For My Messy Moms


Truer words have never been written. I won’t say that I’m fully there yet, but I’m definitely on my way to becoming my mother in more ways than I anticipated.  There’s nothing wrong with this at all. Truthfully, it’s a good thing. My mom is salt of the earth and I’d be lucky to grow and impact people like she has and continues to do. Lately, I like to think about people as they once were, especially before I knew them.

When I’m losing my mind at dinnertime as my threenager channels her inner animal, or I’m knee deep in self-pity as I clean the training potty, I try to envision how my mother would handle the situation or stress.

Bias has me claiming her perfection. I don’t remember my mom losing her cool often. In fact, it seems she always knows the right way to talk me off a ledge. Her wisdom and peace were a stable force throughout my life and remain so to date. I often think I’d feel better about my own mess if God could grant me a glimpse into her hiding in a closet from her four monstrous children or chugging wine from the bottle after multiple soccer tournaments.

I’ve been at this fika thing for a few months now and while I’ve got a whole lot left to reveal, I’m basking in what I’ve already claimed and proud of the change that’s transpired.

Whenever I fika with a mom we tend to dive right into the messiness of our lives. It’s our common thread and bond. We discuss meltdowns at Target. We recommend copious kid products. We marvel at change. We celebrate athleisure wear. We curse laundry. We lust for sleep. We praise milestones. We fear failure. We reminisce about college. We chug coffee. We whine for wine. We mourn DIY disasters. We share recipes. We cry over chaos. We dream bigger. We find purpose. We feel better.

Fika knows no limits.  We’re allowed to get messy. Owning the mess is the first step to cleaning it up. Or, maybe it’s not a mess at all. Maybe it’s motherhood. Either way, the daily craziness in our lives need to be shared in order for it to be surrendered.

When I was home last week I watched my mother juggle a million things. It’s her forte. I see her differently now. She was knee deep in the mess. When you’re younger, you don’t see the mess because you’re making it. My image of perfection and my mom’s way of handling things aren’t too different from mine. And while I didn’t know her pre-mom, parts of her peak through more clearly now.

At the end of her busy day, she sat down with a glass of wine and watched some Netflix. It was as if God granted my request to see her through a different lens. I watched her tired eyes dance with delight for a little self-care.

Moms need fika more than ever before, which is why I’m in the works to launch a Messy Mom fika in the near future. Stay tuned for time, location, and topics. Until then, know this: our mess is making memories and fostering love for others. If nothing else, I know this through my own mother. Stay messy!