About Me

Hello!

I'm Cynthia, resident story-teller here at The Hippie Housewife. Welcome to this space of mine, and thank you for being here.

I'm a follower of Jesus, wife to my childhood sweetheart, and mother to our four children - you can meet each of them below. I am a lover of books, chocolate, sunshine, and a good latte. I'm an Island-born, prairie-raised, coast-living Canadian. And always, always, I am seeking a more intentional life.

Becoming a mother was a turning point in my life and the catalyst for a great deal of personal growth and healing. I wanted a place to both document and share that journey, and so I created The Hippie Housewife with a two-fold purpose: first, as a place to document our family’s journey towards a more intentional life, and second, to encourage and empower others to live with deeper purpose and intention as well. I write about a little of everything - parenting, marriage, life as a Jesus-follower, and more - all tied together in our underlying theme, our journey towards a more intentional way of living.

Peaceful parenting is an important part of our family life. If you'd like to read more about that, you can start with my Attachment Parenting series, thoughts on the rod verses, and some of the basics of gentle discipline. Homeschooling and homebirth are other choices we cherish in our family. Mostly, though, I just like to chat about life - the good parts, the hard parts, joy and heartbreak and hope and dreams and all of the messiness that makes up our days.

Finally, if you need some encouragement, remember that those days don't define you.

The Hippie's Husband

The Not-So-Hippie Husband is an electrical engineer, computer geek, and my go-to IT guy. He's my co-lover of Doctor Who and London Fogs. He has the patience of a saint, which, really, is the only way someone could possibly live and love with me for so long. He is the man who helped me to find my voice, to speak truth even when silence is easier. He's my favourite husband.

The Husband and I have been married for eight years. We first met when we were 12 years old, brought together by jazz band and youth group. Our story together didn't truly begin until two years after we graduated from high school. Four years and one cross-country move later, he asked me to marry him. Here we are, settling contentedly into our thirties, another four moves behind us and four beautiful children around us.

The Hippie Children

For most of my time in this space, I have referred to my nameless children by their growing titles: the boy, the preschooler, the toddler, baby girl, baby boy, whatever was appropriate at the time. These descriptions, useful but ever-changing, have become increasingly more difficult as time passes.

The olders are mentioned here less often, their individual lives and stories being left alone for them to tell on their own someday, at a time and to an audience of their choosing. I still like to chat about them, though, just those innocuous everyday comings and goings that make up the pattern of our lives. The babies, of course, are fairer game, being rather universal in their coos and cries and naps. Either way, still small or growing older, how much simpler to just refer to them by name!

To that end, I'd like to properly introduce you to my little people, with nicknames and ages and oh so very big personalities:


Jay is coming up on eight years old, and like countless mothers before me, I can scarcely believe it. Sometimes I catch myself staring at him, just staring, marveling at how old (and yet still so young) he looks. He has a delicious sprinkling of freckles across his nose; he pretends to hate them but grins all the same as I try to kiss each one. Then he wipes my kisses off, because gross, Mom, but that's okay, there are more where those came from and I can't get enough of his laughter. He is my mini-me, my childhood self reincarnated, which is beautiful and hard and lovely and challenging and more than a little frightening. He is, in a word, amazing, and I am endlessly in awe of the person he is growing into. He loves late night snuggles, a chance to talk about his day and ask his big questions long after the other kids have fallen asleep. His interests vary from math to soccer to science to drawing to reading to comics to Mario Kart. He cheers for any sports team but the one his dad cheers for, and he is full of mischief and love and thoughtfulness.

Oh, Kai, my wild five year old, endless bounding energy and passion and extremes. He's everything his brother wasn't - the lover of potty humour, weapons, wrestling, and all that is loud and crazy. He will protest chores like it's the end of the world, no, I'm not going to do that, I won't, a steady stream of refusal right up until the job is finished. Then off he goes, cheerful as ever, and I just smile and shake my head at his ability to dig his heals in even as he does the task at hand. He's never felt a need to do anything at less than full volume and throttle. He's a determined skater, his Canadian-boy dreams filled with the hope of becoming a hockey player someday. He is my incredible storyteller: Kai has an entire imaginary village in his head, and we are often regaled with tales of "his people" as we sit around the dinner table. The inner workings of his body, too, are a story unto themselves, from the "reflections" that his eyes shoot out to the armour-covered white blood cells that not only destroy germs but also build themselves little houses. Kai's stories are as much a part of him as his arms and legs.

Ell is my delightful baby girl, as much as her two-and-a-half years will still allow me to call her that. She is every bit as passionate and unbounded as the one before her, loud and silly and wild and crazy and passionate and joyful. Her steady narration is the background music of my day: "What you doing, Mommy? Oh, you cooking? What you cooking? Oh, you cooking oatmeal? I yike oatmeal. We have boo-berries? Oh, we do have boo-berries? I yike boo-berries. Oh! Baby wake up! He wake up by hisself! I not wake him up! HEY BABY! I YUV YOU, BABY! You wake up!" If her brothers are doing it, she wants to do it, always right there in the middle of everything. She thanks me enthusiastically every time I do the laundry, which is often, given the amount of laundry around here. She takes great delight in combing her daddy's hair: "Turn head, Daddy. Now down. Now up. Now udder side." This one likes her routines, a nice predictable pattern in which to snuggle safely. She's my little thumb-sucker, hair-twirler, and lover of all that is Hello Kitty.

Oh, my Min. He's been melting our hearts for half a year already. He likes to chew on fingers and pull on his sister's hair, much to her indignation. He is the sort of happy that cannot be described, just endless smiles and cuddles and laughter and contentment. I could happily spend my days nomming his neck or blowing raspberries on his belly or letting him grab my face as I growl at him. I was pretty chill with my babies - friends and strangers alike have always commented on that, you're just so calm! - but this one? This fourth sweet baby? He's the one who released those last niggling worries, foolishness about holding babies too much or forming bad habits or spoiling them or other such ridiculous nonsense. No, this one is my joy-baby, my snuggle-baby, my don't-worry-about-a-thing-baby, my soak-him-up-baby, because every cliché about how fast they grow is true. They are all so very very true. Babies are made for days like these, slow days of cuddles and laughter and entirely devoid of worry. It all works out in the end.

Which, really, sums up pretty much everything: It all works out in the end.

Grab a mug of something warm, make yourself comfortable, and thank you for reading along. I'm grateful for your presence here.