joy.