Reb Smyth • Writer

2023 in 365ish Words—An Accidental Poem — Rebecca Smyth How can she encapsulate the year she spent six months pregnant and six months postpartum except to say, tired. So very tired. A year drawing to a close with a human hanging off her nipple— her body a home in which she is the stranger. How can she envelop an era with no sign of resolve but bu

A wee note to anyone who feels like Advent quietly snuck up on them, or worse, not so quietly DUMPED itself into your to do list with aaaaalll kinds of pressure and expectations and guilt and hoo-ha. To the one who doesn’t feel ‘ready’:

I wrote a book on Advent and I still don’t feel ready. Often, I spend these early December days scrambling around in frustration, kicking myself and trying to play catch up. I tell myself to get it together, dang it.

But God doesn’t humour my self pity. In my forgetfulness, all I find is His faithfulness. He knows that even in my most well-intentioned moments my heart drifts. And He calls me back every time.

Every Advent, this is the Jesus I meet:

The One who stepped down so I could give up. Give up striving, working, mustering my own strength, and playing catch up. The Lifter of my Head, the Person of Jesus–He is my first love. Not the lights, the candles, or any exceptionally pretty devotional book (👀).

Yes, Advent is about about being ready, about preparing. But I don’t want to forget Jesus has already done it all. He has already prepared a place for us. A place at His table, a place in His arms. We just have to come.

As we wearily recover from this year, we don’t need more to do. We need this blocked-off section of our calendars to remind us of the eclipsing truth: He is on his way.

He will wipe away every tear and bring an end to our illness, grief, pain and suffering once and for all.

The sun has risen, friends. And someday we will rise with him. But until then, we wait.

This year, my December-born child asked for a party in November. And honestly? As the mother-of-a-December-born-child, I was very happy to oblige.

Our project manager has been planning since the end of summer, delegating jobs as appropriate—Paddy supervised the football side of things and I supervised the cake side of things. It was also our first foray into the world of ‘friend parties’ and I will not tell you the sheer number of nightmares I had about people not turning up, but the number is not less than five.

But, on an insignificant and otherwise-quiet Saturday afternoon in November, the party was a roaring success. ‘Best birthday ever’ was the report overheard leaving the football pitch. (And I already feel less stressed about Christmas week because the hardcore celebrating is done!!!!)

Parenting in these ‘big kid’ years is not always as simple as moving a party forward. There are less answers. Less black and white. Lots of murky, foggy grey.

I didn’t realise how much I needed a little win and a lotta cake.

Of course, we won’t really know if we did the right thing until his actual birthday. But worst case scenario, we make a big deal of celebrating him twice—and that is no bad thing at all.🤍

I don’t mean to be the Advent version of Mariah Carey defrosting every November to shove my Advent devotional in your face… but did you know I wrote an Advent devotional? She’s had a little glow up—complete with beautiful printables, a banging playlist, kidsize devotions and colouring sheets which are just waow waow waow 🤩✨

So, let me be real: I want Christmas, not Advent. I want the celebration, not the tension of waiting.

But waiting is part of our job description. We live in an every day Advent, longing for Jesus’ to come back and make this dumpster-fire of a world right again.

Maybe we’re waiting on test results, or for our work to be noticed. For an apology or for grief to sting a little less. For a relationship or for the fog of mental illness to lift. For a friend to say, ‘I see how hard you’re trying’ or for a doctor to say, ‘you're going to have a baby’. �
If we don’t know the ache of an empty womb, then we know the ache of an empty bed, an empty room, an empty mind, or the quiet ache of an empty Sunday evening.

This little ebook baby is the product of an Advent year in my life—and a hefty 108 page one at that. It’s part bible study/part devotional/part storytelling/part good-old-fashioned blog post.

Basically, it’s a big part of me.

It’s for the doubter and the depressed. The one limping into Christmas with personal pain in one hand, and the public chaos of the world in the other. It’s for those of us struggling to believe we are held in the palm of the promise keeper’s hand.

Luke gives us a picture of God’s people waiting and wandering in an empty, howling expanse of wilderness. The darkness is thick to touch. They cannot bear to take one more step. But then, a glint of colour on the horizon.

The dawn of hope—The Rising Sun.

He has risen, friends. And someday we will rise with Him. But until then, we wait.

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For dinos, everywhere. For Romanian wine and cheese with chutney and to wash it all down, a piping hot cup of tea—demolished while the babies and daddies sleep and the mums finish conversations they started 2.5 years ago. For feeling known in a friendship. For the magic of reading Harry Potter for the first time as an adult. And how the enemy can’t touch Harry’s skin because he is marked by his mother’s sacrificial love.

For apologies, both given and received. For winter sun at 9 am, breathing life into my sleep-deprived zombie soul. For the notes app during night feeds, and the lols these notes provide when my sane frame of mind returns. For conkers and carpets of leaves. For trained counsellors. For my toddler who says oOooOoOo when I build a glorious magnatile mansion, but also when he finds a nice rock.

For pancakes with friends and popcorn with sons. For hot chocolate on the sidelines of every pitch and play park. For the pure unadulterated joy of a new bottle of Prime—which always reminds me I don’t have to share someone’s interests to share in their delight. For winter cosies and cinnamon buns the size of a baby’s head.

For grooms who wear their feelings on their face. For Poo Bingo and toddlers who insist on a pot of tea while we play. For answered prayer. For the WE GOT ENGAGED phone call, especially two in one weekend—waow. For the confetti spray of monstrous waves during a stupid little mental health trip to the coast. For big and small achievements, both worthy of celebration by way of Premier League football cards.

For all the miles I swam and all the oblivious men I raced. For baptisms and the way they make us weep. For a husband who is the real MVP of pumpkin carving, because the texture gives goosebumps just writing this. For a good, private, guttural cry in the bathroom. For the days we get outside after school and the days we forgive ourselves when we don’t. For chocolate, forever and always.

For all the grace you’re going to afford me as I post this shameless list of October delights—of ordinary things I’m grateful for (salvaged from the notes app), halfway through November.

I never thought I’d be a double buggy mum. Not for any deep or philosophical reason, it’s just, honestly, pushing a single buggy in my late teens felt like a bit much. And then there was the big ol’ 7-year gap before Asher came along. Doubles have never really been on my radar.

After Jesse was born, and Asher had just turned two, I knew it was something to consider. But I still didn’t jump too quickly. I’d made it ten years of motherhood without one, why be hasty? Why invest this late in the game?

It made sense to wait and see who Jesse would become. Would he hate the pram? Would he prefer the baby carrier? We already had one pram hater, so maybe a buggy board was the way forward? Would we actually manage to leave the house all that much?

Anyway, all of this is to say, I survived five whole months before one too many rogue-toddler-and-screaming-baby incidents broke me. We got a double on marketplace that weekend.

And oh my goodness, it has been such a vessel of unexpected JOY. There's something about seeing two of your favourite people side by side, taking in the world and trusting you to show them. The double’s epic proportions are a stark contrast to this season of small things—of bouncing and soothing and holding and wiping and teaching and creating and cooking. In the thick of what feels like unseen work, there’s something that makes it all feel very big. Very significant. Of course, it always has been. I just needed a tangible reminder of how full, filled to the brim, my life actually is.

And I catch myself whispering a heartfelt thank you, every time.

For the abundance of a double buggy.

It’s one year since Paddy and Reuben’s adoption became official. I wrote this at the time, but sharing here felt too vulnerable. As much as I love being their narrator, I’ll always say this is their story to tell. But like I do with lots of significant and insignificant dates, I wanted to mark this one with some words, while they mark it with badminton and sausage rolls.

I was right about the gold and grief, you know. It hasn’t always been an easy year, so today we’re going to let ourselves hold onto the gold just a second longer. ✨

Buzzing to have this essay published on Coffee + Crumbs and forever thankful for their work 💗

The Patron Saint of Unplanned Pregnancy — Coffee + Crumbs By Rebecca Smyth It’s 3:30 a.m. on the first morning of September when I learn that I’m a mother. At some point, I stop sobbing long enough to fall asleep, but I wake shortly after to the excited hum of parents and children walking to school outside my window. It’s the first day back

I wrote this last year but it turns out I’ll still be praying these words even when I’m a September Grandmother™️

The other day I filled out the routine postpartum mental-health questionnaire for our health visitor and she compared my other scores for reference. Apparently, I scored best with my first baby, worst with my second, and this time I am somewhere in between.

Later, I told Paddy about the visit while we stacked the dishwasher, “Those scores are meaningless because I’ve lied on that questionnaire every single time.” I burst out laughing. He responded with a familiar, exasperated, “REB!”

I can laugh because after so many years on this road, I know myself and I know when I need support finding my way out of the fog. But I also know I’m not the only one lying on those dang questionnaires.

Truthfully, it isn’t the postpartum stage I struggle with the most—it’s pregnancy. And the shame is suffocating. Despite never being truly alone, it is the loneliest darkness I’ve ever known.

This week I have an essay on Mothering Spirit about my experience of depression/suicidal thoughts in my second pregnancy and in particular, the effect it had on my faith. (Pearl-clutchers can breathe—I am still a devoted Christian.) It was written earlier this year, while pregnant again, from a much healthier place of healing. But yes, there was a whole lot of feels.

I’m thankful Mothering Spirit has created a safe space to wrestle with our hard stories and to find God in the holy hidden crevices of ordinary life.

This one took a looooong time to write and I agonised over every word. It was painful to choose the quotes above because every single line is a piece of my heart. And now, seeing the finished version out in the world, I feel butt naked.

Sharing my words publicly always comes with a risk. But every time I consider if the risk is worth it, I arrive at the same conclusion:

It will always be worth it to share the story God is writing.

https://motheringspirit.com/2023/08/waiting-for-resurrection-depression-and-pregnancy/

Honoured to have an essay published on Mothering Spirit 🤍

“Throughout many pregnancy swims, I beg for strength to put my faith in the unseen. Because if I put my faith in what I see, it looks like God has left me to the devices of depression. It looks like darkness has the final word.

But on the cross, it looked like darkness was winning. And I know it wasn’t.”

Waiting for Resurrection: Depression and Pregnancy | Mothering Spirit I’m lying flat on my back in a hospital examination room, acid reflux burning in my throat. A polite male doctor scans my protruding belly as I stare at the graying tiles on the ceiling while praying hard and fast, “Please be okay. Please be okay.”

✨What’s Saving My Life Right Now: Fourth Trimester Edition ✨

The Frida Baby Snot Sucker. Seriously. I break out in a cold sweat when I can’t find this contraption at night.

Reading aaaaallll the opinion pieces on Barbie.

4pm baths. Always.

Friends in the same season who provide deep understanding.

Friends in a different season who provide much needed perspective.

IKEA 30 metre drawing paper.

Pre-pregnant me who batch cooked in a June heatwave until her feet were so swollen she had to sit in a cold bath for two hours. She’s the MVP here.

Any form of wrap, sling or baby carrier.

My ‘Ribbon & Asher’ Scrunchie. Not because it sounds like my sons, Reuben & Asher created a hair accessory line, but because it is one of my most used and underrated baby gifts.

A solid anti-perspirant. PPM sweats are real, folks. And I permanently smell like a curry.

My labour playlist that keeps on giving long into the labour of fourth trimester.

The sweet reunion of my relationship with coffee. Praise the Lord we’re all going to be okay.

Buying jeans 2 sizes bigger. Because leggings are life but sometimes feeling cute just boosts morale.

Aaaaaaall the Netflix escapism. And a reliable audiobook recommendation—because my brain can’t make those kinds of decisions for myself right now.

And honestly? The awful drizzly weather we’ve been having. Because it relieves some of the pressure to make all. the. summer. memories. And quite frankly, hot sweaty breastfeeding is enjoyable for no one.

Paddy.

Prayer.

And snacks.

What’s saving your life right now?

A boy and his cranes. I love this stage of childhood when it takes very little to light them up. And I really hate that they lose this as they get older, that we all do. (Me and my eternally bored 9 year old are working on it.)

We’ve loved helping a little on the media team at New Horizon this week (Jesse being the youngest serving member at 7 weeks old).

Here’s some words I wrote while Jesse napped in the sling, Reuben was at Salt Factory Sports (I need you to know I am this ministry’s newest no.1 fan), Asher was making his way around every single stand in the mission tent looking for freebies, and Paddy fuelled up on Bob & Berts coffee before chasing Asher around said-tent. New Horizon NI does have something for everybody!

New Horizon 2023: Why Am I Here? - New Horizon By Rebecca Smyth Serving on the New Horizon Media team for the first time this year, Rebecca Smyth reflects on arriving at the big blue tent for the first time this year. I spent my childhood and teenage summers at my family’s caravan on the North Coast. July and August were book ended by end-of-s...

Meet Jesse ✨

The newest Smyth boy joined us on 22.6.23 weighing 8lb 1oz of glorious pink squishy goodness. And we are deliriously in love.

No doubt there are many words and stories to come but for now, I am speechless by the grace of it all. We don’t take an ounce of these three boys (!!!) for granted. If you need us, we’ll be soaking up every second of this wild, raw and magical time.

P.S. The Lord knows the desires of my heart—I got my ginger babe 🧡

Paddy Smyth

Dear Baby Number Three,

You aren’t the one who came crashing into my teenage life, making me a mother. You aren’t the yearned-for second born, 7 years in the making and dreaming, only to arrive in the middle of a pandemic. And I’m not even sure if you’re the grand finale or the missing puzzle piece *insert every other last baby cliche*.

Who you are is yet to be determined, but this is the story so far: you are an easy delight. Minding your own business and growing quietly in the background of our crazy lives, just awaiting your moment to flourish—a quintessential June child.

To me, you are the soft caress of surprising sunshine on the back of a bare neck. A pause. A welcome breeze bellowing through a floaty sundress. A salmon sunset after months of grey. You are the grapefruit and pearl coloured dahlias growing in our garden, against all odds.

And in all of your June beauty, you ask almost nothing in return—only that we slow down enough to enjoy the promised bloom.

Number three, we can’t wait to meet you this month—and in the meantime, we’ll keep trying our best to swap your number for a name. Love you lots 🤍 (But please get your dang feet out of my ribs.)

New post ✨

Motherhood. — Rebecca Smyth I hobble over to the living room window with a shaking, sobbing toddler on my hip. I have no concept of anatomy but I’m pretty sure my tailbone just detached from the rest of my spine, which, in the third trimester, always feels like it is made of playdoh.  It’s almost bedtime , I tell my

Asher Smyth ✨

Every year on April 15th, a fleeting blue sky arrives to celebrate him, along with the equally fleeting cherry blossoms in our garden. If you know Asher even a little then you’ll know how entirely appropriate it is. He is the bright spot in any season, the little sliver of light in any day, the flowery bloom when it’s needed most.

Happy Birthday to my honey haired boy. Thanks for the year of Frozen, welly boots and “mama, vroom vroom”. You are everything I dreamed you would be 💛🌸

📸 And sorry to Bethan Rose Photography for ruining every shot of Asher with my big d***y grin in the background

Lovely things in an otherwise BRUTAL week:

1. Reuben’s message in my Mother’s Day card: “To Mum, I’m pooped writing cards because your birthday was last Sunday too but you’re the best mum so I can’t complain I guess.”

2. Colourful tulips on the inside windowsill but the pitter-patter of big fat raindrops on the outside windowsill.

3. The man with a humongous curly haired dog who stopped to watch Asher splashing in a puddle and commented, “He’s definitely yours. He is yours, isn’t he? He looks so like you.”

4. And my favourite—the sweet dad in the swimming pool changing rooms who asked me to put his 2 year old daughter’s hair in a pony tail. A genuine honour for this boy mum.

That’s it. Just the four. But four gooduns all the same.

Indecision is a disease that plagues every part of my life. Don’t ask me to make any kind of choice in less than 7-10 business days.

Except on my birthday. Every year when Paddy asks me what I want, I have this rare glorious clarity.

I just need to be beside the sea, I tell him. With salty fish and chips.

But it has to be the proper ocean, not Belfast Lough. Because there’s something about celebrating with the confetti spray of monstrous waves. And being swallowed up by the power of their roar. Feeling like a speck of sand in the grand scheme of creation.

As always, the following list of culprits threatened to ruin our weekend drive: a snow storm, a toothache, a trip to A&E with the toddler, a sore tummy, a teaching moment or two, aaaaand tears from 3/4 members of the family… to name only a few.

But the team powered through. And it was so very worth it for even a few hours on a drizzly Saturday morning. ✨🌊

It almost passed me by like every other milestone of motherhood, over one hurdle and on to the next.

Some time in the last few weeks, I breastfed Asher for the very final time.

I’ve felt it slipping away for a couple of months now, but every time I announced ‘this is it’, he would latch on like a baby piranha for a few days as if to prove a point. But this time, this is it.

And today I’m allowing myself to indulge in what it has been to me: a pure gift.
Had it been 1 month or 21 months, it was all I hoped it would be. And a whole lot more. Bleeding ni***es and half-hourly wake ups aside, it was the most magical hospitality I’ve ever had the privilege of showing another human.

I already miss it. The way he happily twiddled the stray strands of my hair with his chunky fingers. The way his body, no matter how big it got, curled up perfectly in my lap. The way he would randomly unlatch, look up at me, smile, and then get straight back to business. The way he pointed his toes when he was nearly done. The stillness. The mutual contentment.

And while it’s a relief to have my body back, and I don’t regret how or when we stopped, I have to confess I think there will always be a tiny slither of me that craves it.

In the same way I crave the sea when I feel suffocated. The way my husband needs a sausage roll when he’s sick. The way flowers always seek out the sun. The way our bodies beg for chunky soup in winter and silky sorbet in summer.

I know not everyone shares my positive relationship with breastfeeding. I know it is a nuanced and emotional topic sometimes. I know I can satisfy the craving for connection and physical closeness in a zillion other ways, and over time I’ll probably forget what it even felt like (you should know I have now written myself into a puddle of tears). But today I’m letting myself feel the ache.

The ache of passing time. The ache of growing up. The aching inability to give all my children, all of me, all at once. The ache of endings.

And I guess I’m just really stinking thankful for the surprising miracle of it all.

💛

On Breastfeeding and the Ache of Endings — Rebecca Smyth It almost passed me by like every other milestone of motherhood, over one hurdle and on to the next.  Like a lot of childhood endings, neither of us knew it was the last. I don’t know the day or the hour. Gah, why don’t I know the day or the hour?! Just like I don’t know the last time my

Some Monday thoughts on body image ✨

A life of Valentines 💗

Every year I think this is the end for mine and Reuben’s traditional Valentine’s date. But then every year Paddy arrives home from work slightly early, ready to usher us out the door. Every year I ask Reuben if he’s still up for a date with me, trying to give a nonchalant shrug and trying to remind myself I literally have a husband to date if this is the end.

And every year Reuben appears at the bottom of the stairs, eyes alight and wearing a checked shirt. (😭🥺)

He’s no longer my wild haired toddler, totally oblivious to being seen on a dinner date with his mum in public. It’s no longer just the two of us on this day and every day. So I’m okay with this one thing remaining the same for as long as he is.

But just incase this one really was the end, it needs to be said there is no one I’d rather share pizza and dessert-induced brain freeze with. There is no one else who could convince me to bake impromptu banana bread and sneak it into the cinema at the last minute. Truth be told there is no one else I’d endure 1 hour 40 mins of Puss in Boots for. There is no one with whom I’d rather discuss who is strongest—John Cena, God or the tail of a Diplodocus. And there is no one else I’d refrain from shushing when they predict movie spoilers in their loudest voice in between scenes (sorry fellow cinema-goers).

No one. Only you, Reubs. 🍕🧡

: Tired Edition

Hi my name’s Reb and I hate Fridays with all my heart. Yes, you read that right. Hate. And the only thing that stops me from turning up at my husband’s workplace on a Friday and dragging him out by his golden swishy fringe is an almond croissant and a babycino in the morning. It changes everything. The rest of my day is jam packed and ever so slightly suffocating until approx. 9pm, but there’s something about a milk moustache on a toddler that sends a signal to my body. A signal that says—the weekend is here and tomorrow is different, even if the work of motherhood stays the same.

When we started this Friday ceremony in 2023, I realised my firstborn was able to order his own babycino at this age. He had a ‘usual’. I was working and studying and single-mum-ing and I guess I thought we deserved it. But this time around I’m at home a lot more and I denied us the indulgence, telling myself I couldn’t justify it—I hadn’t earned it.

And that, my friends, is a big pile of steaming ‘emoji poop’—as my 9 year old would say.

So, that’s it. That’s the introduction. Happy Friday, folks. Only a couple more hours until 9pm.