Whining in the Rain

Like singing in the rain, but less fun.

The other day my daughters and I took this lovely walk down to the U-Pick Berry Farm here in our ecovillage. (Yes, we have a U-Pick Berry Farm. Ecovillage life is ridiculously magical.) The plan was simple: pick some raspberries, gather elderberries for syrup, enjoy some sweet mother-daughter time in nature.

And it started out exactly like that. We're nibbling raspberries as we go, the girls are delighted, I'm feeling all connected and grounded.

The girls in the raspberry field. And that giant rain cloud looming in the background that we prob should have paid more attention to // photo by me

Perfect Instagram moment, right?

Then it started to rain.

And my older daughter started whining. Like, seriously whining.

There I was, wanting to be in this moment of spontaneity–okay, it's raining a little, but we'll be fine! Adventure! Embrace nature! But the whole thing started going sour. I'm committed to getting these damn elderberries even though she's saying she's freezing. I'm gathering berries, pushing the stroller, listening to the constant complaints, saying no when she wants to ride with her little sister because I don't want to push them both up the hill.

So I start making these threats: "I'll only put you in the stroller at the top of the hill if you stop whining."

(On one hand, reasonable request. On the other hand, whatever, she felt cold and miserable, and the elderberries were my agenda.)

Then I follow through: "I'm not going to put you in the stroller because I told you you couldn't whine and now you're whining."

She looked at me with these eyes. Just...oh. Such unfairness.

I started to walk away, feeling righteous about my boundary-setting or whatever. Then I stopped and turned around.

"Wait. Maybe that doesn't make sense."

She looked at me like, yeah mom, that doesn't make sense.

"You know what? I disagree with myself." (This is something I learned from the awesome book “Rest, Play, Grow” as a way of holding authority as a parent while making space for changing your mind when you're being unreasonable, which I think is brilliant.)

"It's okay that you're upset. It's okay that you've been complaining because you don't feel good. We all do that sometimes."

I let her climb into the stroller with her sister. Seeing them snuggled up together was actually pretty freaking adorable. By the time we got home, it had stopped raining, and everybody was chill again.

Just a tiny window into the complexity of parenting. There's the idealistic vision, then there's the reality, and we get to live in it all.

And this is exactly the tension I'm holding as I start sharing more about life here. Because I could easily create some eco-mama influencer picture with all the perfect photos and magical moments. The berry-picking, the homemade medicines, the village life, the connected children running free.

That's the opposite of what I want to do.

I want real connection, not presenting some curated utopia that isn't even real.

But here's the other piece: there IS so much that's absolutely magical about life here. All the ways we talk about wanting a village and needing a village? It makes a huge fucking difference. My kids do get to run around in a safe, car-free, nature-filled environment. With community meals. And amazing neighbors. And farms. And on and on.

That's all true too.

I don't want to diminish the reality of what life is like here. My hope is to inspire more people to live in community, and to think about ways that pieces of this life could become part of your life even if you don't live in an intentional community.

But I also won't pretend it’s all sunshine and raspberries.

Here's what I really want you to know: we are so fucking hard on ourselves as mothers. We're out here doing this heroic, incredible, invisible work all the time, mostly alone, comparing ourselves to curated glimpses of other people's lives.

But when we can see each other–really see each other–in our beauty and our mess, something shifts. We remember we're not alone in this complexity. We remember that the struggle doesn't mean we're failing.

You're not the only one making unreasonable demands in the rain and then changing your mind. You're just human.

And the elderberries were worth it.

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Our elderberry syrup with kefir (of course). // photo by me

Fresh Elderberry Syrup

Ingredients:

• 2 cups fresh elderberries (destemmed**, rinsed well)

• 2 ½ cups water

• 1–2 cinnamon sticks or 1.5 tsp ground cinnamon

• 3–4 slices fresh ginger (optional, but yum + immune boost)

• ⅛ tsp ground cardamom (optional)

• 3–4 whole cloves or 2–3 allspice berries (optional)

• 1 cup raw honey (local if you can!)

• ~4 Tbs lemon juice

Instructions:

1. Simmer the berries: Place elderberries, water, and spices in a saucepan. Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce to a low simmer for 30-40 minutes. The liquid should reduce by about half.

2. Mash + strain: Use a potato masher or spoon to squish the berries and release their juice. Strain through a fine mesh strainer or cheesecloth into a clean bowl, pressing well to extract liquid. (Toss the solids in your compost.)

3. Cool slightly, then add honey & lemon juice: Let the liquid cool until it’s warm but not hot (you don’t want to kill the enzymes in the honey). Stir in the honey until fully dissolved. Add lemon juice. Taste and adjust if you want it more sweet/tart.

4. Store: Pour into a clean glass jar or bottle, store in the fridge.

Dosage / enjoyment:

• For daily immune support: 1 Tablespoon per day for adults, 1 teaspoon for kids over 1 year.

• At the first sign of cold/flu: 1 Tablespoon every few hours.

• Or drizzle it on pancakes, stir into fizzy water, or spoon over yogurt (or my fav, kefir!) It’s medicine, but it’s also delicious.

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** When you’re destemming fresh elderberries, make sure to remove ALL the stems and leaves. They contain compounds that can make you sick. Use a fork to gently rake the berries off the stems into a bowl, or pick them off by hand.

*** The same daughter who was whining in the rain ended up spending an hour carefully picking every single elderberry off the stems by hand (the tedious task that has kept me from making this syrup for years). Kids contain multitudes: one minute they’re complaining about raindrops, the next they’re doing the work you don’t want to do with focus, patience, and a generous spirit. Complex beings, just like us.

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