Kindred Mom Podcast

Mommy Said Dammit Sep 27, 2021

Laura Bass shares a story about loving our kids even when things don’t go according to plan. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

“Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit.”

The post office was silent, other than the 2-year-old on my hip loudly proclaiming to the packed pre-holiday post office line that I had said dammit. I, in fact, had not said anything–I was standing in silence other than the occasional “shh” to my child, who I kept switching from hip to hip to accommodate my just-starting to show baby bump. I whispered “shhh” yet again, hoping he would forget the unfortunate word he overheard at a recent football game, but he studied my face, rapidly turning into the shade of a beet, and decided that getting louder was the only reasonable response.

“Mommy said dammit, Mommy said dammit,” he sang out, again and again. I glanced around the post office, seeing both furtive smiles and disapproving glances cast my way. An intimidating man in full military dress stood behind me, expressionless, and I wondered what he was thinking. We’d already spent more than twenty minutes in line, and I knew the line would only get longer each day as the calendar moved closer to Christmas. I tried to calculate how much longer we had left before we reached the front. I needed to get this package in the mail.

Sweating profusely and bright red, embarrassed, I was unsure of what to do. Should I abandon my place in line to go discipline my child? Did he even know that dammit was a bad word? Why was he choosing this moment to repeat this word, to draw it out from the recesses of his brain? Would it be worth it to get out of line to discipline him if it made the last twenty minutes I’ve spent waiting, twenty minutes that were cutting into precious naptime, irrelevant? Or should I just suck it up, and deal with the embarrassment, knowing I probably wouldn’t see any of these people again, and get my package mailed?

I’m not sure what the right choice was, but I was pregnant and I was tired, and I wasn’t coming back to the post office. We were getting the package in the mail and that was that, no matter how embarrassed I was.

I tried the gentle sing-song voice: “Hey buddy, let’s not say that, okay?”

I tried ignoring him.

I tried hissing angrily through my teeth, “Stop saying that!”

I tried distraction techniques: “Look, play with my keys! Look, those stamps on the bulletin board have Charlie Brown on them!”

I even tried to reason with him, knowing full well that two-year-olds are unreasonable and I was wasting my breath. “Hey buddy, mommy wasn’t even talking, I didn’t say anything at all. Let’s just be quiet for a minute okay?”

He’d pause for a few minutes and the fire would start to fade from my cheeks. Just as soon as I thought we were in the clear, he’d start up again.

“Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit.”

The line crawled forward and I did my best to avoid eye contact. Finally, I made it to the counter and purchased the postage, sliding my package over the dull beige counter with relief. Taking a deep breath, I forged to the door, looking at the sidewalk as I walked out into the crisp air. “Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit,” echoed around me as I hurried to the car. Sliding the minivan door open, I quickly buckled him into his seat and sank into the driver’s seat. Hot tears spilled from my eyes and I rested my head on the steering wheel.

**

I spotted my 3-year-old on the playground climbing wall, a sleeping baby snuggled against me in the Ergo, when I saw my 6-year-old running toward me. His face was white and he was followed by two moms with serious expressions.

“This can’t be good,” I thought.

He started sobbing the second he reached me and one of the moms pointed towards the playground structure. “He fell, all the way from the top… it looked like he just lost his balance… and he landed head first. He popped right up, but his neck… it looked like he jammed it.”

I gave him a quick glance over, checking for obvious signs of injury, and held him, awkwardly with the baby strapped to my chest. Rubbing his back with one hand, I scrolled through my phone with the other, looking for the pediatrician’s number. “That must have been so scary, buddy. I’m just going to call the doctor real quick because you fell from so high.”

The phone rang as I asked the other moms, “How high up do you think he fell from? I’m going to see if the pediatrician can check him out.”

“Probably eight feet,” said one.

“I hope he’s okay,” said the other. “I can’t believe he just popped right up like that… it was a really scary fall.”

“Thank you so much for bringing him over here,” I said as the doctor’s office picked up. I explained the situation to the receptionist as panic at the internal injury possibilities and shame for not being right there, somehow able to prevent the fall, battled inside me.

“Yes, go ahead and head this way, we’ll squeeze him in,” said the receptionist.

My 3-year-old was not pleased to leave the park. My 6-year-old was still sobbing. The baby looked around in confusion, rubbing his eyes sleepily. I called my husband on the way to the doctors office.

“I’ll meet you there,” he said.

I squeezed the double stroller into the exam room, sat my 6-year-old on the exam table. He was no longer sobbing, but was subdued, the occasional tear still falling down his cheek.

Usually, taking all three kids to the doctor is planned carefully. What time of day will everyone be the least cranky? Do we have plenty of snacks and distractions? Is our favorite doctor, the one who wears ties adorned with Mickey Mouse and Elmo and has the voices to match, available?

Exactly none of these things were the case for this last minute appointment. It was inching closer to dinner time, and my 3-year-old was holding tight to his resentment about having to leave the park suddenly.

The doctor walked in, a no-nonsense woman close to retirement, and appraised the situation.

My 3-year-old was refusing to stay in the stroller, wildly throwing his limbs about and screaming, attempting to snatch a toy from his baby brother. “If we can’t behave, you’ll have to get buckled,” I told him, greeting the doctor in the same breath.

This only increased the volume of his screams. He was most definitely not behaving.

Over his screams, I tried to give the doctor the pertinent information.

She nodded, turned to examine my oldest as I continued to struggle with my middle child. She piped in once, telling him firmly but not unkindly that he needed to listen to me, and his epic tantrum finally faded to hiccuping tears. My cheeks were bright red, both from the embarrassment and the wrestling match.

“It sounds like quite a fall, but he got lucky—I think he’ll just be sore for a day or two. Come back tomorrow, just so we can make sure nothing pops up after the fact,” she said, completing her examination. As she typed the notes into her computer, she added “You did a really good job handling that tantrum, mom. Calm and firm, that’s the way to handle those.”

I nodded, whispering a “thank you” as my eyes filled with tears. Now that I knew my son was okay, now that my other son’s tantrum had ceased, the adrenaline disappeared and I found myself exhausted and emotional.

My husband arrived at the office just as the doctor was exiting the room. We walked to the parking lot together and I recapped the appointment.

Almost shyly, at the end, I said, “She told me I did a good job handling the tantrum.”

He whistled. “She’s not the type to give out compliments, just because.” He was more familiar with the doctors than I was, having been a patient at this practice as a child. “Sounds like you had it all handled, babe. Great job.”

**

“I don’t WANT to go to church,” yelled one of my kids.

I rolled my eyes and with clenched teeth, said for the fourth time, “We are going so get dressed.”

By the time we got in the car, there had been more meltdowns than I care to count. Our dog, feeling separation anxiety after we’d been away for a week, climbed in the car after the kids.

My husband looked at me, eyebrows raised, “Church is outside…?”

“That’s fine,” I said. “She can come.”

My kids had finally gotten dressed in the church clothes I’d picked out, but I didn’t even bother to tell them to put on their church shoes. Church was outside, and after so many months of virtual church due to the pandemic, I didn’t even have church shoes in everyone’s size. Tennis shoes would do. No one’s socks matched their outfit. I was raised in a Sunday best kind of house and church, and though our church is much more casual, it can be hard to shed expectations ingrained in your childhood. A few years ago, I might have apologized to anyone who would have listened, “I know they aren’t wearing their church shoes–we just couldn’t get it together this morning.” A few years ago, I would have never entertained the idea of letting our dog come to church, even if it was outside.

I spent the first ten minutes of church trying to quietly coax my toddler over to our seats. He was much more interested in the parking lot.

When I finally settled in a chair, my four-year-old announced loudly he needed to go potty.

In the middle of the sermon, the quiet game two of my children had been playing turned into a loud shout of “SUPERCHARGED!”

Sobs over a skinned knee rose above the prayers of the people.

By the end of the service, I looked at my husband and said, “Well, the dog was the best behaved out of all of them.”

There was a time that my anxiety over my children’s behavior during the church service would have skyrocketed. I would have felt the scalding eyes of judgment with each noise that came from one of my children.

I have fallen into the trap of believing a mother’s job is to have perfectly behaved kids. I have felt shame flush my cheeks when my children were not acting like I thought they should. I have berated myself for being the mother whose child screams “dammit” in the post office, whose child falls eight feet off of a playground structure, whose child is throwing a tantrum in the doctor’s office, whose children weren’t perfectly behaved during a church service.

But any mother knows; children are unpredictable. Despite our best efforts to teach them how to act in civilized society, they are impulsive and have their own ideas about how things should go. Children, like all of us, make mistakes.

Children—and their mothers—deserve grace.

A mother’s job isn’t to handle every situation flawlessly (mothers are human, too). A mother’s job is to love, even when—especially when—things don’t go according to plan.

Just like the doctor who offered grace and encouragement when my son was having an epic meltdown in her office, I can extend grace to myself—and to others—who are showing up day after day and muddling through the messiness of motherhood.

Laura Bass is a native North Carolinian who lives in a house full of boys. She spends her days picking up Legos, encouraging creativity in her kids, and filling all her free minutes with words—both writing and reading them. She can be found blogging at www.laurapbass.com or on Instagram.

**The Beauty of the Curse** Sep 21, 2021
*Theresa Phillips shares a story about women cultivating strength when being stretched beyond their limits during the very process that makes them a mother.* Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by John Price on Unsplash

“I’m going to die!” She screamed as the pain accosted her again, relentless waves crashing with vicious repetition. I could only speak soothing words of hope as someone from the shore, removed from the torrent but certain she had the visceral strength to survive. I threw her life rafts of encouragement, naming for her the inner strength she could not see and praising her superhuman efforts. Through fear and panic, she continued to battle each crash, because that was all she could do. There was no quitting, no going back. Nowhere to go but through the storm. So she gripped the bed rails and bowed into herself as another wave rose on the horizon.

I have never been so in awe of womankind as I am in the delivery room. I have had the privilege of attending hundreds of births as a labor and delivery nurse and have seen the resilience and strength of mothers first hand. Women who suffer immeasurable pain through contraction after contraction for hours on end, because this is the journey that leads to their sweet babe. Women who bravely walk with fear and trepidation into a c-section because it is the safest path forward for their little one. Women whose heartbreak is palpable as they hold the sweet body whose soul is already with its Maker.

The more births I am a part of, the more certain I am that there is no way to prepare a woman for what she will face in childbirth. There are no words to describe this whole new dimension of pain. There is no way to plan the course with certainty. Unmedicated, epiduralilzed, vaginal, or cesarean—it makes no difference which iteration of the process becomes hers. There will be pain. There will be struggle. The limits of her strength will be tested like never before. And while she is surrounded with support and encouragement, only she can walk this path.

A woman in birth must access reservoirs of strength she did not know she possessed and the type of bravery that is drawn out of complete and harrowing necessity. A common refrain I hear from a woman in the throes of labor is certainty that she cannot do it: cries for help because she is certain she cannot survive this journey.

But she does. Every time. She survives the unimaginable because she has to. She does what she never thought possible because it is the only way forward. And through this raw determination and superhuman effort, she is greatly rewarded. Not only with the beauty of holding the new life she created and brought forth into the world, but with a new knowledge of the depth of her own resolve and courage.

And she will need this knowledge of her own strength in the years to come, as motherhood will continue to challenge the boundaries of what she thinks she is capable of. She will continue to access the depths of her courage as she walks forward in this journey that challenges her in every way imaginable. When she is certain she cannot do another 2am feeding. When she does not see how she is going to make it through the day of laundry, dishes, and carpools. When she has to go toe to toe with a tantruming toddler because she is not willing to let defiance take hold of her sweet child. Every day, she will dig deep and rely on that quiet stream of fortitude that continues to run at the core of her soul.

The curse in Genesis reads, “I will make your pains in childbearing very severe.” The pains of labor are certainly cursed by many women who have endured such agony. And yet, like the Good Father our God is, there is beauty within the curse. For it is through this deeply painful journey that mothers discover their undeniable strength. It is through enduring the unimaginable that we learn the breadth of our resolve and courage. This knowledge goes forth with us into the motherhood journey as irrefutable evidence that we are able to do more than we ever thought possible. So on those days where we are certain we do not possess the strength to make it through, we can be certain that we will. We have endured harder things than this. We are strong. We are Mothers.

***

My patient did not die. Though she was certain she had met her match, she persevered with courage she didn’t know she had and she attained her prize. As she held her sweet baby, the reward of her efforts, there was nothing but joy on her face. Where fear and uncertainty ruled, there was now empowerment and strength. The beauty of the curse.

Theresa is a mother, author, nurse, and mom-encourager. She runs a crazy household of 4 young kids and moonlights as a labor and delivery nurse where she has the privilege of inaugurating women into this amazing society of motherhood. Before nursing, she was a therapist specializing in marriage and family therapy and had the honor of helping those in crisis. Now she marries all three areas of experience into a powerhouse of encouragement for moms. She’s like your midwife, best friend, and therapist all rolled into one! For regular encouragement in this crazy mom life, follow The Gritty Mama on Facebook or Instagram @thegrittymama.

**The Second Half of Life** Sep 14, 2021
*Susan Sanders shares about redefining strong, brave and beautiful in the second half of life.* Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

“Sit back…Way back….More back. Reach for that teeny little chair behind you. Heels and rear inches apart….” In my mind’s eye I am there hovering over that baby chair, but with a 400 pound squat bar on my back. In my mind’s eye, it is 25 years ago. In my mind’s eye, it is pre-season college basketball workouts in a dingy, smelly weight room in the Midwest.

In my actual eye, I see my 45 year old body in the mirror of my yoga studio and based on the screaming in my quads and knees, I am surprised to see my knees are only bent a few degrees and my bum is nowhere near my heels. Huh, weird.

My 45 year old belly I see in the studio mirror is far from the six pack abs that belonged to the collegiate athlete who was weighed each week and when she hit her (coach’s arbitrary) scale goal was told to start dropping body fat. Young Susan did as she was told – mostly through high intensity cardiovascular workouts which were part of pre-season/in-season/post-season/off-season training programs anyway. And let me tell you––if it was on the training schedule it got done. If there is one thing Young Susan (and sometimes Today Susan, if I am being honest) loved, it was a gold star.

Gold stars meant I was worthwhile, worthy of love, good enough. Acceptable. Seen. Excuses were bullshit and unwelcome. Pain was weakness leaving the body, and good enough was neither. If there was not vomit on the track, you left something in the tank. If you could lift your backpack when you left the weight room, you wasted everyone’s time.

Competition and training didn’t end with my collegiate eligibility. When I finished 4 years of basketball, I was on the varsity track team for the rest of my senior year of college. Shot put, discuss, and hammer throws required just as much explosive plyometric training and more time in the weight room.

I paid for my Master’s Degree through group exercise instruction, teaching 20 classes each week for two years. This transitioned into racing triathlon where I have finished over 50 races of all distances, including Ironman. I have finished multiple half and full marathons. Swimming, biking and running after more and more gold stars all the time.

Now here I am all these years later, back in the yoga studio under the fairy lights. I have had three orthopedic surgeries, and a fourth looming out there “when the pain is too much.” I no longer run. I often take every yoga modification offered (I am looking at you, knee down plank) and am often still wrung out at the end of the hour. A physical therapist is part of the healthcare team that keeps this Tin Man moving. I am 20 pounds heavier than when I was in college and can’t even blame pregnancy since I am a childless step-mother. I often take the Warm Gentle class and consider it my workout for that day – and I no longer require there to be a daily workout. Sometimes 20-year old me screams in disgust, railing at what Today Susan has done to Young Susan’s body. That’s when I gently remind her of this: what about the toll this physical output has put on the mind and soul? What are you trying to avoid?

I have spent a significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy digging into why those gold stars are so important to me. Why I ran, stepped, biked, lifted, swam, Les Mills’ed my way into not feeling my feelings. Why I was willing to sacrifice Future Susan’s physical health for Young Susan’s numbness.

I have spent a significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy learning a softer, gentler way of accepting what I cannot change. I have learned that my soul engages when I am in nature. The peace I feel hiking in the woods is life-giving. When I say hiking, Today Susan might mean just ambling along in sneakers on a path. It does not need to be balls to the wall hauling ass up a steep “real mountain.” Because I am making peace with all parts of myself, I draw boundaries. Boundaries with Today Susan who wants to go for a run when feelings bubble up when the kids don’t help with chores (again), there is other blended family drama, or a chaotic day at work. Boundaries with friends who want me to run “just” a 5K with them. I draw these boundaries, because the amount of time Today Susan will spend running takes away from Future Susan hiking in nature. Numbing out or people pleasing today takes away from finding peace tomorrow. That connection to peace and love is what removes the panicked need for gold stars.

When I don’t need those gold stars to prove I am loved or worthy, I can slow down enough to listen to what my body needs right now. Does my body want to exert itself by running or does my ego want to (literally and figuratively) run away? Does my body want to go further into the pose or does my ego want to avoid being the only person in the room not doing the advanced pose? The investment of that significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy is helping me learn that I am right where I need to be today.

Susan writes and teaches at SusantainableSue.com where you can find more information about Sustainable Productivity and its 3 pillars: Health and Fitness, Mental Well-being, and Environmental Surroundings. Susan’s Master’s Degree in Exercise Physiology, MBA, Project Management Professional Certification, and Professional Organizer experience give her a unique foundation to help you create a life with more fulfillment and less need to escape.

**Tired Grace** Sep 06, 2021
Kailyn Rhinehart is sharing a story about the grace given and the grace received through hard seasons. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Ricardo Resende on Unsplash

I walk through the doorway after putting her to bed. My husband is sitting down at his computer. Without a glance up from his screen he mutters, “Man, that was easy.”

It’s 7:15 pm and she is already asleep. A bedtime victory in the toddler-parenting world. Our collective sigh settles over the room and, for a fleeting second, the past seasons play out in my heart. The many nights we spent asleep on the thin carpet of the hard hallway floor outside her room. Exhausted arguments over whose turn it was to rescue her from the visions of monsters at 2 am. Months of tears. Resettling her overtired body each night. Taking turns in the turmoil. Trudging back and forth into her room, we tried anything and everything not to lose our sanity between the hours of seven and midnight, while our two-year-old seemed to lose every last bit of hers.

I smile almost bitterly at both the memory and my husband’s remark. I glance across the room as he looks up from his computer. His eyes meet mine. For a brief moment, we savor this bedtime of ‘easy’ together like a ragged victory after a war.

***

It’s night eight. Or twelve. I am huddled in the hallway, tears marking my face. It’s 9:15 pm and we’ve been at this for hours. Her face appears in the darkness of her doorway. I quickly turn away to hide mine. She yells anything she can think of to persuade me back into her room. My husband appears at the opposite end of the hall and reaches out his hand to help me up. He quickly rubs my back in silent solidarity and trudges into the battlefield of toddler sleep struggles. We are not unfamiliar with this particular scene. Five months—seven maybe—of that same once-colicky baby screaming from her crib. Screaming on my chest. Screaming in my arms. Screaming as her daddy came in to gently relieve me then too. I shift my body away from her doorway and breathe deep, enveloped in those faded, haunting memories. I hear him go to her; she wails even louder.

We are a team, hardened veterans of our daughter’s exhausting sleep patterns. I travel silently through the hallway. Defeated. Switching off the kitchen light, I hover in the darkness—in the fleeting false sense of calm—in our room across the house, I listen to my patient husband calm her. I think of the times he came to my rescue before, during those colicky, blurry months, and I am flooded with gratitude. A second later, I hear him quietly shut her bedroom door through the baby monitor. Victorious.

A twinge of guilt creeps into my heart.

***

I lay somewhere between the waves now, letting them crash over me. I come up for air more steadily and easily than I did before. In those seasons—the colic, the sleep regressions, the bedtime battles—I felt like I was constantly drowning. In those nights, it felt hard to breathe. I have nearly blocked out those memories now. Instead, I carry overwhelming grace for both myself and those within the walls of my home. Grace, cultivated only from the darkest depths of those seasons. Grace, through and from forgiveness. Grace that feels a bit like freedom.

It’s 8:06 pm. I sit down on the bed and settle myself next to my husband, enveloped in my own feelings and memories. The monitor hums with the playback of her sound machine. I glance at her toddler body, draped between piles of stuffed animals. Blinking back past memories, I am fully present. My hand finds its way to the top of my growing belly, and when I lay on my side I can start to feel movements and flutters. They will be three years and three months apart when he arrives in December.

To say I am terrified would be an understatement, but I firmly believe in the power of seasons. I believe in time and healing. I believe in the few years of experience I have been given as a mother, which has taught me more than enough to equip me. I dwell in the grace given and the grace received from the hardest of seasons. I am overcome with gratitude, despite knowing difficult ones will come again—a paradox dripping in redemption.

I want to fast forward to the unknown. I wish for a lens into the next seasons, the ones with this baby. I wonder if time and circumstances will repeat themselves. Will we hover in the hallways? Will the nights be filled with tears, with wailing and exhaustion? My brain and my heart compete for answers, for hope.

When he joins us I know our seasons will play out all over again; the new, the terrifying, the overwhelming, the draining. In those seasons, in sleep regressions, tantrums, and turmoil, we will give and receive grace.

And in those and after those and all the others, we will be okay.

Kailyn Rhinehart is a wife and mama to two littles, currently living wherever the military says to. She is a Kindergarten teacher turned writer, continuously learning the delicate dance of patience and grace in motherhood. Near and far, whether across the world or the street, she believes in the power of other’s stories and how they make us feel. A lover of lists, riding horses, and storytelling, you can find her on Instagram or her website.

**The Dodger** Aug 30, 2021
Melissa Hogarty is sharing a story about the joys and challenges of being a boy mom. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Rae Galatas on Unsplash

I stand on the landing for a moment and gather a gust of air. “Good morning, good morning!” I sing loudly, moving up the steps toward my children’s rooms. My 5-year-old daughter pops through her doorway and giggles, headbutting me in the pelvis. I keep moving, rounding the corner toward my son’s room. “Good morning to you,” I carry on in a nearly tuneless tune.

My son’s door creaks open, and I reach my arms toward him for a hug.

He dodges, bending his knees and ducking his head away from my fingers.

In so doing, his head collides with his door jamb. He immediately howls in frustration—luckily he didn’t hit very hard—and allows me to wrap him in a very brief hug. Then he yanks his body away from my arms and grumbles through clenched teeth, “I was just trying to go to the bathroom.” From his tone of voice, I can tell he thinks I forced him to run into the wall, as if my body and his are opposing magnetic fields.

I sigh.

A familiar question rings through my head. Why doesn’t he want to hug me anymore?

***

I have always been a hugger. I will happily hug everyone from family members to mere acquaintances. “I’m going to hug you now,” I’ll announce to warn newbies, watching carefully for signs of alarm. Most people do not turn and dash away. Even non-huggers nod and extend their arms stiffly when I declare my intent.

When my son was born, I knew my hug skills would be valuable. Babies thrive on physical touch—and I was going to cuddle mine into brilliance and healthy attachment and joy.

I literally embraced motherhood with all my waking energy. I remember looking down into his sleeping face when he was three months old, tucked in my weary arms, and telling myself firmly: “You are holding him enough. You hold him all day long. Never look back on this time and feel regret, wishing you had held him more.”

Even years later, I am still confident I could not have held him more. But what I failed to do was memorize the way he felt next to me, the way his head nestled into the crook of my elbow, the dead weight of his trust.

***

It’s a game, I know. He wants to see if he is quicker than I am, if he can evade my grasp. And I let him play it. But already on days when my fingers brush the edge of his shoulder, he will turn and scowl at me. Already I can see the story he is telling himself: that I just won’t let him go.

It’s hard to imagine that the offer of a hug might turn me into the villain of his narrative, but the truth is, I’m terrified.

Is this just a foreshadowing of a more thorough rejection to come? Maybe someday his artful dodges will become “Keep out” signs splashing his door or refusal to make eye contact. Maybe I will long for the baby years again, when he would smile with delight simply because I looked at him.

What if his game of keep-away grows beyond the walls of our home, beyond the borders of our city—or country?

Where will I be then?

***

“Wrestle?” he asks with a gleam in his eye. I sigh.

“I don’t really want to wrestle right now, bud,” I admit with a twinge of guilt.

I do not want to be underneath a writhing pile of elbows and knees, struggling to keep my socks on my feet as my older children work together to remove them. I do not relish the idea of little fingers reaching into my armpits to tickle them.

But as his face falls and he shrugs his shoulders, which are thin and angular after a recent growth spurt, I give in. “Oh, all right,” I agree, quickly bracing myself as he throws his body toward mine.

Minutes later, we have rolled off the couch. I am on all fours on our bright pink rug, trying to shoo my 2-year-old daughter away from the fracas. I can hear my son behind me, preparing to rush at me again and use his scrawny weight to knock me flat.

I am no ninja, but I understand the theory of allowing someone else’s momentum to work for me in a fight. In an instant, I picture what I will do: I will twist to the side as he jumps, and he will land in front of me, and then I will begin to tickle him in earnest, keeping away from his kicking feet. I hear him charge and I tense, willing my clumsy body to time this maneuver correctly.

My son’s hands connect with my shoulders as I turn. Suddenly a blinding pain radiates through my face and my 2-year-old lets out a wail. “Aaaahhh!” I scream with her, squeezing my eyes closed. My hands blindly find my daughter and then reach up to my face to assess the damage. “I think you broke my nose!” I yell in an accusing tone.

“What? You did that!” my son retorts indignantly. I rock back on my heels, still a bit stunned. My nose is bleeding. My glasses are off-center. My pride is injured.

I hate wrestling. I allow myself to feel peevish and self-righteous as I press the bridge of my nose with my fingers.

I wonder briefly if I have years of bruises and discomfort to look forward to. Suddenly I recall how my own brother used to heft my mom in the air and toss her onto plush furniture after he outgrew her. An echo of her helpless laughter rings in my ears, the exact same sound I make when a tangle of children is crushing all the air out of my lungs.

Is this what it is to be a boy mom? Maybe wrestling is the little-boy version of hugging, a secret test of the strength and the resilience of my love.

As I shove a tissue into my sore nose, I resolve to look for and appreciate the ways he is showing me affection—even the roughhousing.

***

“Do you want to take a walk with me?” I ask, plopping down on the couch, where he is sprawled with a novel. He has to shift his body to give me enough room; I am practically sitting on him. “I have 45 minutes before I need to take your birthday pie out of the oven.” I am searching for a way to make his 8th birthday feel special, and there is nothing he likes better than undivided attention.

“Sure,” he agrees. He hangs his book over the corner of the coffee table and ambles off in search of shoes.

We step out the door into a perfectly warm afternoon. In silence, we make our way down the driveway. As we step into the street, my son looks up at me and extends his hand.

I stare at it for the briefest of moments. A light breeze could have knocked me down. He’s going to hold my hand, I realize with amazement. It’s not a hug, but it might even be better: the promise of steady togetherness as we walk, warming us from our fingers through our spines.

I cautiously wrap my hand around his and we take off, meandering through our neighborhood. I reach for something to say, anything that will be worthy of the rare gesture he is giving me. “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?” I ask him, my words keeping time with the clap of our flip-flops. He launches into a discussion of his Minecraft skills and dreams, the details of which fly into one ear and out of the other.

The only thing that matters is the constant pressure of his hand in mine as we swing our arms between us.

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith.

**Praying the Hours** Aug 26, 2021
Kimberly Knowle-Zeller shares a story about prayer during ordinary, sacred moments. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! *Photo by Paul Engel on Unsplash*

O Lord, open my lips,
And my mouth shall proclaim Your praise.

Settled in the darkness, before my alarm goes off, I hear six-year-old Charlotte’s voice declare, “Once upon a time.” I turn my ear toward the door and listen as she continues to talk to everyone and to no one at the same time. I hear her feet pitter patter on the wood floors and books being organized on the bookshelf. With every movement, her voice offers a story.

When I reach her room, I peer inside and see her Elsa doll in a small crib next to her stuffed animals. Each of them perched upright, listening intently.

“Were you reading to your dolls and stuffed animals?” I ask her.

“Yes, this is school and I’m the teacher. See, here’s my book.” She sits down on her bed and proceeds to tell a story.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

At lunch time, as light snow falls, three-year-old Isaac and I turn on Christmas music and nibble on finger foods. The two of us have found our own rhythm during the school day while Charlotte’s gone. Much of this time revolves around snacks. I’m still eating when Isaac stuffs the remaining grapes in his mouth, “Can I play, please?”

“Finish chewing first, and then you can for a few minutes, and then it’s nap time.” I tell him as I say every day after lunch. There’s only a little bit more time before I have a few minutes of quiet.

Isaac wipes his mouth with his napkin, jumps down on the floor, gets on his belly and grabs a car. He winds the car through his blocks, “choo choo, coming through.” His body snakes along the floor, his feet sway in circles in the air. I grab the dishes and move them to the kitchen sink.

Coming back into the dining room I find Isaac sitting on his knees taking out blocks and putting them on top of one another. “Look, mommy, look.”

“I see, and now it’s time to take a nap; let’s go, buddy.”

He keeps playing and seems to ignore me until I hear his voice, “I’m not tired. I just want to play with my toys.” I take a deep breath before scooping him up in my arms. My mind pictures the reheated coffee and the book I’d like to crack open, or the google doc with essay ideas I want to flesh out, or just the silence of sitting on the couch. He may not be tired, but I am.

I take him to the bathroom and as we’re heading to his room he has yet one more request, “Can we read a book in my room?” I look at the clock. The moments tick away from my quiet time, but I still say yes.

“But only a short one.” I say.

“Okay!” He runs to his book shelf, “Hmmm, this one?” He shows it to me with a smile.

I nod my head and he lifts his arms to me once again. We sit together in the rocking chair, the weight of his body against me, a reminder that soon he may not fit like this.

Stay with us, Lord, for it is evening, and the day is almost over.
Let Your light scatter the darkness and illuminate your church.

Seated around our dining room table we see the setting sun through the living room window. Shades of pink and purple mingle across the horizon. Both kids bounce up and down on their chairs seated on their knees.

Isaac tries to put a spoonful of peas in his mouth. “Wait, it’s time to pray first.” I remind him. “Let’s pray.”

Together our four voices join in: Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

No sooner than we finish the final Amen do the kids have their spoons back in their mouths. For a few minutes we only hear silverware clanking and mouths chewing. Charlotte continues to bounce up and down, never sitting still, until she puts her spoon down and looks me directly in the eyes: “I love you, Mama.”

Before I get a chance to respond she puts her arm on Stephen’s shoulder, “I love you, Daddy.” Another quick turn and she’s looking at Isaac, “I love you, Isaac.”

I turn to the window to see the last remaining colors fade into the horizon, a small glimmer of light left. Soon the skies will be dark and the stars will shine.

Isaac breaks my thoughts with his own chorus of words, “I love you, Charlotte. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy.”

We all respond together: “We love you.”

Now in peace I will lie down and sleep;
You alone, O God, make me secure.

I haven’t reached the door of Charlotte’s bedroom before her voice calls me back, “Stay here.”

Standing next to the light switch, I reassure her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stay here, Mama.”

I flick the switch bringing darkness into the room. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

We do this every night. I wonder if she’s picking up on my worries about the world, or perhaps it’s due to her being away for the first time all day at kindergarten. Some nights my patience wanes. Some nights I climb back in bed with her and feel the weight of her body next to mine, our hearts beating together.

Every night, back and forth, she wants me to stay, and I assure her I will. Eventually I take my leave. As I walk down the hallway I hear her voice one more time, “Don’t go anywhere.”

I keep the monitor close to me and watch for her body to be still, sleep taking over her. It’s not until I watch her sound asleep that I leave the monitor and relax into the quiet of the night. Before finally resting myself there are the dishes to clean, toys to pick up, emails to answer, and lunches to prep. I check the monitor occasionally to make sure she’s still asleep.

Later when I’m ready for bed, sitting in my chair with my Bible and journal, I offer my own prayers to God. I give thanks for the day. I vent about the lack of time to get anything really cleaned or picked up. I dream about writing projects I’d like to tackle. I list the names of friends and family holding heavy secrets and pain. I both cry out to God and marvel at God’s presence. I hear Charlotte’s voice from earlier in the night, “Stay here, Mama,” and I realize my prayers are not much different than my daughter’s.

My own prayers rise up, “Stay here, God. Be with me. Be with our world.”

I listen to the chorus of insects outside my window, I see the moon’s light, and in the stillness, I hear God’s response: I love you. I’m not going anywhere.

Let us bless the Lord.
Thanks be to God.

*Book of Common Prayer (Church Publishing, 1979) & Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Augsburg Fortress, 2006)

Kimberly Knowle-Zeller is a pastor in the Lutheran church, writer, and mother living in Central Missouri with her husband and two children under 6. Her stories on faith and motherhood have appeared in The Christian Century, Living Lutheran, The Episcopal Cafe, Coffee + Crumbs, and more.

**Storm Season** Aug 23, 2021
Amy Grass shares a story about love, loss, and navigating storms. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash

The odds of being struck by lightning are around 1 in 500,000.

The odds of being struck by a rare cause of miscarriage were 1 in 1,000. Lightning struck.

There was no warning, no siren blaring or weather report telling me to seek shelter. It all looked like blue skies ahead. I don’t know when the electric bolt made contact. But when the thunder hit, the boom of “your baby’s heart is no longer beating” was deafening.

“A partial molar pregnancy,” the pathology report read. “Male.” A child I didn’t even know, a boy, suddenly gone. His name: River. We didn’t name him until after he died.

Even tropical storms get their names before they hit land.

***

It was July and we were on the way home from my niece’s birthday party. At one point during the party, rain splashed against the sliding glass doors, obscuring what was moments before a clear view. A brief break in the storm signaled that I should load the kids up for the 25 minute drive home. My husband Joel was out of town on a camping trip in the Rocky Mountains and I was on my own with our two small children. As we drove down the highway toward the city, lightning repeatedly flashed across the sky.

My four year-old Eloise asked, “What if something bad happens?” With my eyes steeled on the St. Louis skyline ahead, I turned the question over in my mind, deciding I wouldn’t try to reassure her everything would be okay. That’s not always the case. Sometimes bad things do happen.

Later, I scrolled Facebook and saw four people were struck by lightning in a neighborhood two miles south of our home. I didn’t know what to do with that information.

***

Sometimes I look back to photos from the days before we found out River had died, when we didn’t even know a storm was in the forecast. I scroll through the baby bump mirror selfies I snapped to document my growing belly, my face shining with pride. I took more photos in that third pregnancy than I ever remembered to capture with my first two. Now they sit in a Google Photos album along with a shot of the positive pregnancy test I sent my three best friends, the video telling our kids the good news, and the photo from our social media announcement. What can I do with these happy memories now that they’ve been tainted by sadness? There is no insurance policy that covers this kind of storm damage.

***

Summer continued, along with the unpredictable Midwest weather. On another night of solo parenting, abrupt thunder boomed loud enough to shake the house. I jumped. Eloise screamed. I clutched her small body to mine and she spoke through exasperated tears, “This day is a DISASTER!”

To take her mind off the storm outside, I prompted her to remember the good things about the day along with the bad. Eloise listed the hard things: Daddy wasn’t home, the rain meant we couldn’t go to the park. She followed up with good: a whole evening where she had me and her little brother to herself.

Ten minutes later, the sun was out again.

***

I recently found a piece I wrote early in my pregnancy with River while participating in a writing challenge. The prompt was grief and I reflected on my fear of it, my worry that something would go wrong. I wrote “it hangs there like a cloud. A cloud, heavy in the sky, ready to shower down on me. Will it burst or are there clear skies ahead?”

***

In early August, we were on a family walk through the park by our house. The blue sky turned fast as dark clouds rolled in overhead. Joel and I quickened our pace. The wind began to blow. Hard. Branches crashed to the ground around us. Our kids exploded in terrified sobs as we pulled the stroller shades over their heads.

Joel turned to me and asked, “Do you want to run?” We took off as limbs continued to fall in the path before us, running until we found shelter in a cinder block park bathroom. Joel ran home to get the car. Only as he sprinted away did I notice a group of people gathered not far from the bathroom. They stood, leaning on a truck, laughing and talking in the midst of the wind. Farther down the path, another person casually continued a jog. Everyone seemed to carry on as I held my two screaming children in a bathroom, frantically refreshing the weather app on my phone. Didn’t they know a storm was coming?

The next morning, I went on a 5:00am run through the same park and I saw something blocking the dark path before me. An enormous oak tree pulled by its roots to the ground in the previous night’s storm. I found an odd comfort in the tangible proof of the wind we so fiercely felt.

***

The day after we found out that River had died, while I still carried his lifeless body in mine,

Eloise asked if we could make a craft. I pulled construction paper from a drawer and sat on the dining room floor with tape and scissors. “Let’s make a rainbow,” she said. “And a sun. And rain clouds.”

So there I sat, in the middle of the most violent storm of my life, cutting strips of bright paper to make a rainbow. We hung them on the ceiling fan in the living room that day. Sun shining right in the middle of the rain.

Those construction paper pieces now hang on the wall in the room Eloise shares with her

younger brother Oliver.

They remind me of the way we sought beauty in the midst of the storm and the God who never left us.

***

There was more to that piece I wrote on grief in March. I’ve come back to the last paragraph

again and again. Before I knew the end of the story and the fierce storm that lay ahead of me, I did myself a favor and wrote something true:

“I push myself to trust the voice that is better than mine. The voice of the True One, who

promises to never leave or forsake me. He promises to make me strong and brave, not because I am but He is. He is not a God of the odds or statistics. Grief or no grief, He is true. He is good. I believe. Help my unbelief.”

He is true. He is good. I believe.

Help my unbelief.

***

I don’t know what comes next. All I can do is zip my rain jacket and head out into the wind,

trusting the only One whom the wind and the waves obey.

I know better now than to try to predict the weather.

Amy Grass is a wife and mom in St. Louis, Missouri. She is a writer, runner, and baker, and can often be found adventuring outdoors with her family or sharing a good meal with friends. She’s usually wearing overalls and almost always wants a donut.

**Memories of Vinyl and Spotify** Aug 19, 2021
Bethany Broderick shares a story about receiving bad news and cherishing time with the people she loves. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by britt gaiser on Unsplash

Why is my mom still in the bathroom? I asked myself as I welcomed family and friends into our tiny apartment for our firstborn’s gender reveal. With more guests than would pass a fire code, I didn’t want my mom to stay in our only bathroom the whole time. Besides, she was there to help me host—to celebrate finding out whether our baby was a “he” or a “she.” Why wasn’t she out here with me, joining me in the excitement of knowing what was growing inside my belly and helping me prepare for the journey ahead? Even though she rejoined the party as we shot pink confetti across our yard, I was hurt by how distant she seemed. Instead of being by my side that night, she stayed hidden away for reasons I didn’t understand.

Two weeks later she called me with the test results. The crimson surge that had plagued my mom at the gender reveal party—and for weeks before unbeknownst to me—was an indication of something much worse than a monopolized bathroom. I sat on my couch, seventeen weeks pregnant, shocked by the news that my mom had an advanced stage of endometrial cancer. The loneliness I felt at the party without my mom by my side flooded over me again. What if she isn’t able to be here for me when I become a mother? What if she doesn’t get to be a grandmother? I couldn’t bear the thought of my mom not being there in my new phase of life, and even worse, in my daughter’s life.

The next five months of my pregnancy were a whirlwind of anxiety. On top of the typical first-time-mom stress of wondering if I was exercising too much or too little, googling my latest symptom, and religiously keeping track of baby kicks on an app, I also felt the burden of my mom’s cancer treatment. I asked all the questions—How often are the treatments? What are the side effects? Is this the best doctor for you? There was one question that I never asked, too afraid to hear the answer: What is the prognosis? I googled it once and spent the next few hours sobbing myself to sleep. After that, my husband never allowed me to research online about my mom’s cancer again.

***

I have few memories of my grandmother—my mom’s mother—but as my pregnancy and my mom’s cancer progressed, thoughts of her began to lurk in the back of my mind. My memories of her are like blurs that flit through my mind. I never know if it’s a true recollection from my toddler brain or my mind making something up from a photograph I’ve seen or a story I’ve been told. Even so, I vividly remember sitting on my grandmother’s lap next to her record player as she played me her favorite vinyl: Southern Gospel mixed in with one or two children’s records she bought for me. We would sing and dance together for hours in the corner of her dining room.

My grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was only a baby, and while she defeated the cancer the first round, it came back with a vengeance and took her from us when I was four years old. She stayed with us each week so she could be closer to the hospital for treatments, going back home on the weekends. Because both my parents worked full-time, my grandmother became my primary caretaker, even throughout all the exhausting chemotherapy. This went on for months, and I got used to my grandmother always being present. Thinking of her, I prayed for more opportunities for my mom to be present with me and my daughter.

***

I sobbed on the phone, thankful for the covering of a magnolia tree outside my office building, as my mom relayed more bad news about her cancer. More bad news—that seemed like all we ever got from her doctors. It’s always worse than they had anticipated. When I hung up the phone, I knew we had to move back home if at all possible. My husband took a new job, and we moved shortly after my daughter was born, only thirty minutes away from my parents. My mom had been there for my grandmother throughout her cancer battle, and I wanted to be there for my mom.

Her final chemo treatment coincided with the week I gave birth to our daughter. I have a picture of my mom and daughter wearing matching bright-yellow crocheted hats that covered their equally bald heads. I could tell my mom was as tired as I was. My body was spent from hours pushing out a new life; hers was spent from months fighting the death inside her own body.

While I was thankful for my mother-in-law and other helpers, I wanted my mom. When she visited, I watched my mom’s weak arms hold my daughter tight, wishing her arms were strong enough to hold me, too. I felt guilty asking for her help when I saw exhaustion much deeper than mine in her eyes. So we sat together on the couch—our bodies aching together, unsure of how to help each other when we were both in pain. When dreaming of this day, I had imagined my mom taking care of both me and my daughter. I hadn’t expected I would already bear weight of taking care of her.

***

My mom knocked on our glass front door last week after her immunotherapy treatment with a plastic bag hung over her arm. My two-year-old daughter yelled, “Present!”—barely waiting for me to open the door before jumping into her grandmother’s arms and rifling through the bag. It was another coloring book and more crayons. They sat down together at my daughter’s little table, and tears filled my eyes.

I’m told that my grandmother brought me little treasures in plastic bags every time she came to visit us. Even though she was worn from the struggle within her own body, she would bring me a Walmart bag with a new toy or activity for us to do. A Barbie doll, stickers, a Barney movie—it never mattered what was in the bag. It was the fact that I got to look out the door week after week and see my grandmother standing there.

I don’t remember the day my grandmother stopped bringing gifts in plastic bags. I don’t remember the hard holiday season when we said goodbye to her. I don’t remember what she looked like towards the end. In my mind, she’s always sitting by a record player, holding me in her lap and singing. What will my daughter remember about her grandmother?

***

Sometimes it seems history is repeating itself in the cruelest way possible—threatening death as we celebrate new life. I fear the timer has been set, and we will follow the same pattern as my mom did with her mother. I wonder how long my mom will be here with us.

I try not to let my mind drift that way, but every once in a while, it manages to get away unnoticed to the realm of what ifs. We praise God that the chemo worked miraculously in my mom’s body, defying the odds I had googled that one terrible night. Every four months, we breathe a sigh of relief when another set of scans comes back “clear.”

But I know that may not always be the case. I cherish every milestone my mom is here with us, knowing that one day she won’t get to be here. Like my grandmother, she might not be with us for my daughter’s soccer games or high school graduation. Maybe it won’t be until a wedding or a great-grandchild’s birth. Either way, I know there will never be a moment I don’t want her here with me.

***

Today, I open the door again to my mom standing there carrying a Walmart bag. I know she’s in pain from one of her latest treatments, but she doesn’t act like it when my daughter grabs her hand and yells, “Dance with me.” Instead of a vinyl record, my mom picks up a Roku remote to play my daughter’s favorite Spotify playlist. The audio quality may not be as beautiful as my grandmother’s vintage record player, but as I watch my daughter dance around the living room with my mom, I hope that my daughter will carry this memory with her for the rest of her life. I pray she remembers her grandmother there with her, singing at the top of their lungs and twirling around until they couldn’t stand anymore.

I watch them from the kitchen knowing I have two choices. I could fearfully save these memories in my heart, dreading the memories they may never make. Or I could treasure each moment—each photo I snap on my phone—with gratitude. Few moments in life are clearly defined by joy and grief; often they are a mixture of the two. We can pretend one or the other doesn’t exist, or we can hold both in our hearts, believing that each emotion enriches the other.

My daughter is only two, but instead of counting down the days until she gets more time with her grandmother than I had with mine, I choose to be present and rejoice in the days my good and loving Creator has given us together. I pull out my phone and start recording a video of my daughter and mom spinning in a flurry of scarves to blaring Disney music.

I pray that when my daughter’s toddler memories fail her, these videos will remind her in vivid color how much her grandmother loved her—just like the photo I have of my grandmother holding me in her lap by the record player.

Whether we’re given two more years or fifty, I want my daughter to know her grandmother will always be with her—even if it’s only in photographs and memories.

Bethany Broderick lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her husband, three-year-old daughter, and eight-month-old son. A recovering perfectionist, she writes about resting in the faithful grace of God in the everyday moments of life as a woman, wife, and mother. She is on the blog contributor team at The Joyful Life and has also had articles featured on Risen Motherhood and Deeply Rooted. You can find her writing on her personal blog (dwellingword.com) and on Instagram (@bethanygbroderick).

**Enjoying My Good-As-lt-Gets Body** Aug 17, 2021
Theresa Boedeker shares a story about learning to appreciate her body. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I am slouching against my sister’s kitchen counter. Talking, before we tackle making dinner. I am Happy to be in her presence, as we live 3000 miles apart.

She is 13 years younger than me, but we both share red hair, an abundance of freckles, and the urge to tell stories to make a point.

“Just a week ago I was standing in my kitchen with three of my friends,” she begins, “complaining about summer and swimsuits and how much our bodies have changed since childbirth.” She pats her no longer svelte tummy, running her arm mid air up and down her womanly torso and thighs to illustrate her point. Her willowy teenage body has matured.

“We were right here,” she gestures toward the table, “analyzing and complaining about how self-conscious we were as teens about our stomachs—back when we didn’t even have a stomach or know what stretch marks were. Imagine us bemoaning our bodies—our perfect breasts and thighs as teens?”

Her animated face breaks into a giggle. “Little did we know that compared to now, we looked like rock stars. We didn’t even appreciate what we had.”

Our laughter mingles, and our heads mirror in nodding. We have stepped back into our teenage concerns that seemed so earth rocking back then.

“If we had known as a teen or barely twenty-something that our looks and body were changing and fading faster than dandelion seeds in a strong wind,” she adds, “would we have been so loathsome of our bodies? So quick to find fault, compare, pick apart, and expect perfection? We were closer to it then than we would ever be again!”

“It’s only in hindsight we realize,” I say.

She nods, waving her expressive hands.

“That’s when I said to my friends,” she continues, “We need to stop comparing and complaining about our bodies right now, because they sure aren’t getting any younger. Any fitter. We need to appreciate and love them the way they are right now. Because tomorrow they will be one day older. One day more wrinkled. One day more everything.”

“So true,” I agree.

“That day my friends and I made a pact that we won’t be in my kitchen ten springs from now complaining about how our thirty some bodies were so superior to our now 40 some bodies. There will be no bemoaning the fact that we didn’t appreciate our bodies the way we should have. That back then our bodies had more tone, glow, and elasticity of youth. Because we can’t go back.”

I laugh. “Good for you.”

“We need to be thankful for our bodies and appreciate them in their—-” she pauses and makes quote marks in the air, ” ‘good-as-they-are’ state. Because each day they get one day closer to check-out.”

I smile at her wisdom and look down at my good-as-it-gets body. I am hit by the futility of complaining about our bodies. Moaning never changes their shape or strength; It just changes our opinions and thoughts about them—causing us to dislike and loathe these gifts from our Creator.

She looks at me. Gives her benediction. “Enjoy your good-as-it-gets body, Theresa. Because I am enjoying mine.”

“l will,” I promise, dancing in place, waving my hips and pointing at my face.

We laugh at ourselves. The silly focus we have on beauty and our bodies. And because her words are so wise and piercing. Her story so perceptive.

I also laugh from discomfort. From a forgotten memory. Each week we teens gathered in the ladies’ bathroom lounge at church. When we had all arrived, we stood in front of the long mirror and went down the line, complaining about something related to our appearance. At first there were Sundays I made something up. Soon, I didn’t need to.

***

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder who is looking back at me. I turn sideways and bemoan my baby-stretched stomach. My less than tight chin. My developing wrinkles.

I hate to admit it, but I have bought into the many ways magazines and ads tell me I am not good enough. Beautiful enough. Tall enough. Skinny enough. That if I only did these exercises…used this toothpaste…wore this bra…rimmed my eyes with this eyeliner…then all my problems would be solved. Every lie accompanied by a photo-shopped girl few resemble, but everyone should aspire to.

Why have I been picking myself apart like that? I wonder suddenly as I look in the mirror. I wouldn’t do this with my children, my friends, my pets.

I don’t want to hate aging. Or dislike parts of my body because they don’t fit someone else’s beauty standard.

Can I enjoy the gift that my body is and thank the Giver for all the amazing things it does and allows me to accomplish? Can I be thankful and not critical?

I stare into the mirror. Remember my sister’s story. “Enjoy your good-as-it-gets body. One day you will be enviously looking back at your current model” I say, starting to laugh and wiggling my hips. Yes, my body is good, does good things, helps me enjoy life. It is a gift I need to appreciate. Remind myself that my future self will be enviously looking back at this current model I occupy.

I remind myself to quit believing the lie that a lack of wrinkles, whiter teeth, a tighter stomach, and less leg hair will improve my life, make it smoother and pain free, or create a perfect me.

The truth is this: those who love me don’t judge me based on my appearance.

Late last night I was leaving my teenage son’s room wearing my unglamorous pj’s and sporting a full crop of bed hair and he said, “Love you, Mom, and appreciate you.”

I am tired of being my biggest critic. I absorb his words. Let them sink deep into my good body.

*Theresa Boedeker likes to tell stories, write, and laugh. A mother and wife, she works hard at being thankful for and enjoying her good-as-it-gets body. She blogs at* TheresaBoedeker.com and is passionate about helping women replace lies with truth, give themselves and others grace, and learn to laugh at themselves and life. She enjoys people, flowers, being creative, reading, and tea with milk and honey.

**The Challenging Sleepover** Jul 06, 2021
Theresa Boedeker shares a story about her daughter attending a sleepover and learning how to advocate for herself. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Leslie Yu on Unsplash

Overnight birthday parties for my daughter were commonplace when we lived in Seattle, but now that we had moved half-way across the continent, Ashley had not been invited to a sleepover for over a year. Until now.

All the seventh-grade girls from her small private school would be attending, she told me on the drive home, bouncing in her seat.

Everything seemed in order until Ashley mentioned the movies they were going to watch. One was a scary movie.

I knew that this movie would scare Ashley beyond her limits. In a few years, it would be no big deal, but with her current maturity and fear tolerance, she would probably be afraid for a while.

One evening at bedtime, I sat down on top of her bright yellow coverlet scattered with large red and pink blooms, and we talked about options.

“I want you to go,” I explained. “I’m so excited you were invited. But I’m worried about you watching this scary movie.” I told her it was not a movie that was wrong to watch, but if she watched it, she would probably be scared to be alone in the house and have trouble at bedtime.

She agreed. She did not want to be scared.

We brainstormed a few options.

I could pick her up before the movie, which was slated to begin at midnight (because what better time is there to scare one’s self than midnight)? But then Ashley would miss out on the morning activities.

I could call her friend’s mother and explain that Ashley was not allowed to see the scary movie. But the other girls were excited to watch it, and their parents were okay with it. No need to ruin the party.

Ashley finally decided to just go to bed while the girls watched the last movie. That way she wouldn’t be so tired the next day and she wouldn’t get scared. Problem solved. Plan made.

I knew this would be a hard choice for Ashley to keep and execute, but I agreed to her plan.

This would be a good learning experience and opportunity. For the last few years, I had been involving her in more decisions that affected her, helping her slowly gain independence. I wanted her to learn that choices come with outcomes and consequences. Choosing clothes, activities to participate in, discussing vacation ideas, planning a party, and letting her be in charge of her homework gave her opportunities to make choices. This was how she was learning—on small decisions that carried small consequences. I hoped in a few years when she needed to make bigger choices, she would know how.

Together we practiced answers she could give when and if the other girls questioned her about not watching the movie. I gave her full permission to blame her mother.

A few days later I picked Ashley up from the crowd of pajama-clad girls, all sporting adorable bed hair.

We hadn’t driven very far down the dusty, half-mile gravel drive when Ashley burst out, “I did it, Mom!”

When the scary movie came out, she explained to the girls that she was going to bed because she didn’t want to be scared. She glanced at me sideways. “I also said that my mother told me I could not watch it.”

“No problem,” I laughed. “You can always blame your parents and make us the meanies. That way the girls will be mad at me, and not you.”

“You’ll never guess what the girls said,” she gushed. “They said I could watch it and you would never know. That they wouldn’t tell on me.”

“So, what did you say?”

“I told them I would know, even if you didn’t. And if you asked, I would not lie to you.”

My heart swelled.

She went on to share that a few of the girls had admired her choice and told her so that morning.

I squeezed her hand.

I was so proud of Ashley. She had stuck to her decision and came away braver, and better able to follow through with her choices, despite peer pressure. She had proved I could trust her.

Now I needed to be braver. Let her make more choices and trust her to do the right thing. I knew I would sometimes have to let her make mistakes, too, and hope she would learn from them and grow. The very idea made me uncomfortable. But being a parent involves being brave. Brave enough to gently and slowly release my grip on her as she heads towards adulthood. One small opportunity at a time.

Theresa Boedeker likes to tell stories, write, and laugh, but not necessarily in that order. As a mother of two children (15 years apart), and a wife, bravery is something she works at. She blogs at TheresaBoedeker.com and is passionate about eliminating the stigma that mistakes carry, the lies we believe, and the shame we hold onto. She is currently offering a free resource on her website with ten tips on how to let our children make more decisions and, in the process, make some mistakes. Theresa enjoys people, flowers, laughing, being outside, and doing creative things.

**Stepping Into Confidence** Jul 05, 2021
Kelly Beckley Shank shares a story about overcoming fear and finding confidence in her calling, despite the challenges she encounters. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Francesco Gallarotti on Unsplash

Sixteen years old and I thought the world was mine to rule. Donning my tiara and sash, I walked freely wherever I wanted, doing most anything I liked during the state fair. Watch the horse races from the private dining room while eating crab cakes? Sure. Walk through the back door at the dairy bar and get a milkshake? Absolutely.

No one told the Farm Queen there were limits to her dreams yet.

Oldest of three girls. Grew up on a farm. Daughter of parents who didn’t tolerate sexism. Their confidence in my abilities remains one of the greatest gifts from my parents. Not a single memory exists of them ever telling me I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl. In fact, when practicing contest questions for the Farm Queen contest the subject of being a girl in agriculture came up. Even now, I can remember my mom helping me craft an answer. Her position was clear, “you were raised in a family where girls are just as capable as boys.”

Those words weren’t fodder for a feminist agenda or underlying power struggle. My parents believed each of us was capable of working on the farm. Our tasks were assigned by ability and interest, not gender.

College was no match for my confidence and determination. Yet again, I found myself in a place where my gifts were celebrated.

The first hint of pushback showed up shortly after starting my first full-time job. Back a long gravel driveway, my boss and I arrived for my first farm visit. Fresh out of college with a squeaky agricultural economics degree and family name to back me up, I jumped out of the car. This was the moment I’d waited for: my dream job was real.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t the type of person my client was expecting. I was too young and too female. His words escape me now, but I can still feel the shame from being judged as unqualified. Without giving me a chance, he decided I wasn’t good enough. Our visit continued as my boss chatted with the client about his needs and I silently watched. How could I help a client who wouldn’t speak to me?

Fortunately, I’m hard-headed, and proving him wrong became my mission once the sting wore off. By the time I announced my transfer to another office the following year, that same gentleman had become a frequent visitor to my office. Often, he’d enter with an ear of corn in hand for me to examine and a story to share.

I may have won that battle, but my confidence was cracked.

My life changed little in the decade that followed. By the time my girls were born, I was back on the farm and working full-time with my dad. Each morning, I would pack a diaper bag, a toy bag, and a lunch box with enough food and supplies to last for the day. Then we’d load up and head to work.

Thinking back, it’s quite amazing to think of the confidence my dad still had in me. With two babies in tow (they’re only 15 months apart), he assumed I would keep doing my job. The girls and I would run the grain mill, me unloading trucks or drying grain while they played. We moved equipment and ran errands. On rainy days we paid bills. During the winter, we enjoyed some time off.

Proving myself capable at work was one thing. I never imagined I would need to prove myself within the church. But there I was again.

No one ever said anything, but the kind of mama I am was different than everyone else. Maybe every mama secretly feels that way, but being myself in church made me uneasy. I can’t remember any other mamas showing up to VBS in a beat-up old farm truck covered in a day’s worth of straw dust and dirt, but we did.

It wasn’t just my type of work or the hours I put in. I also wasn’t a crafts and playtime mama.

I tried really hard, but I hated it. The pumpkins, glitter, and play dough drove me crazy. If children could play by themselves and be happy, why should I interfere? But my friends were so good at that stuff and seemed to enjoy it. What in the world was wrong with me?

There were women’s Bible studies, but I didn’t go. Beth Moore in the 2000s was a model I couldn’t live up to. She was so put-together and perky. I was more grease and occasional profanity when something broke. Her videos oozed a level of wholesome friendliness I could never attain.

As a defense, I stayed far, far away from all things women’s ministry. If I wasn’t there, I couldn’t be compared.

But God has a way of bringing everything full-circle and He has quite a sense of humor. A decade later sitting across from me at a picnic table, my friend asks me what book I’m going to write. Slightly taken aback, I share my idea as well as my disclaimer that I’m not a Beth Moore of the 2000s kind of woman. She tells me that Beth Moore isn’t a Beth Moore of the 2000s kind of woman anymore either, go look again. Of course, she’s right.

I’m petrified by what God is doing in my life.

If there is a “right” way to do women’s ministry, it probably won’t be the way I do it. God called me to reach women who feel the way I did when my girls were little. He’s asking me to reach the ones who feel like they don’t fit, the women who love their careers, the ones who detest working in the nursery, the ones who have big questions about faith, and the women who are a little outside the lines.

These are my people.

Inside, I’m hesitant because being strong and brave can come across as bossy and out-of-line. Every time I publish a blog post or end a live teaching, I wait for pushback. I wait to hear them say I can’t teach because I’m female. In those moments, I fear the words of people more than I hear the affirmations of God.

I’m afraid God is calling me to speak and lead in ways that will make people (not least of all, me) uncomfortable.

On my own, I’m weak and afraid. I want to be a model of obedience and trust. I will be strong and brave despite feeling weak and afraid. The Farm Queen needed someone who believed in her. Even more importantly, my girls need a mama who is willing to be very uncomfortable doing exactly what God is asking. They need me to be strong and brave by clinging to God.

Kelly Beckley Shank understands doubt and fear, but she embraces God’s promises and chooses confidence. As a Purpose & Process Coach, Kelly challenges women to identify their strengths, clarify their purpose, and choose confident leadership. A self-proclaimed farmbody, Kelly enjoys being home with her husband, 3 kids, and their little herd of farm animals. You can find her online at kellybeckleyshank.com or on Instagram and Facebook.

**Rest. Just Rest.** Jun 28, 2021
Rachael Groll shares a story about embracing rest, even when it wasn’t what she thought she needed. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Adam Jones on Unsplash

Going away on a retreat by myself was definitely not my idea. In fact, had you offered me a quiet trip away, I likely would have refused. However, part of my seminary assignment for the semester was to take a seclusion retreat to be alone with the Lord. Just Him and I. No people. No agenda. No activities. Just Jesus.

I am ashamed to admit He didn’t feel like enough.

I am constantly surrounded by people. Lots of people. And I like it that way. If I am alone for too long, I feel anxious and restless because it’s my nature to serve and love my people in abundance. So when this assignment was given at the beginning of the semester, I immediately started thinking of excuses for why I wouldn’t be able to complete it. Recent COVID quarantines had already robbed me of so many travel plans, I thought I had the perfect excuse for opting out. I was surprised my spiritual director didn’t agree.

“You can do this. You won’t be around anyone. It’s perfectly safe,” she urged.

Ugh. So much for blaming everything on COVID.

Once I realized I wouldn’t pass the class if I didn’t complete this retreat, I surrendered to the idea. I half-heartedly mentioned the situation to a friend as a prayer request because I knew my heart wasn’t in the right place. Instead of agreeing with me, this trip was going to be hard, my friend offered me the name of a ministry that hosts missionaries and pastors for spiritual retreats. Along with the referral, she encouraged me to jump in.

I reluctantly sent an email to determine availability and promptly forgot about it. A couple of weeks later, the ministry sent a response with details about a place they had available for me. All I needed to do was confirm my dates. There was no cost. A little surprised, I responded with some tentative dates and a confirmation email came immediately. It was all set. I was going. All I had to do was pack.

As I stepped foot onto the plane, I prayed a silent prayer. “Ok, Lord. I’m doing this. Whatever You want.”

My attitude resembled that of my teenager when I’ve pulled her away from her busy social life for a family vacation. She didn’t want to be there and didn’t dive headfirst into the fun, but I knew she was capable of leaving her phone and her friends for meaningful time together. I wonder if God sometimes feels like the parent of a teenager when it comes to my attitude, but just like I knew best for my daughter, I know He is the perfect parent and knows what I need before I do.

After a very long day of travel that included airplane mechanical issues, deplaning, delays, GPS issues, and a desperate prayer outside of the airport, I finally made it to the retreat home. I was exhausted. And hungry. And just coming to the realization that Uber Eats and Door Dash do not deliver to the middle of nowhere, even though I checked before leaving home.

As I walked inside, tears sprung to my eyes as I found waiting for me a basket of food, a welcoming note, and words that I desperately needed to hear.

“Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest awhile.” Mark 6:31 NASB

Rest was exactly what I needed.

After making myself a cup of tea and taking a quick shower, I climbed into bed and slept for 12 hours. When I woke up in the morning, I was overwhelmed by what I saw. In the dark and exhausted hours of the night, I had not noticed the beauty of the home I was in. The large windows in my room looked out to a beautiful river running between towering oaks covered in Spanish moss. I love oaks covered in Spanish moss. Love them. And no one knew that––but God did. As I listened to the waves crashing on the sides of the river, watching the moss swaying in the breeze, I felt the Lord say, “I love you.” Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized what I told everyone was really true. He is a good, good father. I didn’t want to move from this place. My comfortable bed, with a beautiful view, overwhelmed by the beauty of what was surrounding me.

Rest. Just rest.

The Lord created this space, this time for me to rest in His presence. I wasn’t anxious, or bored, or sad, but I was tired. Exhausted actually. I am always pouring myself out for others and this was God’s way of taking me gently by the hand and giving me space to just be His.

I stayed in bed all day. I don’t know the last time I stayed in bed all day––too long to remember.

I was so thankful for the gift of rest, and for a heavenly Father who knew what I needed.

Rachael Groll is a Wife, Mom, Missionary, and Author. She has a heart for pointing others to Christ. Look for her newest book, She Hears, everywhere books are sold this summer. She Hears is a Bible Study that takes a look at six women in the life of Jesus, looking at the ways that He tenderly speaks to women. You can enter to win a copy of the book by going to SheHears.org.

**Little by Little** Jun 14, 2021
Jacelya Jones shares a story about how healthy personal growth happens little by little. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Liana Mikah on Unsplash

The question for Contrary Mary, “How does your garden grow?” has the same answer as the question, “Does God answer prayer?”—little by little.

It was late at night when my daughter asked me to let her have four friends (two boys and two girls) come over to the house. I was trying to stuff my work and fun into the cracks of the day, and she asked me to curl her hair. I’ve prayed for strength and wisdom to be the kind of parent our kids need, yet continued to see myself falling short. I know that responding to my children’s distress strengthens our bond, but their stories and requests exhaust me.

But earlier that day, I had a conversation with my friend about these struggles. She’s a little way ahead of me on her parenting journey. She told me to go against my hermit instincts, to push through my natural resistance to some of the things my teenager wants from me.

She told me to pick up a take-and-bake pizza and snacks when my daughter asks me to let her have her friends over. She told me to say “Yes,” when she asks me to do her hair. She told me to see my chauffeur responsibilities as a blessing—an opportunity to spend priceless time with her in an enclosed space. She told me to keep my bedroom door open late at night so my oldest daughter can pop in to talk.

“You’ll be glad you made room for the late-night stories she’ll share,” she said.

So, I put cheese pizzas and a couple bags of Original Lays into my Shipt cart that night and told Sammie to bring me the curling iron. Taking my friend’s advice, I did not let my eyes grow wide in the face of any story she told me as I turned the barrel around the lengths of her hair.

***

The growth I see in response to prayer is not in my complete success; it lives in my willingness to learn and communicate better than I did the day before. I am reminded of God’s words in Exodus 23 when He says in verses 27-30: “I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run. I will send the hornet ahead of you to drive the Hivites, Canaanites, and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you until you have increased enough to take possession of the land.”

When Sammie was three years old, Hubby and I attempted our first garden. We didn’t know about growing zones or the difference between perennials and annuals. We couldn’t recognize flowers by looking at the blooms or by the leaves. Our first big garden bed was full of clay soil and rocks someone had previously used (probably to keep down weeds). We bought trees…and got rid of them because we didn’t know they took years to produce edible fruit. We planted biennials and threw our hands up when they came up one season and then appeared to us to have died. We blamed ourselves…and then celebrated through confusion when the biennials seemed to resurrect themselves after a season of absence.

Slowly, we learned to understand what we were reading in catalogs and on plant tags. We started to recognize plants on our own and learned how to make our flowers…then bushes…and, finally, trees prosper: sunlight, water, shade, sand, fertilizer, mulch, compost, wind breaks, to be grown in pots or in the ground…

It’s taken years of research, experimentation, creativity, boldness, and failure to begin to scale the mountain of our garden dreams with any semblance of “mastery.”

When I have a dream, I want to see it happen now. Nothing is wrong with my urgency—as long as my diligent pushing forward has the enduring fuel of patience and flexibility behind it.

***

I’ve asked God for lots of things, and before I grew in my understanding of Him (and myself), truthfully, I often felt like my prayers were just meaningless breath headed to a black hole—a place where things went in, but nothing came out. No answers. No response. No help from God.

I wanted to stop being angry without growing enough to understand and face the source of my rage. I wanted to be a successful writer without having grown in skill or the courage to submit my work and face failure. I wanted to have friends before my ability to trust others with authenticity had grown. I wanted lots of things and asked for them without the maturity to understand what I really need and what’s good for me.

In the same way, I’ve wanted to be a better parent—responsive to each child’s unique needs. It’s taken research and gradually picking up the tools to see growth in our connections. I’ve learned to listen when I’m tired. To say, “I’m tired,” or “I’m in a bad mood, but I care about what you’re saying.” I’ve learned to push Hubby and me out of our comfort zone by looking at the big picture—the seeds planted by deciding that what’s important to the kids is also important to us. Over time, experience gives me tools for my toolbox. Little by little, God uses all of it to prepare me to achieve my dreams and participate in His good plan for my life.

I think He does answer prayer—always. That’s not the same as a genie granting wishes. It’s like our own model of parenting: We listen to our children’s requests and use wisdom to say, “Yes,” “No,” or “You’re not ready for that…yet. Let’s figure out how we can get you physically and mentally prepared.”

Healthy growth is little by little so that when His answer comes, I’m ready—even when the answer is as simple as a take-and-bake pizza.

Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 14 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Her blog, Writing all My Life is the place where she can share all the words, projects, and ideas about challenges and connections as she sees them in the role of Mom and in her identity as a child of God. You can read some of Jay’s poetry and travel cover-to-cover with her through the Bible with her IGTV series on Instagram @jacelya_jones. You can also journey along with her during her Treadmill Talks on YouTube.

**His Strength in My Weakness** May 31, 2021
Rebecca Wood shares a story about having a difficult conversation with a friend and growing stronger through it. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Micheile Henderson on Unsplash

I sat at a table in our local coffee shop cradling a steamy mug. Within minutes, a friend plopped down on the chair directly in front of me.

“Hi there,” I said with a smile. “Good to see you.”

“Morning,” my friend replied in a more somber tone and with a downcast expression.

“What’s new?” I asked before handing her a mug.

“We need to talk,” she began and then unleashed the floodgates of her heart. She shared how my recent careless words wounded her spirit.

As she spoke, I felt my body tense and my stomach muscles clench. As one who goes to great lengths to avoid conflict and maintain tranquility, I wanted to run from the conversation. Or maybe place my fingers in my ears and sing “la la la” until all hard words were spoken. Or perhaps be teleported to virtually anywhere else in the world.

Situations like this have always been hard for me. I can easily crumble at the hint of discord. I can be swept away by my feelings as they fluctuate between despair and unease. In those awkward moments, I am keenly aware of the feeble foundation on which I rest my emotions and inner peace.

However, this time was different.

Slowly my muscles relaxed, and a sense of calm washed into my core.

“Tell me more,” I replied while leaning in closer.

As my friend’s words tumbled from her mouth, I maintained eye contact. I listened to her words while trying to retain a posture of humility and attentiveness.

After an affectionate and fruitful dialogue, we ended the conversation harmoniously. More importantly, we parted ways as even stronger friends.

I left our discussion bewildered by my reaction. The inner strength I displayed came seemingly out of nowhere. While I’ve handled discord in the past, I’ve never handled it well. In this exchange, I felt strangely equipped to handle a difficult situation and surprisingly armed with an unshakeable peace.

I questioned from where this fortitude arose. What changes did I make as of late that contributed to such a better response?

I had a good idea.

In fact, I had made a daily lifestyle change that was discernibly yielding big results.

For the last year, I’ve awakened early each day. I meander into our darkened kitchen, flip on the lights, and nestle into our kitchen table with my Bible.

Through daily assigned scripture readings from a 12-month reading plan I stumbled upon months ago, I have wound my way through the Bible in its entirety from Genesis to Revelation.

Some days, familiar passages remind me of my childhood Sunday school lessons. Other days, I plunge into relatively unknown scriptures that outline ancient laws, lineages, and customs. I have gained more knowledge while simultaneously wrestling with more questions.

I haven’t transformed into a Bible scholar. I can’t remember crucial facts, names, or timelines. However, I have developed a greater understanding of the character of God.

Through the pages of the Bible, I witnessed God’s continued faithfulness to His people and His promises. I learned about God’s plans for our lives—plans to prosper and succeed—and how they are best accomplished through His teachings. Over and over again, I observed God’s many attributes, namely His sovereignty, His mercy, His kindness, and His righteousness.

As I stored up God’s Word in my heart, I witnessed the outpouring into my life. I handed God my anxieties, fears, and desire for control. In return, He lavished me with the fruits of His spirit: greater patience, more joy, and better self-control. I tore down the foundation of my former life and rebuilt it on God’s promises.

Throughout this last year, I have discovered that tethering my heart and mind to God’s word has provided the stability I needed to weather the greatest storms, and even to engage in a hard conversation I might otherwise have run from.

Months after our difficult conversation, my friend and I returned to the same coffee shop. This time, our discussion flowed smoothly. We chatted about anything and everything. We dove into lighter topics and deeper talk from our shared memories to coffee preferences. I’m grateful that God protected our relationship and gave me the strength to truly listen to my friend and patch things back together.

Rebecca Wood lives in Zionsville, Indiana with her husband Chris, and four boys. She’s a freelance writer whose work has appeared in numerous blogs and publications including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Runner’s World online, Her View From Home, and (in)courage. You can connect with Rebecca at RebeccaWoodWrites.com or find her on Instagram.

**Straight From the Heart of God** May 24, 2021
Dana P. Brady shares a story about walking through unexpected medical challenges during a pregnancy, and how she got through it. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Olesia Misty on Unsplash

January 20th dawned bright and cold. It was 2015. I lumbered out of bed, 42 years old and 30 weeks pregnant with our third son, Fletcher. I was looking forward to the day because I had an ultrasound appointment with the maternal-fetal specialists who were tracking my pregnancy due to my “Advanced Maternal Age.” It was to be my last appointment with them. If everything looked good, they would release me to the care of my regular obstetrician for the remainder of my pregnancy.

My husband, Jake, unexpectedly decided to come with me. It would prove to be a very good thing that he did.

At the clinic, the sonographer recorded images of Fletcher as she’d done several times before. During the ultrasound, she became oddly quiet. Sensing a problem, I asked what the baby’s heart rate was. She remained quiet but finally said aloud, “248”.

At that stage of pregnancy, the heartbeat should be no higher than 160. The sonographer stepped out to get the doctor. They both returned and Dr. Schwarz began to click quickly through all the pictures the sonographer had already captured. He pushed back from the monitor, took his glasses off, and rubbed his hand over his face with a sigh. He looked directly at us and began to explain.

“Okay, what we have is a supraventricular tachycardia or SVT. Your baby’s heart is beating so fast that it’s actually not pumping blood effectively. That has caused fluid to start accumulating around several of his organs.” He paused and then said, “It’s like your baby doesn’t want to make it.”

He told us to go directly to the hospital and he would call ahead to alert them of our impending arrival. Though it was every bit of two and a half hours away, Sacred Heart was the closest hospital with a Level III NICU and also the facility where our doctor had privileges. He sent us directly in our own car, not wanting us to wait any amount of time for an ambulance.

Jake and I walked out of the clinic, holding hands and exchanging a wordless glance. In that moment, I began to understand on some level that even though I was scared, God was watching over me. If Jake had not decided to come with me to that appointment, I would not have been able to drive that far by myself.

When we arrived at the hospital, doctors worked to figure out which drugs could be given in order to bring down Fletcher’s heart rate. The process of sorting this out required some trial and error, and I spent sixteen days in the Perinatal Care Unit as they dialed in the drugs and dosages. Finally landing on the right combination, I was discharged and sent home where I would be on daily meds and bed rest. Dr. Schwarz later told me I was on a “truckload” of powerful medication at doses higher than any regular cardiac patient would ever be, since the concoction had to cross the placenta to get to the baby. In fact, at discharge, Jake went to the hospital pharmacy to fill my meds and the pharmacist questioned the prescription because he’d never seen those medicines prescribed at such high dosages.

I spent the last eight weeks of pregnancy continuing the daily meds and visiting my regular obstetrician twice a week, both myself and Fletcher being monitored at each visit. I was admitted to the hospital two more times for overnight monitoring and adjustment of the medications. The medications were truly life-saving for Fletcher, but they were not without cost to me. I was constantly dizzy and nauseous for the remainder of my pregnancy. And all of this medical trauma was complicated and made even more worrisome due to an extremely stressful work situation in which I ended up being relieved of my duties. The departure from my job was not completely unexpected, but the injustice of it all was totally unforeseen. Throughout those few months, I navigated sickness, anger, and the pain of deep wounds due to all that was happening in our lives. Often all three at the same time.

Seeing the stress and trauma of it all, church friends and neighbors went into overdrive in order to care for us. We were inundated with meals, cards, phone calls, and heaps of love and care. We received prayers and messages expressing how much our community appreciated us. Our two older boys were always taken care of as well, from school pickup to ball practice to quick meals at McDonald’s. The respite those good people offered us from every other negative and scary thing that was happening in our lives cannot be overstated. They loved us and considered us as their own family. The consistent love and care felt like constantly having the arm of a good friend around our shoulders.

Fletcher was delivered at 7:30 am on the morning of March 31, 2015. He entered the world with a perfectly beating heart due to the residual amount of medication in his system. His oxygen was low, however, so after about an hour of kangaroo care, he was taken to the NICU, where he would stay for just over two weeks, while his doctors repeated the process of finding the right combination and dosage of meds to give directly to him. We brought him home in mid-April and began the process of giving him his meds around the clock. He (mostly) took them like a champ.

When I look back on those months and remember different moments from my hospital stay or the long hours spent by Fletcher’s crib in the NICU, I am overwhelmed by the prayers offered on our behalf by the people of God and the way our community held us and carried us through such a difficult time. Those good people of God showed me, in new and glorious ways, how the heart of God beats with our own hearts.

Fletcher is five years old now. He had a life-saving procedure just a month shy of his two-year-old birthday. He is a work of art to me. He genuinely enjoys life. He is pure energy and excitement. His smile breaks me wide open. He used to ask me where he came from, and without hesitation, I would always immediately answer, “Straight from the heart of God.”

Dana P. Brady is a pastor, a wife, a mom, and a budding author. She co-pastors with her husband, Jake, and together they are raising three boys. She enjoys reading novels, exercising, and studying the Enneagram. Dana feels she is in her sweet spot when ministering to moms with young children who are “in the trenches”. You can find her on Facebook, Instagram, and at her blog laundryontheline.net.

**Grief and Grace Collide** May 17, 2021
Kristin Cash shares a story about finding courage after loss. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Vadim L on Unsplash

It had been four long, lonely, heartbreaking months since Christmas Eve when I heard the words, “He’s gone. No heartbeat.” They resounded in my mind every morning like an alarm clock. With four living children at home, there wasn’t time to focus on grieving.

Instead, I found myself drifting while the world went on without me. At some point, whether prompted by another thoughtless comment about moving on, or my desire to celebrate my four living children—I doubt I’ll ever remember clearly—I made a choice.

No amount of weeping and walking around dejectedly would bring him back. I knew I had to let him go.

The only way for me to let go of part of my heart is to write, so I wrote him a letter.

Dear Abraham,

I miss you even though I didn’t get to hold your tiny fingers. I’m gonna try to live without the grief and let Jesus be the Helper of my soul. Brighter days must come for me, because that’s what you would want for me, and you’re living among The Light of the World. If you could, send down some extra cheer for me. Help me let go of the guilt of moving on; the heartache is too deep to carry any longer. I love you and I’m so thankful you didn’t have to carry the earthly burden of your condition. Where you are, there is no pain, no trisomy, no disorder. You are whole and full of life. I’ll always be your Mama. One day, I’ll see you face to face. Until then, help me live a little brighter and be a good Mama to your siblings here. Give your sister up there a huge hug from me and run to your heart’s content.

Love always, Mama.

I drew a heart below my name and closed the cover of the journal I’d kept for him.

Later that week, we boarded a plane to meet family for a holiday away. I should’ve been carrying my ready-to-be-born son, but all I had was my broken heart and several suitcases. I was an Alaskan mama traveling to the beaches of the Gulf Coast, but I was anything but excited.

For almost two weeks I played in the sand, took a million pictures, even laughed a couple times. But the day before Mother’s Day, I couldn’t. I sat holding my empty belly, pregnant with grief. And while I sat, I slowly drank a glass of wine, staring at the beach from my veranda. It felt anything but blissful.

Mother’s Day was a mixture of walking away from my familiar grief, embracing the unknown, and holding hands with grace. I woke up with this unshakable, nagging feeling. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, and it distracted me from every splash my toddler made in the pool and every drop of sunshine on my face.

Lunchtime found me doing the mommy potty dance, trying to hustle and get food to four ravenous, sand-covered kids without bursting. I dropped the last paper plate on the picnic table and ran hastily to the bathroom. And then I knew exactly what had been nagging me all day long. Honestly, I didn’t even want to consider it. I was barely letting go of burying my grief with Abraham. How can I walk into another pregnancy right now?

I quickly shuffled through my makeup bag to find the lone pregnancy test. After multiple losses, I have learned to carry one with me wherever I go. Two minutes later I was staring at a positive test, which stared back at me from the floor in front of the toilet. My hands were shaking. I was completely shocked.

I tried to spend the last two days of our vacation focused on making memories and pouring love into my family. Although I told my husband the news, I did my best not to think about it until we got home, knowing that I might spiral into a fearful place.

The next weeks were filled with countless OB appointments, blood draws, ultrasounds, follow-ups, and appointments with specialists. My needy kiddos couldn’t help feeding off my anxiety and fear over the unknown. But we survived. Together, bravely, and again, we found ourselves pregnant with hope.

It became evident at 33 weeks that this baby would need to come early. I didn’t want to dwell on what might go wrong, I just wanted to hear her cry, smell her head, and rub my lips on her forehead. I needed to rest in that without worrying about the whys and hows that would follow. I made a million freezer meals, decorated for Christmas, wrapped all the presents, and prayed like my life depended on it—because I knew hers did.

Harmony was born at 35.5 weeks. That morning I was prepping for my high-risk Cesarean, surrounded by a team of 20 people, bright lights, cold hands, and the same familiar, nagging feeling I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t until I was lying down on the bed, watching the first incisions on the camera, that I realized I was delivering her exactly one year to the day after Abraham’s heart stopped beating.

I wept and wept, all the tears I’d held in for 9 months, pregnant with hope. And as Harmony cried her first cry, grief and grace collided, and I couldn’t help but be in complete awe at the God who redeems it all.

Kristin Cash is a mama to 5 (soon to be 6!) kids who share her table, and 2 Heavenly babies. She and her hubby, Jimi, live in Alaska with their hooligans and way too many animals. Her favorite home away from home is Hilton Head, SC. She loves to bake sourdough boule and drink hot coffee—while it’s still hot. She is the founder of Tapestry of Grace Writers Guild and author of Tapestry of Grace: A Manifesto for Women. You can find her online at www.krisccash.com.

**Dreaming of Someone I Used to Know** May 10, 2021
Stacy Bronec shares a story about finding contentment in her ordinary life. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I unload the last box from my car and close the door to the apartment behind me. Turning back, I remember to lock the deadbolt, then collapse on the floor between the boxes.

My mom walks into the living room, “Well, it’s all in! Do you want to start unpacking now or eat dinner first?”

“Let’s order something in. My first take-out in the city!” I start to search on my phone for Thai take-out, excited to have so many choices right at my fingertips.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, placing her purse on the kitchen counter. “The apartment is really nice.” She looks around approvingly. “Lots of good light.”

“I’m thankful to not be in a basement apartment anymore.” I laugh, remembering the sound of the dogs running above me in my last apartment. “I can’t believe I’m here—that I actually moved. It still feels a bit unreal.”

She nods, “I can’t believe you’re going to be so far from home. But I’m proud of you. I haven’t been to Seattle since I was a kid. What day does your job start, again?”

“Orientation for the new employees is Tuesday. I’ll get to meet some of the other counselors then too. So I have a few days to unpack and maybe explore the neighborhood a bit,” I reply.

“That’s good you have a few days to settle in first,” she says.

“I hate unpacking,” I sigh. “Thanks for coming with me to help. Maybe one of these times it will be a last move,” I say, laughing.

The food arrives and we sit in silence until the rain begins to fall—the sound filling the room. The temperature seems to drop suddenly, and I begin to shiver. Looking around at the boxes, I rummage through them until I find a sweatshirt and quickly pull it over my head.

***

“Mommy!” I’m jolted from my sleep—rain pounding on the window. My heart races as I lie there, unsure of where I am. Slowly I sit up, seeing light coming through the crack in the doorway. My hand reaches to the right, fumbling for my glasses on the nightstand. The cries are coming from my daughter’s room down the hall. Walking into her room, I shake my head, thinking how vivid the dream was—even though I never made that move to Seattle.

“It’s okay, Allie. Did you have a bad dream?” I whisper, sliding into bed next to her. I start tracing circles and hearts on her back with my fingers. Within seconds, her eyes begin to flutter shut, and her breathing becomes steady. Slowly I pull my hand from her back and walk out of the room. I gently close the door behind me and tiptoe down the hall.

Our farmhouse is hundreds of miles from Washington—and my life feels a million miles away from that dream.

The next morning drags on, the time marked by snack requests, laundry, and attempts to get Allie to pee on the froggy potty. When she and her big brother are playing together, I sneak to my office to take a few minutes to myself.

Moments later, I hear, “Mommy, open this?” Allie walks toward me, holding out a package of fruit snacks. I sigh and turn my chair away from my open laptop.

“We just had a snack,” I grumble, reaching out to take the package from her hand.

“Tank you,” she says and grabs the fruit snacks from me.

She walks away, and my eyes land on my graduate degree on the wall. I’m really putting that to good use. My shoulders slump, thinking it was a waste of time and money. Looking out the window, I see the leaves are beginning to change, a sure sign of fall. I close my eyes, thinking back to the dream I had last night—it was autumn when I was searching for jobs in Seattle.

***

It was a Friday night, and I was in my basement apartment Googling “school counselor jobs in Seattle.” It wasn’t that I didn’t like my current job, but I felt a pull to the city. I hadn’t been there, but I had decided it was where I wanted to live. Maybe I had watched a few too many “Grey’s Anatomy” episodes, or maybe my life just needed a big shake-up. I love dreary rainy days and find comfort in gray skies, and Seattle seemed like the perfect fit.

My mind wandered, picturing myself living in a high-rise apartment, making my daily commute to work. I saw myself going to happy hour with friends and getting dressed up for fancy events. I imagined being able to leave my apartment and walk down the street with endless food and shopping in sight.

While I was scrolling my computer, a text popped up on my phone from a friend. “Hey, I have an extra ticket to this weekend’s football game. Do you want it?”

It was the biggest game of the year—the state’s rivalry college football game. Knowing tickets were hard to come by, without hesitation, I typed out, “Yes! Thank you!” I put my computer away, with plans to continue my job search later.

The weekend of the game I went to a friend’s house to meet up; a group of us were riding together for the three-hour drive to the stadium. A guy from out of town was going to join us for the road trip—he was someone I knew of but had never talked to. We were both several years past college with careers, but this team was our common denominator. I assumed we didn’t have much else in common. He was wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt, and cowboy boots—boots I could tell weren’t just for show. Throughout the day, I noticed he was flirting with me, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about him yet.

***

The sound of a tractor outside brings me back to my farmhouse. I look back at my diploma, wondering where that girl is now. Would she have found new friends in the city, going to fancy parties, having cocktails in heels? Would she be married now or still single? Would she have kids who were growing up using city transportation instead of riding in tractors?

The kids hear the tractor, too, and drop their toys to run toward the door to meet their dad. I watch out the window, seeing him step down the ladder in his different, but same well-worn boots and t-shirt. I think back to that football weekend—he says it was love at first sight, but it took me a bit longer. Marrying a farmer wasn’t what I had planned, but quickly my plans to move to Seattle were happily forgotten.

“It’s your favorite kind of weather,” he says with a grin when he walks into the house. “Dark and cloudy.”

I smile. “You know me pretty well, huh?”

I do still love gray dreary days. But now when I see rain on the horizon, I love it for a different reason—I know it means my husband will be home, unable to farm.

We all walk down the hall of our ranch-style house—a far cry from a city apartment. I peel my eyes from the chaos of toy tractors and trucks and watch the kids cling to each of his legs, asking him question after question. They barely pause to take a breath while telling him about their day. He kneels down beside them, listening.

I leave them and walk back to my office. Pausing in front of my diploma, I run my fingers along the edge of the frame, trying to remember why I wanted to be a school counselor. A few minutes later my husband joins me, placing a hand on my back.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Honestly? I spent most of today feeling sorry for myself. The kids are so demanding, and it feels like I never get anything done. Other than laundry. I dreamed last night about Seattle, which was weird. I have no idea what sparked that memory,” I say.

“Oh. Well, what can I do to help?” he asks. “Can I take the kids with me for a couple of hours?”

I shrug my shoulders, “I was just trying to remember why I wanted to be a school counselor.” I pause. “Then I started wondering if getting my degree was a waste,” I say, nodding toward the diploma on the wall. “But, I can’t decide if I really miss my career that much, or just the idea of who I thought I would be.”

“Well, we would all be lost without you,” he replies.

I nod my head and let out a deep breath. Looking out the window, I see the puddles growing on the driveway. The sky is dark and gray—it looks like it’s going to storm for awhile.

He hugs me and I lean into his embrace. We stand silent for a moment until he takes my hand and we walk back to the living room and the kids. Today, I’m going to enjoy my favorite weather with my favorite people.

And that’s where I want to be.

Stacy Bronec is a wife, mom of three, a lover of baked goods, and a writer. She and her husband farm and ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana, where she ‘accidentally’ became a farmer’s wife. She has been published at Kindred Mom, Coffee + Crumbs, Her View From Home, and Motherly. You can also find her at stacybronec.com and Instagram, where she shares some of their farm story.

**The Value of Closed Doors** Apr 26, 2021
Janet Ruth shares a story about how even closed doors and disappointments can grow valuable character qualities in our children. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

When my daughter was in preschool, she loved to go outside with her class and play on the playground. One day, when it was time to go inside, Katie sat on a bench and took off her shoe to remove some sand. When she looked up, she saw the teacher just closing the door as the last of the children (except her) walked through. Katie sprang up and ran to the door, crying aloud for the teacher to wait for her, but it was too late. The door was closed when she got to it, and she was too small to open it alone.

I got a phone call that day. Although Katie was left alone for only a few minutes, she cried until the preschool called me and I came to get her. I tried to convince her she had been brave. Something bad had happened, but she kept trying to fix it until the problem was solved. She had waited at the glass door, knocking and yelling until someone heard her and opened the door. I said I was proud of her, but it didn’t make a difference. Not then. She kept crying, and I thought my heart would break.

***

A dozen years later, Katie joined my mother and me on a two-week vacation to Europe. We used public transportation where it was available, including underground railways. In Paris, we were on our way to visit the Notre Dame Cathedral and needed to go two stops on the Metro. The station was crowded, and Katie was a few steps ahead of us crossing the platform. She stepped onto the train… and the door closed. She was inside, her mom and grandma were outside. Katie had no money with her, no phone, and no way to contact us. I yelled through the glass door, “Two stops! Île de Cité! Two Stops!” Then the train pulled away, and my mom and I waited frantically for the next one.

In our panic, we got off after one stop instead of two and had to wait for another train to get to the right stop. Katie, also panicking, got off at the third stop. Realizing she had gone one too far, she had to figure out how to get back. It involved leaving the station, finding a different entrance, and tearfully begging the attendant at the gate to let her through without a token. She convinced the man, and he let her in. She got the next train back to Îsle de Cité, ending up on the opposite side of the tracks from my mom and me, where we were desperate to figure out where she had gone and how we were going to find her.

***

A year after graduating college, Katie headed off to Europe again, this time without me. I hugged her tight before she left for the airport to fly to London to see a friend. It was hard for me to close the door behind her, but I knew I could trust her to the Lord’s keeping. It also helped to remember that Katie had faced difficulties in the past and had become stronger and braver because of them. I hadn’t protected her from every scary situation in her life—and that was a good thing!

The Apostle Paul tells us we can “glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance [produces] character; and character [produces] hope” (Romans 5:3-4, NIV). Children need good character and they need hope. Those both come from facing difficulties head-on, trying and failing and trying again, working through problems instead of having everything worked out for them. It can be hard to watch them be frustrated or scared or going off on adventures alone, but we can trust God to work through those times to mold them into mature adults—men and women of faith, character, and hope.

A closed door can be more than a closed door if we use it to teach our children about perseverance, faith, and hope.

Wife, mother, writer, speaker, Janet Ruth is passionate about encouraging Christians to truly live what they say they believe. She is the author of two Christian Living books, with a third due out this year. Her books help Christians internalize their beliefs so they influence their thoughts and actions every day. Learn more about Ruth and her books at JaneTruth.com.

**Can’t You Ask God?** Apr 19, 2021
Jacey Rogel shares about asking God for relief from difficult circumstances and depression. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

My family moved into my dream apartment five years ago; I was grateful for the circumstances that allowed us to move in, for the close proximity to family and friends, and the chance to immerse ourselves in the community I longed to live in.

Nestled between houses, the brand new apartment community beckoned me as I drove back to college. Parks where movies play every Friday night during the summer, a corner store, a recreation center, and a yoga studio. I was enamored by the old world charm, the yellow, maroon, and dark blue houses with white trim and big porches, the matching apartments. I’m going to live there someday.

It was bliss. At first.

I walked into the living room to play with my then 18-month-old son. I glanced down at the floor and thought my eyes were betraying me. Upon closer look, I saw it. Them. Large black and brown spiders crawling on the beige carpet, hiding in plain sight. My eyes moved to see them crawling up the walls. Tears pricked my eyes, my heart beat wildly. I whisked my son away and called for my husband. He killed the predators and assured me everything would be okay.

It wasn’t. For over a month, we lived with these eight-legged creatures. They set up home in our shower, crawled out of our bedroom vents, and were found dead in our son’s toy box. Every night, I rubbed my hand along our beds, shaking out pillows and blankets. Every morning, I checked our clothes and shoes, the shower, and any other surface they could be lurking. I could never fully relax; I didn’t want to be caught off guard.

I was thrust into surprise immersion therapy. Spiders have always been my greatest phobia; living amongst them only made my fear worse.

We found at least five a day in every crevice of our small apartment, not including the dozens found dead in traps or the ones who escaped our careful eyes. I needed to calm myself, so I researched to ensure they weren’t poisonous; I never made it past the first few websites. My camera roll became a dumping ground of proof for the apartment staff, pictures of my son interspersed with my worst nightmare.

I prayed constantly for them to disappear, thinking that would be easier than easing my fear. I was new to my faith and didn’t know what I was doing. It seemed easier to pray for signs than anything else. I needed proof He was real, that He would break through and save me.

Our life on the outside was everything I hoped it would be: movie nights at the park, my son on his Radio Flyer tricycle, my husband pushing him while I followed behind, trips to the corner store for ice cream, the patch of concrete outside our apartment where we played catch every morning.

We didn’t spend much time inside our apartment. We would pack up and go to my parent’s house and spend the rest of the day there until my husband came home; he would kill spiders while I hid my face in my son’s curly hair. The very sight of them sent a visceral reaction through my entire body; I couldn’t control it.

My kitchen table became my war-room. Notebooks and Bibles and Christian non-fiction covered the surface and made me believe my prayers would be heard. I hoped those women could teach me how to believe, that their faith would rub off on me. I didn’t know what else to do.

The exterminators weren’t having any luck ridding our apartment, the only apartment with this infestation. My eyes were constantly down, looking for big brown spots near the floorboard. I needed to move my eyes upwards, to believe God would show up and fix this, or at least ease my phobia so we could live in peace. I knew I couldn’t come through this on my own.

Weeks felt like years. The stress was too much and I was tired of waiting for God to move.

We broke our lease.

***

“What is this?” I ask my six-year-old son. I pull out a piece of paper from his homework folder and he reads me a note he wrote asking for a baby brother.

“Please, can I have a baby brother?” He begs. “Please?”

“No,” I say with a slight laugh. “I’m sorry, buddy.” I hold his head in my hands, he leans into my stomach, soft after three children. He’s been asking for a baby brother ever since his second sister was born a year ago. I always give him the same answer: “It isn’t that easy.”

“Can’t you ask God?” he says, desperation in his little-boy voice. “I really want a baby brother. Please? Please ask God?”

“I can’t ask God, babe,” I tell him. “We aren’t having any more babies.” End of discussion.

I want to tell my son all of the reasons why his dream of having a baby brother to play sports and share a room with will never happen. It is a heavier burden than a six-year-old should have to carry, and I don’t want to dump my mental health concerns onto his young mind. I want him to know he is not the only one who feels like a dream has been ripped away. I do too.

Even if a baby brother isn’t possible, he needs to believe God will provide friends and teammates to fill the void. I ache for him to believe God will show up for him, even if I don’t fully believe it for myself.

There was a time my husband and I planned for four or five children, to mirror the families we grew up in. After the birth of our third baby, I made the executive decision to be done. I couldn’t go through another bout of depression as I did after each of my daughters were born; it had already stolen four years of my life.

During the worst of my depression, after my second child was born, I talked to God constantly, begging Him to heal me. My relationships, my marriage, my desire to be a mother slipped through my fingers like sand. I was sinking and needed something or Someone to pull me out of the dark abyss. But I was alone.

***

We settled into our brand-new house two years after the spider-infested apartment. On the way to the bathroom, I stop and stare at something brown on the half-wall that comes down above the stairs. My husband catches me in full panic mode, a shoe in hand.

“You have to find it. Make sure it’s dead.” I swallow a lump.

He laughs. “After living in that apartment, you shouldn’t be scared anymore.”

But I am.

Motherhood feels the same way. Even though I have three children, I shouldn’t be afraid of adding one more.

But I am.

After the spider apartment, I stopped reading my Bible. I found it easier to read about other people’s faith, to see the goodness God provided in their lives than to believe He would do the same for me. Reading other women’s journeys was a comfort, but one I held at arm’s length; I wanted to believe God was good. There are moments I still doubt it and I know my little faith isn’t enough to get me through another pregnancy or postpartum period. It isn’t enough for me to believe the dreams I discarded years ago will ever come to fruition.

I believe the depression, though slowly loosening its grip on me, will always be lurking where I can’t see it–hiding in plain sight. Every night I wonder if I will wake up in the morning normal. I want to believe it’s safe to keep my eyes up, but they are trained to look down, to stay open, waiting for the nightmare to begin again.

Jacey is a wife to her husband of eight years and a new homeschooling mama of three. She finds solace in words and between the pages of a good book. Her writing has been featured on Literary Mama and Coffee + Crumbs, among others. You can find her on Instagram or her blog, JaceyWrites.com.

**Even in My Sweatpants** Apr 12, 2021
Melissa Hogarty is sharing how she learned to accept she is beautiful whether she is dressed up or in sweatpants. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Meriç Dağlı on Unsplash

“You look cute!” my husband says with a smile, walking up beside me and wrapping one arm around my side.

I laugh uncomfortably as I look down to take myself in.

I am wearing shapeless, threadbare sweatpants tied around my hips with a drawstring and the same v-neck cotton t-shirt I wore yesterday. It is almost dinner time, but I am still in my pajamas. My long hair is scrambled together in a limp, greasy knot that has long since migrated from the crown of my head toward my left ear. I can’t see my face, but I remember that I am wearing day-old mascara and likely look like a raccoon.

He gives me a suggestive squeeze. I bump his side with my hip affectionately, but my internal monologue has little to do with the interest he is paying me.

How can he think I look nice right now? I wonder. I haven’t showered for two days…I probably smell terrible! I am a mess. I self-consciously stand up a little straighter and attempt to suck my stomach in.

I do not see what my husband sees. In fact, I’m fairly certain there is nothing attractive about me as I stand at the kitchen counter slicing mushrooms.

Why doesn’t he ever compliment me when I actually feel pretty? I fume, not for the first time. I grouse about his motives and consider telling him flat-out I’m not in the mood, that I feel as gross as I know I look. But instead, I twirl out of his grasp and move to place a saucepan on the stove, keeping my lips clamped shut.

***

Remember the movie My Fair Lady? (Or, if you were a child of the 90s, She’s All That.)

Let me give you a quick refresher: an unkempt, unloved girl gets swept into a scheme to raise her social status. The method? A makeover. No sooner does she transform into a stylish, well-mannered creature than everyone around her suddenly realizes she is worthwhile and competes to win her affections.

I didn’t understand for many years what a deep impression this narrative made on me—and what damage it had done. I thought of myself as poor Eliza (or Laney), but I was my own makeover artist, carefully conditioning myself to pay attention to the smallest details. I hammered my appearance without mercy.

Over the years, I have blazed with shame over minor crimes such as accidental muffin-top, spilling something on my shirt, chipped nail polish, or a stray eyebrow hair. I have been sure everyone was looking at me in judgment, seeing only the imperfections in my body and personal style. I knew the right image was the key to make everyone see how great I was. I thought I could win love, as Eliza did, if only I achieved beauty.

If you are thinking that doesn’t sound like love, then you are right.

I have been married for 11 years, and being married has forced me to unlearn most of what I thought I knew about beauty. Not because married love is perfect or unconditional—but because my specific husband is fairly immune to conventional charms.

He has the unique perspective that looks are immaterial and contentment is the most attractive feature of all.

He once literally told me he prefers for me to look “comfortable.” (News flash: in my quest to attain a higher beauty, comfort was never on my list of goals.) He has been known to shrug when I get dolled up with my hair pinned perfectly and my high heels on—not exactly the va-va-va-voom reaction I aim for. To him, made-up lips aren’t kissable; instead, he worries about somehow ingesting my lip gloss if he goes in for a smooch. In fact, I’m pretty sure he views a carefully planned outfit as a force field designed to keep him at bay, lest he ruin the illusion.

By contrast, when I am (in my own mind) grungy, he finds me approachable. He sidles up to me and admires my bulky sweatshirts and fuzzy socks. I am wearing them for warmth, but he is probably thinking about how best to get them off.

When my husband compliments me, I wonder what he’s really looking at. He is unable to notice whether I have spinach in my teeth (this is both a blessing and a curse), and he cannot accurately identify most of the colors I wear, but he can see beauty where I cannot.

I still do not understand why he is attracted to me when I don’t feel my best. We used to fight about it: I thought he didn’t appreciate me and he thought I was trying too hard.

But the truth is, I think God blessed me with marriage to this man so I would have to reexamine the reasons I care about appearance.

***

On a foggy Tuesday morning, he follows me outside to help load our kids into the car; I am already late for my MOPS meeting. Catching my eye across the seats, he smiles and says, “You look nice.” As part of growing toward each other, he has learned to see the effort I take with my appearance, while I have begun to keep it more casual at home. But days when I actually leave my house are a different story. Today I am wearing my favorite boots and non-kid-friendly earrings. The contours of my face are exaggerated, and my eyes pop beneath smoky shadow.

“Thanks!” I tell him enthusiastically. “Any excuse to get pretty.”

I finish tightening the straps of my daughter’s car seat and close the door. He comes around the car to give me a cautious kiss. When he pulls away, there are two glossy streaks on his own mouth. Out of habit, I reach up and smudge them away.

“You’re always pretty. But you get really dressed up for MOPS,” he observes as I slide into my seat. “Like you all have to impress each other.”

It’s as if he has shined a light into a corner I never noticed before—am I still trying to convince people to like me…with my appearance? I do pull out all the stops when I’m going to spend time with a group of women. Even on the days when I am running horribly behind, I cannot imagine leaving my house without consulting the mirror.

His words echo inside me for weeks.

When I finally make peace in my heart, it’s because I realize I never feel awkward if I’m overdressed. I like dressing up—and I don’t care what anyone else is wearing. I think it’s fun to practice updos, and I love the swish of a skirt around my legs. Scarves and earrings are as essential to me as brushing my teeth in the morning.

This is freedom, I surmise. Whether I dial it up to fancy or wear my pajamas until dinner time, my choice isn’t weighed down by the need to please anyone else. When I make the effort to look nice, I do it for me.

And when I don’t? It’s a blessing to know I can be beautiful even in my sweatpants.

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith.

**What is Best for My Kids** Apr 05, 2021
Amy Mullens shares a story about learning how to trust God while her children experienced difficult things. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

“I really don’t want to go tomorrow,” my daughter sighed.

“I know you don’t. I wish I could go in your place,” I commiserated. “You know it cannot be as bad as your first day of school when we had just moved here,” I added in an attempt to comfort.

In her eyes, I could see her mind was traveling back to that day two years ago. Only having lived in England for about a month and having changed living arrangements four times, it is little wonder those first school days felt tumultuous. Another contributing factor was this girl hadn’t yet attended a conventional school in her life. Up until that point, her education had been with one of the best teachers ever in a one-room schoolhouse that met three half days a week. It was like a beautiful little greenhouse under the umbrella of homeschooling, where children had no choice but to thrive. School all day, every day in her home culture would have been a big adjustment, but this transition summoned every ounce of bravery her nine-year-old self could muster.

“On that first day, my teacher was standing over me while I was writing a sentence. I came to the end, and she told me to put a full stop. I had no clue what she was talking about,” she said, giggling. “She looked at me like I was crazy and said, ‘You know, the little dot at the end.’ I told her that I called those periods. I don’t think that she had ever heard of that before.” My girl was now smiling at this memory that had been entirely disorienting to experience.

“You have come such a long way in the past two years,” I reassured her. “You know so much more about living in England than you did back then.”

“I am just afraid that I will cry like I ended up doing on that first day.” She looked down.

She was now eleven and starting “high school” in a new school, and she didn’t know anyone. I wished I could walk beside her and whisper brave things to her throughout the day.

She came up with a plan for saying good-bye the next day: We would get her big brother to walk with us. I would say good-bye once we got over the river bridge and he would walk her the remainder of the trip. This way, if she felt emotional after parting with me, she would have time to pull herself together before she reached school. Having attended her school, he would also better know where she needed to go. Thank God for big brothers!

When we said good-bye that morning, I did my best, but I know my voice shook.

All day long, my heart sat in my throat. I prayed for her with prayer that never ceased. Trusting God to sustain my kids when they walk through difficult things is the hardest thing my faith has ever been through.

I have always wanted what was best for my kids. Doesn’t everyone? I can remember being big-bellied and reading reviews of infant car seats, not being able to reconcile how they had all been approved as safe, but some were hundreds of dollars more than others. If I went middle-of-the-road, would my baby be ok or would I someday never be able to forgive myself for not forking over the extra money? And that was only the beginning. . .

Over the years, the calling of God upon my husband’s and my life has been in conflict with what most would deem “best for our kids.” Our littles never had a strict bedtime because pastors work a lot of nights often involving their wives. As a result, our kids learned to sleep anywhere. We always took them along for the ride and flexibility is now a strong point for all of them.

When they were little, I overheard this conversation between my boys:

“Was dad always a pastor?” the younger asked.

“No, we used to just go to church and mom and dad only had to worry about their own problems, not everyone else’s,” my firstborn candidly replied.

I have no doubt that the emotional burden of carrying the weight of others’ struggles has had an impact on my children. I hope they will grow to be the kind of people who will go on to care for and help others no matter what their vocation.

Adding a baby to our family through adoption was seen by some as a poor choice for our three biological children. That baby girl is six years younger than the youngest of them and she surely would hold us back. And you know what? Sometimes she does. Obviously, some things would be easier for our family to do without a five-year-old along. What my biological children have learned is that God designed all people to need and be a part of a family. We were called to be family to a girl who needed one. My kids have learned to accommodate their little sister when it is inconvenient because she is worth it. All people deserve a family.

Then, when our kids were 14, 12, 9, and 3, God moved and made it clear He was calling us to join a church plant in England. There are still moments when I can’t believe we made that move as a family with kids of those ages. It was unspeakably hard on them.

This past August, we got to travel back to the States for the first time in a year. On our last morning in Pennsylvania, I watched my dad pushing my girls on the swings in his backyard––the same yard I grew up in––and the guilt rolled in. This is what my kids are missing all of the time. In weak moments, I feel they are being “robbed” of time with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins so we can foster a tiny church on the other side of the Atlantic. Countless times during the past two years of our transatlantic journey, my husband and I have questioned whether or not we were ruining our kids.

My daughter’s first day of high school went well. Another girl invited her to eat lunch together, so the danger of being alone at that most vulnerable moment was provided for by a kind-hearted soul. Prayers were answered. During the subsequent first week, my daughter made friends with a girl who had moved to England from Africa only 9 months before. My heart smiled as these girls found a connection over an uncommon shared immigrant experience.

“Do you remember, Mom, how I used to cry every night when we first moved here?” my daughter asked the other day. “I thought that I would never get over leaving our life in the U.S.”

I will never forget the pain of those tearful nights. They almost sucked every ounce of courage out of me. There were so many times my husband and I considered waving a white flag and getting on a plane.

“Now that I know I can survive a move like that, I want to travel the world sharing Jesus and helping people when I grow up,” she confidently smiled.

When I watch our children be brave, I lean hard into my God for more courage than my heart knew it could muster. I have no idea what God has planned for them, but I can see glimpses of how He uses the hard parts of this life to do what is best for my kids.

Amy and her husband are church planters in the Midlands of England. Originally from Pennsylvania, she experienced in a deep way what it means to live as a pilgrim when she adjusted to ex-pat life and settled her children into a new culture. She is addicted to seeing Jesus change people’s lives and loves nothing better than to walk with them through His Word whether that be in a small group, her writing, or over coffee. Exploring the English countryside, getting lost in a book, and catching up with an old friend are among her favorite things. You can find her at www.amymullens.com or on Instagram.

**Brave** Mar 29, 2021
Jana Fraley shares a story about helping her son be brave as the new kid in school. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Colin Maynard on Unsplash

I watched as my boy slowly walked over to the bell tower, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, and there he stood all alone. I needed to get out of the drop-off lane and he was giving me a look that said “Mom, please just go.”

But my heart was breaking. I pulled out and decided to drive around again to check and see if any new friends approached him, and then twice more; by now the bell had rung and he was walking dejectedly toward his class lining up outside. I began to cry and started praying for my son; “God, please!! Bring Kade friends to help ease this transition! Could You just DO SOMETHING to make him feel like he belongs here, make him happy, well adjusted, well-liked? I need to know that my boy is enjoying his day! Lord, You are our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble (Psalm 46:1), please help my son.”

His answer to me was silence.

This went on for weeks. We had recently moved after selling our family’s cattle ranch and buying a smaller one the next county up. We faced a lot of changes that year, but it was our 10-year-old that had to deal with the hardest adjustments.

A new school with no friends was tough enough; being the lone ranch kid in the 4th grade was turning out to be excruciating. He was the only one out at recess wearing jeans instead of shorts or athletic pants, cowboy boots and not tennis shoes, a belt and buckle (a buckle that just months before he had won at the county fair and was his pride and joy). The kids weren’t mean to him, he just didn’t fit in. They’d ask Kade, “How can you run in those cowboy boots?” To which he’d answer with a shrug, “With two feet just like you, I guess.” Or, “Why do you always wear that belt and big old buckle?” His reply, “How else am I supposed to keep my pants up?” Kade didn’t change just because his school setting had changed, which at once made me proud of him but also made me nervous that he was never going to fit in at his new school.

I’d go home to my husband in tears telling him I thought we had made a huge mistake, maybe we needed to move back and let Kade return to his old school and his buddies. My poor husband didn’t know what to do with a sullen boy and a weepy wife.

I kept praying.

And God finally answered.

But He didn’t answer the way I expected or wanted Him to. God told me His plan for Kade’s life had very little to do with making sure that he was happy or well-liked and adjusted. He wasn’t as concerned with my boy being successful in academics or sports. God’s desire was to grow my little cowboy into Christlikeness, in empathy, in courage, and in contentment with where he was. God wanted to stretch and shape my son in ways that couldn’t happen if he was in a place of comfort, ease, and success. God was doing a good work in my son’s life. As his mother, I had to take my hands off and trust Him. I had to allow Kade to be brave, and I had to be brave for him.

And yet, Kade’s experience of being the new kid at a small school taught me God doesn’t grow and strengthen our kids and their faith in places of comfort and ease. As parents, we envision an ideal life for our children: lots of friends, success at school, and in various activities. We push our kids to meet a standard of perfection socially, academically, athletically, but God calls them to holiness, faith, and an abiding trust in Him.

Sometimes our children may be the lonely kid on the playground, the last one picked for the kickball game, the child that struggles in class. Because this is where God instills a sense of something much stronger than compassion into their little hearts, He gives them empathy to know what it feels like to be the one left out and struggling, to grow in a desire to seek out kids who need a friend, or encouragement in school or grace when they aren’t the best one on the team.

Within these hardships, I strive to keep an “Ultimately” type of vision. Meaning that, ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, will what they are going through matter in another day, month or year? If I truly want God’s best for their lives, I have to understand that sometimes they are not going to be comfortable, sometimes they are going to face frustrations and disappointments.

However, my job is not to try and “fix” things for them or manipulate situations to escape hard things. Instead, my job is to help them navigate those less than ideal situations and see the greater perspective of God’s will for their lives. God is still teaching me through the lives of my children. I’m so glad He is a gracious and patient God that never gives up on us. His Word tells us, “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed” ( Deuteronomy 31:8). God hems our children in, going before and behind them, protecting and keeping them.

As for Kade, two years later, he is surrounded by very good friends, including some unlikely ones. He now wrestles and plays basketball. Kade has no fear when it comes to getting on the back of a bucking steer or roping calves off of a new horse, but as we watched him on the wrestling mat and the basketball court, we saw that he had acquired courage and grit in trying something new. He’s finding that it’s often the hard and scary things in life that end up being the most rewarding.

Basketball was tough at times, being the smallest kid on the team and the one with the least amount of experience; there were a few nights when he fought frustration, but he stuck it out. In the last basketball game of the season, his team was winning by quite a bit. Kade was subbed in and out of the game as usual. But, something changed as the boys came back for the second half. Suddenly, their whole objective was to get the ball to my son. Over and over again, they worked together to make sure that Kade got the ball so he could attempt to make a basket. The boys were shouting encouragement to him. All of the parents were cheering Kade on. And I was in tears.

Kade didn’t end up scoring that night, but he walked out of that gym beaming from ear to ear. He was part of a team. The boys all pounded him on the back and told him how much he had improved, how much he hustled. God surrounded my son with boys of good character and gave him a better idea of what friendship and teamwork are all about. Better yet, God demonstrated to Kade He never left his side, even at his loneliest moments. He made Kade brave; whom shall [he] fear? the Lord is the strength of [his] life; of whom shall [he] be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1)

Jana Fraley is a Wyoming ranch wife, mom, and Christian writer. When not writing, you will find her hunting and camping with her family, riding and working cattle with her husband, having deep faith conversations over coffee with her adult daughter, helping her son with 4-H projects, or cheering him on in the rodeo arena. She has a heart and passion for encouraging women in seeking an authentic and active faith in Christ. She loves journeying together with women of all ages as they discern Biblical truth, learn to apply God’s Word with a Biblical Worldview, and dive deeper in knowing what they believe. Jana is a collaborator on the recently released devotional book “Tapestry of Grace.” You can find her writing at Rustic And Redeemed or connect with her on Facebook and on Instagram.

**Drawing Our Resilience From God** Mar 22, 2021
Sarah K. Butterfield shares a story about adapting well to adversity by asking God for help. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Yousef Espanioly on Unsplash

This year, my boys have discovered the simple joy of flying paper airplanes. One afternoon, I walked into the dining room and found my 8-year-old and 6-year-old huddled around our laptop watching a very advanced YouTube tutorial for a plane that can fly great distances. Colored paper in hand, they followed the first steps, paused the video, then tackled the next series of complicated folds. From where I sat in the living room, I had a front-row seat to their struggle.

“What? How is he doing that? Mine won’t fold like that!” moaned my younger son.

“Wait, I think I messed up. We have to rewind and start over.”

The boys had been following these steps for about 15 minutes and they were nearing the end when they discovered a problem. I understood their frustration. My youngest melted to the floor in despair. “Nooooo,” he cried as his whole body fell face-first onto the carpet.

“Let me know if you want my help,” I offered as I sipped my tea. My oldest calmly left the living room to fetch two more pieces of paper. He looked determined as he restarted the tutorial. Meanwhile, my other son beat his fists into the rug.

After a minute or two, he pulled himself up with a great sigh and joined his big brother at the table. I smiled into my mug of tea, relieved that he was able to get a handle on his big feelings without any interference from me. A few minutes later, the boys summoned me to the table to help tuck in a corner fold.

And then they were off, zooming around the house with their paper creations.

It wasn’t always this way. My youngest son brings big emotion into whatever he does. His frustration escalates at dizzying speeds as he tries to keep up with his big brother. Many times in the past, we’ve had to come alongside him to name and validate his feelings and to walk him through his choices. I’d like to think that while he was laying on the floor, frustrated with his paper airplane, he could hear my voice echo in his head: “It’s okay. Try again or ask for help.”

We moms are given ample opportunities to develop our resilience—the ability to bounce back from difficult experiences and adapt well to adversity. Just like we develop strong “mommy arms” from carrying our babies and toddlers around, we also develop our capacity for resilience. Every time we turn to God for help in the midst of a frustrating or difficult moment with our kids, we grow more resilient.

At times, like my son, I am tempted to lie down on the floor when I mess up, or the journey of motherhood seems especially hard. But instead, I choose to remember these truths about God.

God is with me. He created me for a purpose, and He is a God of infinite chances.

For a season, raising little ones is part of my purpose. When I first became a mom, looking at my brand new baby’s little face, I was overcome with the importance of my new role. With all of my heart, I wanted to do right by him, to be the mom God wanted me to be. And how quickly I discovered what a difficult calling this is! But because I believe that my work as a mother is sacred and missional, I choose to keep moving forward, even when the road ahead feels too hard.

God didn’t call me to motherhood and then abandon me. Just as I waited until my youngest son asked for my help in building the airplane, God waits for me to turn to Him. He knows the limits of my strength, energy, and patience, and I can rely upon Him to step in when I come to Him in prayer. In the early years of motherhood, I turned to Him as a last resort. I believed the lie of self-sufficiency, of relying on one more cup of caffeine, one more nap, a few more stolen minutes to myself to make everything right. When I finally came to the end of myself and turned to God in desperate prayer, He answered me simply: “I was here all along.”

I learned to pray on the go, to become more aware of His presence in both the magic and mundane of motherhood. On days when I lost my temper, when I snapped or yelled at my boys, I would be overcome by my shortcomings and feel unworthy of being a mom. But God reminds me that His mercies are new every morning. I have the ability to ask for forgiveness at any moment and start anew.

Motherhood is a high calling, a cycle that starts over again with each new day. Though the demands of the job may change, we continue to cultivate the inner qualities required of us—selfless love, patience, and strength. When I get overwhelmed, I know I can listen for the ever-present voice of God saying, “It’s okay. I’m right here. Try again, or ask for help.”

And I lean on the strength only He provides.

Sarah K. Butterfield is the author of “Around the Clock Mom: Make the Most of Your God-Given Time.” She has a heart for empowering women to grow in their faith and be intentional with their time. She and her husband and two boys live in San Diego, where she loves the first sip of coffee, getting lost in a book, and overindulging in ice cream. You can follow her writing and check out the free resources available for download on her website, sarahkbutterfield.com.

**Be Strong and Courageous** Mar 15, 2021
Lisa Witcher shares a story about learning to be strong and courageous in the process of becoming an empty nester. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Veri Ivanova on Unsplash

Mesmerized by the marvel of watching my son’s beating heart on the echocardiogram, I overlooked the sign that clearly stated we were not to video the echocardiogram screen. I whipped out my phone to record the inner workings of his heart. For weeks his heart had been racing abnormally, causing him more consternation than the Chemical Engineering classes he routinely aces. I am sure he is fine, but the science will give him confidence that he is.

“Mother—what are you doing?” he asked incredulously, with a condescending air; I am always Mother when I am in trouble.

“This is so cool! Look at—” I began, but before I could finish, he pointed to the sign that read, “Do not video.”

Oops.

The tsk in his face said more than his words. I disappoint him so often these days.

The days of him cuddling up beneath my chin or wrapping his arms around my neck and rubbing the ends of my hair between his fingers lay beyond my reach. My son is now nearing his twenty-first birthday, and his domineering, alpha-male behavior inserts itself often in our conversations, which strain against courtesy and more closely resemble tolerance. Now, his six-foot, five-inch frame sometimes bristles when I reach in for a hug.

We sit in the front seats of his car after the appointment. The rain trickles heavily in wide ribbons down his windshield as he finally blurts out these words, “I can’t be everything to you and Dad, Mother.” Aaah, the full M-word again. Taking a deep breath, I make a conscious decision to guard my emotions.

I have expected this conversation. The mother’s heart inside of me told me months ago he was suffocating beneath the weight of grief—his and ours.

Four years earlier, we lost his older sister just one month before he began his sophomore year of high school. The red-headed, fiery soul who held his every secret, who conspired with him on ways to avoid chores, who had guided and chided (and occasionally ignored) him for his whole life left this world after a drunk driver struck her black VW Bug in a head-on collision on our twenty-third wedding anniversary. She and two of her friends, who had just attended a music festival, were on their way home when the mid-size SUV crossed the yellow lines just seven miles from our home, critically injuring her passengers and crushing our girl.

After the accident, his daddy held him in the Intensive Care Unit, looked him in the eye and said, “You can’t shut down on us.” But since then, we have not delved into the anger and pain of losing such a large part of us.

His freshman year of college was shadowed by a mama who needed to touch base frequently. Just 75 miles away from home, he was neither out of easy reach nor a victim of intense hovering, but I often needed to check that he was okay. Respectful and courteous, his responses reflected his maturing masculinity; sometimes I received full sentences, and other times, only one-syllable answers. However, in the months leading up to his doctor’s appointment, his texts became more brief and less timely. Soon, I stopped texting questions and just sent emojis—less complicated, right? Easier to respond, right? Less intrusive, right? Still, he would wait seven long days before responding at all.

So yes, I knew his words were coming.

This is natural; I remind myself. His sister pulled from me when she went to college. I pulled away from my own parents at that age, giving my landline number to my sister—to be shared only if something happened to our grandparents. If we do our jobs correctly, our children will seek their own way, their independence. However, his plea this gray February afternoon resides more deeply within him than just a natural angst to be free.

“I know; I have been waiting to hear this,” My quiet answer allows him to keep talking.

By the grace of God alone, I know better than to defend his father and me. I know better than to justify anything we have done in the twenty-plus years leading up to this one moment in the front seat of a black Hyundai Sonata in the near-freezing rain. I know I just have to listen.

So, I listen to his grievances. Some are legitimate, but some words ring false, the truth hidden by a hurt he can’t overcome and one I can’t take away.

He feels trapped by his college choice, pressed against a future he isn’t sure he wants, persecuted by individuals who were supposed to be friends, and disappointed in his parents. It’s always easier to assume our perpetual pain is someone’s fault.

I decline to debate with him, forfeiting my opportunity to be “right” so he will know I hear him. At each perceived cry for help, we talk about options and resources, for him and for us as his parents, the remaining three souls in our little clan.

In the end, I walk away from my six-foot-five little boy, letting him drive west on the rain-slicked streets with all his possible choices nestled next to him in the seat I just vacated. I don’t know if my sweet boy will shut us out completely or take the wrestling match of words with him. As helpless as I felt when my daughter was dying, the danger I sense in this moment with my son threatens to steal my breath.

And so, I pray. The door to my own car hasn’t shut before my soul whispers urgently to the God “who is with us, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

The verse I chose for him long ago is Joshua 1:9: “Have I not commanded you, ‘Be strong and courageous; the Lord, your God will be with you wherever you go.’” His independent will, his acute intelligence, his devotion to learning all led me to the words be strong and courageous.

As I pray this verse over him again—”Be with him, God. Make him strong and courageous”—I know that our children are gifts shared with us, not given. My son belongs to God, just as his sister does.

My plea is also my charge: I must be strong; I must be courageous; I must let God lead that boy wherever he will go.

Second only to asking our heavenly Father to make my daughter whole again, either on earth or in heaven, my prayer for my son is the most difficult prayer I’ve ever had to heed.

Wife, mother and public educator Lisa Witcher learns about faith and grief by writing. Of all the titles she has held, mama is the one most dear to her. She and her husband have raised two beautiful, intelligent, giving children and enjoy high school athletics and pouring into the lives of students. They are loyal and true to their Oklahoma State Cowboys and the New York Yankees. Connect with Lisa on Instagram.

**Stretch? None For Me, Thank You** Mar 08, 2021
Wemi Omotosho shares a story about resilience, and the uncomfortable experience of navigating new circumstances. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Roksolana Zasiadko on Unsplash

Her big, dark-brown eyes welled up and her lower lip trembled as fat tears slid down her cheeks. I sat in mystified silence for a few seconds before asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied, sniffing back tears unsuccessfully.

“Then why are you crying?” I asked, trying not to let my frustration bleed into my voice.

“I don’t know.” She was making a valiant attempt not to cry, but tears covered her red cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

As the days and weeks passed, I learned that this interaction was par for the course during homework time in my house—specifically math homework with my 5-year-old daughter.

Though my daughter was normally precocious with a love for learning that made me proud, math had the ability to reduce her to a scared, weepy puddle. The transformation from Miss Fiercely Independent with a go-getter attitude to a teary child with slumped shoulders was almost unbelievable. I dreaded homework time. Many sessions ended with me playing the role of Shouty Mom quickly followed by Guilty Mom.

Until this point, my daughter’s learning journey had been fairly bump-free. Reading and writing were her favorite things to do and she’d happily spend all day making lists and writing cards. Words came easily to her; numbers did not, which I get.

Then I noticed that not only was she put off by the questions she didn’t know, but she was also reluctant to answer questions that she did know. Cue the tears whenever she didn’t understand a question or simply feared she might get it wrong. Her class teacher made an observation that stuck in my head: “She’s doing great, but she just needs some resilience in not being afraid to answer questions even if she may get them wrong.”

Resilience. The ability to roll with the punches. To get up and try things again even if it looks hard or you’ve already failed at it once.

It’s something I’ve tried to instill in both of my children from an early age. I let them know that sometimes things won’t work the way we want them to, but that’s okay—we can try again.

My daughter was being stretched by math, and she clearly wasn’t a fan. She needed to develop resilience so that she could take the risk to raise her hand in class, asking and answering questions.

My refrain throughout the year became variations of “It’s okay, don’t be scared just because it looks hard” and “Don’t give up. Even if your answer is wrong, it’s okay. That’s why we are doing this, so you can learn how to do it.” I sought for teaching moments outside of the dreaded “M word” to reinforce this principle and seized opportunities even during the things she enjoyed.

***

Don’t be scared.

My own words reverberated in my mind and I wondered when I would take my own advice. Here I was, always pushing my kids to not only try new things, but also not to give up when the going gets tough—yet I had spent pretty much the entire year fighting change.

After the quiet and monotony of five months in lockdown, life started ramping up and returning to the familiar busyness. I once again had to settle into my roles of juggling work and home, with school runs, evenings spent doing homework, or driving my eldest to swimming lessons, and staying on top of school events and commitments.

On top of this, my role at work had changed to one that demanded more of me. It required me to step outside my comfort zone and not only learn new things but take an active leadership role. Although the professional side of me saw the opportunities for growth buried in this change, I resisted as if my life depended on it.

Having started this year of global unrest with a challenging medical diagnosis that had only one prescription—rest, and lots of it—I was desperate to cling to the old and familiar. I simply did not feel I had the headspace to take on the responsibility of the job change being offered. But when it came down to it, management’s decision was final, and I had to make the transition over to a new team to replace a colleague who was leaving.

During the first few weeks of my new role, I mourned the loss of my old position—one that I not only enjoyed but could do almost on autopilot. It had been perfect for a year in which I needed to have lots of rest, visit the hospital and doctor’s offices, and look after (sometimes homeschool) two children single-handedly while my frontline-working husband labored for long hours at the hospital every day.

I had more than a few tearful moments during those first weeks. I mourned the loss of the old and comfortable and very reluctantly started to step into the new. I was being stretched and didn’t much care for it.

Added to the mix, my husband and I decided to put our 9-year-old son forward for some entrance examinations as part of his preparation for secondary school. This meant we needed to prepare him for the exams, which included scores of past papers, test booklets, and online resources covering different topics.

In a season when I already felt overwhelmed, the added pressure of coordinating my son’s extracurricular studies led me to frequent grumbly, under-breath murmurings and wrinkled brows. So many things had battered my defenses, leaving them paper-thin and ineffective. I was cranky, tired, and constantly felt on edge. Any time I thought there was about to be a semblance of normality, something would shoot out of nowhere and knock everything off-kilter again. I felt like I was in continual transition. Whether it was from illness to healing, from an old role to a new one, or from homeschooling to in-person school and possibly back again, I was fed up.

As I went through the concepts of number bonds with my daughter, I saw the parallels between us—I am also very reluctant to drink from the unpalatable cup that has been placed before me.

Looking back, I know I didn’t handle the bumps of the year with the kind of grace I want to have. More often than not in this season, I want to throw a tantrum and bury myself under the covers, even though I know that God may be using all the bumps to stretch me in readiness for whatever the future may hold—not unlike what we are doing with our 9-year-old.

However, instead of being flexible and open to change like my son has been, I haven’t transitioned well. Choosing instead to be dragged out of complacency into the stretch, I’ve entered my new season with tension and pushback.

In the midst of this, I’m encouraged that God does not abandon me in the stretch. Rather, He reassures with: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10, NIV).

Perhaps the fact that I haven’t given up yet is resilience.

Resilience, I’m learning, is worked out in the stretch and in real-time on those days when I lack the grace and strength.

I see this in my daughter when she willingly joins her online math tuition class every Saturday morning and when she dares to give an answer to a question asked by her teacher.

I continue to show up and give my best every day in my roles at work and as a mom, just like my daughter does with her schoolwork. I may never fully willingly embrace the stretch and the growing pains that come with it, but perhaps just continuing to put one foot in front of the other is enough. Enough to traverse the rocky terrains of life and enough to teach my children to face challenges head-on and not give up.

Wemi Omotosho, PhD is a London-based writer who wears many hats as a scientist, entrepreneur, wife, and mom. She also serves as a worship team vocalist, bible study writer, and coordinator for the publicity department in her church. She is constantly awed by God’s love for her despite her mess. Her writings have appeared in (in)courage, Iridescent, and Awake Our Hearts. She shares her reflections and poems at reflectionsinthemess.com. You can also connect with Wemi on Instagram and Twitter.

**The Long Haul** Mar 03, 2021
Lindsey Cornett shares a story about persevering through ongoing challenges. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! *Photo by MIO ITO on Unsplash.*

What is it with the lights in hospitals and doctors’ offices? I hate how they buzz almost imperceptibly, casting a yellowish haze across the room, making me feel like I need to blink constantly to keep things clear and in focus.

On this particular day, the haze falls over my baby boy, barely one year old. He’s wearing a hospital gown with a cartoon tiger print. They try to soften the blow in these moments by covering these tiny gowns in patterns you might otherwise find on a pricey muslin swaddle blanket.

During our pre-op appointment a few days before, I sat in the waiting room at the ENT and watched another family come in, their daughter in a wheelchair with many visible medical needs and accompanying equipment. Their family unit for this visit was mom, dad, daughter, and nurse. I kept my own baby boy occupied and tried not to stare or eavesdrop, but still noticed the way each adult dutifully took turns attending to her needs as they waited for their appointment.

I was struck by how minor my boy’s procedure would be, Lord willing. Here was a problem (chronic ear infections) and its clear solution (tubes). So few parenting struggles have such obvious boundaries, such delineated beginnings and ends, such clear next steps.

Now, we have arrived to the day of surgery, those oppressive lights hanging over my boy waiting for anesthesia. Not much later, I buckle a drowsy but otherwise happy boy into his car seat and we are on our way back home for snuggles and naps.

***

The surprising gift of COVID has been the uncovery of true contentment, not because everything is good or even because I’ve learned to want my current circumstances more than anything else. Instead, when everything shut down in mid-March 2020, each day presented me with only one option: Stay home.

I stopped considering if and when I might go “back to work” and what job I would do and whether the money would adequately compensate for childcare—a monologue that had been running in the back of my mind almost endlessly since I quit my full-time job in 2015. In 2020, I ceased feeling like I wasn’t getting my money’s worth out of our museum and zoo membership. Without decision fatigue and without wondering about the best use of my time, I learned to be satisfied. I learned to settle in for the long haul, to accept what I had been handed.

So much of motherhood exists in the follow-up appointments. The handful of firsts and lasts are dwarfed by the sheer volume of the again and again and agains. Meals. Potty breaks. Read alouds. Sibling squabbles and apologies. Reminders about choosing love, being brave, making mistakes, and trying again. “You already had a snack.” “Your birthday is still three months away.” “You may not speak to me like that.” “I love you.” “I love you.” “I love you.”

Pastor and theologian Eugene Peterson once borrowed a phrase from Nietsche to describe the Christian faith as “a long obedience in the same direction.” And my, if that isn’t also a good description of motherhood. It is long. It is often marked by sameness. But we keep showing up. Faithful and present, even if nothing ever changes. And isn’t that what Jesus says to us? “I love you, even if nothing ever changes. I am faithful.”

And yet, I have hope for change and transformation, an extension of my hope in Christ who is making all things new. My middle child asks for a snack ten million times a day but I keep repeating myself because I am bound and determined that one day, he will learn that afternoon snack is at 3:00. (He will, right? Right?)

***

It turns out that my son’s ear tube surgery didn’t fix his chronic ear infections after all.
“For some reason some children’s ears just don’t like this particular kind of tube,” the ENT explained. Let’s try again with a different kind.”

So, less than six months after that first surgery, my son was back under those oppressive medical lights for a second set of ear tubes and an adenoidectomy to boot. (“My, those were very big adenoids for such a little boy. I’m glad we did this,” the surgeon remarked afterwards.)

He hasn’t had another ear infection since, which I couldn’t have imagined during his babyhood. And yet, six or seven years later, I have learned to expect follow-up, slow movement in the right direction without much clear resolution. We keep showing up to weekly speech therapy sessions. His dentist recently told me he’s a mouth breather and his tonsils are swollen and, “Huh, unusual that they didn’t remove the tonsils along with the adenoids.”

In motherhood as in life, I prefer forward progress. I am learning that while time may heal many things, some things just linger. I am learning to be content with the long wait and lack of resolution.

Around here, we’re in it for the long haul.

Lindsey Cornett is a writer and editor who lives in Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. If her kids aren’t demanding to be held, she’s probably carrying a pen, a book, or a coffee. In both writing and life, she hopes to provide hope and solidarity to any other women who find themselves afraid to make mistakes. She is a co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter of soulful encouragement for recovering perfectionists. Her writing has been featured at Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and (in)courage. You can always find her on Instagram or learn more about her writing and editing services at www.lindseycornett.com.

**Moving Into a New Season** Feb 28, 2021
Emily Sue Allen shares a story about navigating both grief and joy when entering a new season. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! *Photo by Sourav Sur on Unsplash.*

He’s driving. I’m looking out the window, my eyes skipping across snow-dusted fields. I’m thinking about things I have wanted to say out loud for months now, but haven’t found the words. I stay quiet because I know if the words come, the tears will, too, and I’m not ready for them.

Our seven kids are in the rows behind us, spaced out through our 12-passenger van. One plays DJ with daddy’s phone, landing on a popular movie soundtrack with an assortment of her favorite musicians and an upbeat tempo to accompany our forward motion.

We are all together on our way to a donut shop (a favorite Saturday-morning pastime), then headed to visit grandparents we haven’t seen for a long time. We now live just a half-hour away, but a particular virus has kept us from regular time together.

We’ve been in an especially challenging season for nearly three years now, and I’m ready for a new season—out of winter, into spring. Out of crisis, into healing. Out of struggle, into smoother days. I feel rather desperate for it, but I also feel stuck. Sad. Not really sure how to let go of the past and make space for the future—my former certainties and optimism smeared blurry by the present grief I struggle to articulate.

Four months ago, we moved to a new area, eager to gain space for our large family after being sardined into a 1500 square foot house for over a decade. We welcomed baby after baby into that house, reconfiguring sleeping arrangements a dozen different times to make it work. The day we drove away, I ordered my kids to stand in front of the fireplace and took a ridiculous picture of all of them wearing stick-on mustaches so I could smile my way out the door for the last time and keep the tears to a limited few.
I was really sad to leave, but our lovely new home promised a quiet neighborhood with more than enough space for our family. Room to spread out. Room to breathe. I wanted to start fresh, welcome joy, and leave grief behind so it couldn’t wreck this new beautiful experience. After a long season of struggle and healing from a near death experience, I wanted a hard break from the heavy stuff.

The moving truck arrived at our doorstep after a long journey across the state, containing all our material possessions, including an Ikea bookshelf we knew ahead of time might not survive the trip. Having been shuffled around our old house a number of times, the structural integrity of the shelves had been compromised and a gentle nudge could rock the corner joints slightly off 90 degrees. I knew for sure the pieces would not fit back together if they were deliberately dismantled before loading, so the unit went on the truck as a whole piece—squares stuffed with odds and ends and boxes piled on top. It wasn’t until it was being carried off the truck in our new driveway that the boards started pulling apart. Within seconds, the once-whole and useful bookshelf toppled over the side of the loading ramp and broke into dozens of scattered pieces in the driveway.

The past few years have changed me in similar ways. The life I once knew is now unrecognizable—broken apart from pressure, change, and events I didn’t see coming. I can’t put the pieces back together like they were. No one asked me ahead of time if I was ready for an epic season of struggle. I did not consent to this. I did not ask for stormy weather.

But the weather isn’t up to me.

***

“Mama, can we snuggle and look at pictures on your phone?” My five year old has discovered I have thousands of photos from past seasons of life, photos of his older siblings when they were young and events he doesn’t remember. He is thrilled by these glimpses into the past.

“Sure, buddy, we can do that for a few minutes.” He grabs the couch throw-blanket to spread over our legs and scoots in close to my side where he’ll be able to see the screen as I scroll through photos.

“I want to see when I was in your belly,” he quips with a smile and expectant, raised eyebrows. He’s seen the photo before, but it left an impression and he continues to request it.

I find the right folder and swipe to the only images I have of the ridiculous, torpedo-shaped belly I snapped in the mirror a few days before his arrival. I knew then, as I know now, time is fleeting, and even when photos show the messy, uncomfortable moments of our lives, it is priceless to have them captured.

He giggles about how big my belly was. I smile at the memory and also feel the pang of sorrow for the reality that those days are gone. I know now, we will have no more babies. We can’t. Our family is in a new season, and there is no way I can have another pregnancy without significant health risk and personal trauma. I’m not saying I want or need another baby—after all we have seven healthy kids—but I am sad this chapter is closed.

“That’s a big baby in there!” I say with a conflicted smile and contrived enthusiasm, suppressing the lump in my throat.

I would never say my child-bearing years have been easy. My body stretched beyond reasonable limits and I scrambled and scraped my way through the baby and toddler years, like every mom does. But even though it was really hard, the season of having babies was so full of good things for me: joy, purpose, growth, and self-discovery. Now, grief and joy are wrestling things out, and I mostly feel helpless, unable to stop the passing of time, and also grateful time keeps moving despite really big mom-heart feelings.

I squeeze him close and kiss the side of his head, well aware this moment is fleeting, too.

***

We’re minutes away from the donut shop, and I still can’t seem to spit out what I’m trying to say to my husband as he drives. I’ve kept quiet for several minutes.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

*Yes. No. I don’t know.* There are so many words I want to say. I pause a minute and take a deep breath.

“I feel so eager to move forward into a new season—to leave behind the struggles of the past few years and embrace the new adventure we’re on, but I still feel horribly…painfully…sad. I just want to speed ahead through the grief, to get it over with, but…”

Tears slide down my cheeks and my voice trails off.

Wide-open fields pass by, and I see, maybe for the first time, there is space for everything I’m feeling. Joy. Sorrow. Hope. Uncertainty. I’ve said goodbye to a season of life that was full of good things, and the one ahead…there is no reason it can’t be full of new and different good things.

These mixed-up emotions can hang together. I can give grief some room as I welcome Jesus’ comfort and healing in the present; as I long for a renewed sense of strength and vision for brighter tomorrows.
Grief is hard, but I am growing to see it is necessary for healing, necessary for moving forward.

There is space for grief, and there is space for hope.

The seasons themselves are beyond my control. The weather is what the weather is, and there is no way to pin down the weatherman and guarantee spring temperatures before they’re due. I have to let the weather be what is today, and if it’s wet and cold, give myself permission to sit near the fire with a cup of tea. When the sun comes out, I’ll be sure to step out in it with my eyes closed and my bare face turned up. Moving into a new season means embracing where I am, internal mess and all.

My husband stretches his hand open on the center console, and I put mine in it.

I’m grateful we’re in this together.

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

**All is Calm, All is Bright…Or Not** Nov 24, 2020
I have a backpack at church tonight instead of my usual diaper bag. Inside it are only a Ziploc with Pull-Ups and wipes and a small Kiddie-brand fire extinguisher.

I brought a freaking fire extinguisher to church. (Can I use “freaking” and “church” in the same sentence? Oh well.)

It seems bananas to me, but not as wild as the fact that, in a sanctuary full of people, they hand out crayons all around, including one to each of my four small children, except all the crayons are white and have wicks and they light them all on fire.

I love Christmas Eve candlelight services.

Or, rather, I did back before it became the most ridiculous worst-case scenario I find myself in every single year.

At my church, Christmas Eve services go like this: Walk into the foyer from the sub-zero cold. Wait for glasses to defog. Greet as many people coming out of the earlier service as you can find. Hand out Christmas cards or bags of caramel corn, if you managed to get as far as cards or caramel corn this year. Mosey into the sanctuary and find a seat as the Spotify Christmas playlist fades and the pianist begins, signaling that we have about 90 seconds before the service starts for real. After the welcome, we pray, read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and watch someone light all five Advent candles.

If this sounds a little rote as I tell it now, it may help to know I’m increasingly drawn to the repetition of this one sacred night.

At the end of all this, we get instructions to “take one and pass it down”—underneath the leftmost chair in each row sits a box of candles, each tucked into individual plastic holders. The pastor reminds us to always tip the unlit candle to the lit one (to prevent hot wax drips) and to hold it upright for a minute after we blow it out at the end. Then someone turns off all the lights. (Typically, this responsibility falls to my husband, the ridiculously good-looking sound guy whose board is right in front of the bank of light switches.) For a few moments, the only light comes from the five Advent candles. The pastor lights his little candle and starts walking down the center aisle as people on both sides dip their (unlit!) candles to his, then pass the flames down their rows. After he’s started lighting candles down the aisle, we start singing “Silent Night” a capella. By the second verse, all two hundred (or so) candles are lit, and they stay that way for the remaining verses. The sanctuary has a warm glow as we sing together, our faces shining in the firelight.

“Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright…”

At the end of the song, we blow out our candles, wait with them upright until the wax hardens just enough, then pass the boxes again, this time from right to left, depositing our candles and replacing them under the leftmost chair of each row for the next service. We head out of the sanctuary, linger for a while in the foyer—long enough for autostarted cars to warm, if only a little—talking to friends who attended this service and the ones coming for the next one (I always pick the middle of the three services so I can at least try to catch everyone), pass out more cards and caramel corn (maybe). Then we brave the cold and drive home to continue whatever prep or merrymaking we have planned for the night before Christmas.

At least this is how it used to go, back before I started bringing a fire extinguisher in my backpack. I’m sure the service feels much the same to the people around me, but it stresses me all the way out. I have four children, ages 3, 5, 7, and 9. Lately, my strategy for Christmas Eve service is less about fellowship and more about tactical maneuvering. We arrive early but miss the foyer chat (I didn’t make cards or Christmas treats, anyhow) so we can take the seats closest to the door, because I need to be as close as possible to the sound board (and other parent of this weird little circus, who mans the faders and knobs). These are everyone’s favorite seats—the first to fill at every service, hence my early arrival—and I don’t want to monopolize them, but I’m aware I may need to exit very quickly with no notice.

I nod a nervous hello to my husband then plant myself in the third seat in. The preschoolers sit on either side of me and the elementary girls sit on either side of them, taking up the five best seats in the house. I give them Very Serious Instructions regarding behavior in this service and Even More Serious Instructions about the coming candle situation. “Most of all, you have to listen VERY CAREFULLY,” I tell them, hoping to cover all contingencies. I pop my backpack under my seat, unzipping it proactively and double-checking to make sure my hand knows how to find the extinguisher in the emergency that may well be imminent. I’m anxious and I’m hot. The wispy hairs that have flown out of my messy bun are sticking to my face and neck in an itchy, annoying way. (Oh yeah! I definitely meant to fix my hair and put on some mascara and change out of yoga pants! Shoot!)

Ready or not, the piano starts to play as my husband turns down the playlist coming from his production computer. We’re doing this, I guess.

The next half-hour is filled with open-flame-related anxiety and whispered reminders to stop stomping on the floor with winter boots, stop facing the wall, stop talking (or at least talk quieter), and the like. We sing songs. My kids are familiar with them and thus sing with great gusto and fair-to-moderate pitch. I’m trying (failing) to keep myself regulated as we get closer to the moment when four little candles with four menacing flames will be held tightly in eight unpredictable hands.

Finally, it’s fire time. My oldest is in the leftmost position, so she gets the box from under her chair and hands it down. I question for the one-millionth time the wisdom of telling the 3- and 5-year-olds, “Yeah, I think you guys might be old enough to hold candles this year,” while also congratulating my foresight to braid all three girls’ hair to decrease the chances of catastrophe. I triple-check the fire extinguisher, this time propping it upright inside the backpack, which I’ve moved to my seat. Pastor Eric gets to the last row and Jenna solemnly tips her unlit candle to his.

We have ignition.

I help the little two and then glance around, paranoid, passing out instructions as loudly as I can while still staying below the ambient volume of “Silent Night” sung a capella.

About the middle of the third verse, I see 5-year-old Brian getting a little too curious about his candle. I whisper with increasing volume and panic, “Away from your face, Bud! Away from your face! BRIAN!” But he’s mesmerized. His head bows in slow motion toward his flame, then jerks back suddenly. I see in the golden candlelight a little curl of smoke disappearing from above his forehead. He lets go of the candle with his right hand (managing to keep it upright in his left) and rubs his noggin, looking at me with both surprise and offense. I smell the distinctive aroma of singed hair, but there is no persisting fire and, just like that, the song is done. We blow out candles (“Gently! Keep them upright for a minute!”) and put them away. I zip my bright-red Kiddie extinguisher back into my bag and put it on my back, grabbing the hands of each of my preschoolers.

As we exit the sanctuary, I let go of Brian’s hand to high-five my husband. “Another year we didn’t burn the church down!” I exclaim. “I didn’t even have to use this,” I point to my backpack. “And Brian’s hair was only a tiny bit singed!” At this point, all the anxiety I’ve been holding inside bubbles out in maniacal laughter. My husband gives me a thumbs up, I grab my son’s hand, and we walk through the foyer, drawing weird looks as I crazy-laugh. I didn’t remember to warm up the van ahead of time, so we march out to a cold vehicle and, after buckling the little ones in, I sit in the driver’s seat and take a deep breath.

All is calm. All is bright. Well, the “bright” part is over, but at least I finally have something like “calm.” The ambient volume is anything but peaceful noise but less anxiety-inducing—no sense of impending doom, no need to put out a literal fire, and the chilly car is oddly relieving.

In an unexpectedly serene moment of clarity, the weight of the service hits me: God came as a baby. Emmanuel. God with us. He came to be with us in my minivan amid a chorus of “can’t we please light some more candles and sing again? For Christmas?” He came to be with us in the sanctuary now smelling of my son’s burnt hair. He came to be with this weary mama as I put my pyromaniac children to bed alone on the night before Christmas while Dad stays at church through the final service.

As I take a moment to connect with the God who opted to enter this world full of noise and chaos and brokenness and beauty, there is calm. I can’t rightfully say I am calm, but I can enter His calm in this moment where He is with me.

Later, once all four kids are down (with a melatonin assist to counteract their fire-fueled mania crossed with anticipation of presents), I light a candle on my dresser and sit in my room. All is calm, all is bright. Recalling again the first Christmas, I wonder how calm it actually was. Birth is not typically described as “calm,” especially with livestock and shepherds hanging around. Mary—a first-time mother far from home, was learning to nurse and care for a newborn without the benefit of her own mother’s presence. These are not ingredients I would choose for a night of beatific serenity. My mind swirls with the possible scenarios Mary and Joseph endured that night; none of them includes unbroken calm.

Perhaps my desire for Christmas-related tranquility is overrated. Maybe the Christmas carols have it overstated. “The little Lord Jesus, no crying He made”? Uh…sure. Shoot, if there was a fire in the stable to keep Mary and a new, vernix-covered squishy Jesus warm, it’s altogether possible she had a little bit of stress over the possibility of straw catching on fire.

But even if all was not calm that starlit night, He came. God was there—the Prince of Peace Himself—and that was enough.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

**The Map of My Heart** Nov 19, 2020
I sat, perched in my seat, silently struggling to pay attention to the sermon the pastor was preaching. Instead, my eyes flitted around the room. I wondered if this was where we belonged.

We were visiting another new church for the first time. Finding a church after moving was proving to be one of my least favorite things to do. I missed the familiar. Saying goodbye to those we’d known and loved well still stung. After our recent move across the country, over 1,200 miles away from the home we had known for the previous 13 years, we hoped a place to worship and serve would help us begin to feel at home.

This small church reminded me of the one we attended back in Texas. As my eyes wandered, I noticed there were several families like ours with young children. We had an 18-month-old son and another little boy on the way at that time. I looked at the other moms around the room. Would we end up being friends?

A few weeks later, we decided it was a place we should stay and get connected. I kept looking at those other moms, smiling, pretty, and friendly enough. But they all seemed to know each other so well already. Their kids already played together, grinning and giggling with one another. I learned that most of these families were founding members of this young church that had started just a few years prior. It had been a long time since I was the new person at a church. I was sure these ladies didn’t really need my friendship. But I was equally sure I did need theirs. I made up my mind to take a chance, to jump in with both feet and see where I landed.

One of those smiling moms came up to me after church the next Sunday to introduce herself and welcome us. She told me about a local petting zoo she thought my little boy would like. Later that week, I looked her up on Facebook and sent her a message. Hesitantly, I asked if she and her kids would like to go with us to the place she had recommended. She said yes, and she even invited a few other moms from church too.

I walked up to the entrance, excited and nervous about spending time with these ladies. From the first smiles and greetings, I could tell how genuinely kind and caring they were. In the warm sunshine, the smell of hay and animals filled the air. Our children scampered from chickens to goats, sheep, and other farm animals. Some eagerly wanting to touch them, others wanting to keep their distance from these strange and noisy creatures. Over packed lunches, we chatted as we watched our little ones on the playgrounds. We took pictures. The conversations flowed so easily that day. To me, it felt more like a normal get together than a first meeting.

There were four moms and about a dozen kids, on that first outing. And from there we kept getting together…more moms, and more kids! We gathered at the park for play dates and for prayer. We met for story time at the library. We savored picnics and ice cream. We united during Bible studies and moms’ groups. We shared life for two short years.

Too quickly another job opportunity came up for my husband, and we moved back across the country…again! Heartbroken, I left the wonderful friends I’d worked hard to make in this short time.

Back in Texas, in a completely different city, starting over again proved equally daunting. We didn’t know a single person. After moving twice in less than three years, would I have the strength to care about people that much again? Or would it be better to keep to myself and not let my heart get invested this time?

The scene was the same, in a different place. I sat in churches trying to listen while looking around and wondering. This time was even harder than the last. Our now three-year-old son missed the friends he knew and loved. It broke my mama’s heart to see his nervous face each week, and for him to refuse to go to children’s church.

Finally, one Sunday, he walked into a room where a handful of other children his age were playing. I sat in the service with my husband praying he might enjoy class this time. In the bulletin, I noticed a list of openings for singers and musicians on the worship team. Being a lifelong pianist and singer, I have always been part of worship at church and hoped this might be a great opportunity to use my musical skills to meet new people and get involved.

When we picked up our little boy, for the first time in weeks, he was smiling! At each church we visited previously I asked him, “Did you have fun?” Until then it had been, “No, I don’t know anybody.” That Sunday when I asked him the same question, his answer was finally different. “Mommy, I had fun. I played with a new friend. Her name is Vivian.” I thought to myself that I needed to meet Vivian’s mom. A few weeks later, I met Vivian’s mom and shared the story of her sweet daughter’s kindness. Her friendliness is a big reason why we decided our church was the right place for us. Both mom and daughter are precious friends to us to this day.

Now we have a whole new community of friends in yet another place on the map. We meet friends at church, at mom’s groups, Bible studies, and many times just by striking up a conversation at the park. I don’t know how long our current location will be our home, or how many more places we will go on this journey. But I know wherever we go, I will meet people I want to get to know and love.

I have left and will continue to leave pieces of my heart all over the map. Each place I have lived, from my childhood home, and during the 20 years of my married life, every city and state, holds a little piece of it. My life is sweeter and richer because of the people I have met along this road of life. I cherish the friendships and the memories I carry from each one. In some form or another, we will always be connected. There is room for everyone, always space for one more friend, because the map of my heart reaches far and wide.

Angela Sensenig is a follower of Jesus Christ, a wife, and mother of two little boys (and one little dog). She is a former teacher now embracing her role as a stay at home mom. She finds joy singing and playing the piano, riding horses, and running. Through the changing seasons of life and family, it is her goal to practice contentment and gratitude every day. She is so thankful to God for grace, His unfailing love, and for the gift of motherhood. She loves being a mom so much that she started a blog in hopes to share encouragement about life through God’s Word and her reflections on raising children. She is passionate about learning and sharing Biblical truths that will enrich and refresh the hearts of mothers everywhere. You can find more of her writing on her blog. You can also follow her on Facebook, Instagram, and Thankful Mommy on Pinterest.

**More than Apple Pie** Nov 17, 2020
God help me, I wish I’d never started that pie.

If I hadn’t been convinced my worth could be found and sifted together with flour and sugar, I might have avoided breaking my pie plate and my son’s heart.

One day back in those early years, I decided a pie was the ultimate way to prove my legitimacy as a wife and mama. My 4-year-old son wanted to help me with it. He loved helping me with everything. His little hands planted themselves on the pages of my open cookbook, his sweet head with its cloud of curls moving back and forth, looking at the recipe and glossy picture. Silently, he moved around the small kitchen table we’d inherited from Grammee and Grampee, picking things up and laying them back in place reverently—the rolling pin, the pastry blender, a spatula.

In theory, I loved his desire to help. On the other hand, if it meant an extra-messy kitchen, “help” gave me hives.

That pie was beautiful in its pan. Cinnamony apples peeked through strips of pie dough woven together in a crisscross pattern and bound with crimped edges. My son was beautiful too. I still see his big eyes in that sweet face with the kitchen window framing the pretty fall day behind him when he asked, “Can I put it in the oven, Mama?”

I tried to make him understand: The pie was heavy. The oven was hot.

He lifted the glass pan. His sweet little hands gripped the sides cautiously. Suddenly, it was on the floor—shards of glass, cored and sliced Granny Smith apples, brown sugar, and ruined pastry lattice mired together in one heaping wreck.

The big, brown eyes of my son looked up at me—looking for love and understanding, wanting to feel safe. All I could see was my carefully crafted ego lying there, shattered on the floor.

I lost it.

I did not kneel down and comfort my son. I yelled and broke his heart into pieces too.

***

I believe that event still affects him to this day, especially the way he perceives his intelligence, gifts, and interactions. I think this is where a lot of the voices in his head came from—the ones that make “I’m sorry” burst forth from his lips so often.

The opportunity I missed with my son still haunts me—waking me up in the wee hours to mourn.

I tried to treat my emotional issues like ingredients that could be baked and made palatable. In the cracked glass dish of my soul, I brought to marriage and motherhood lies, violence, omissions, and misunderstandings. As much as I tried to hide it, the distorted ways I perceived the world came oozing through my perfectly crimped crust.

***

Back then, a great apple pie represented my wifehood. I wanted legitimacy at any cost—so badly I could taste it. I thought “it” was about pie. I poured my identity into it along with the lemon juice and sugar and cinnamon, and I bowed to it as an idol. No amount of apples or butter can tell me who I am or who God calls me to be for my family. These days, I rely on the Bible for identity and parenting recipes.

I wish I could share a story of redemption, the kind beginning with a heartwarming anecdote: A couple of years later, when faced with another, similar situation, I handled it so much better by… I can’t. Mistakes and redemption don’t always come in equal ratios. Only God can unwind some of the trauma we impose on those we love most.

What I can say is my mentality has been redeemed: I am not a perfect apple pie; I am a child of the heavenly Father and have been blessed by Him with these children. In His eternal sight, all of us—my children and me—are worth more than any cooked or crushed apple pie.

Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog and on Instagram.

**The Voice of a Narrator** Nov 10, 2020
“Mommy, can you read to me?” My son gazes hopefully up at me, books clutched against his chest. “And then you can read this one and this one!” He hastily places library books on the couch next to me and excitedly wiggles his way into my lap.

“Has our new book come in?” I lean past my son and turn to my daughter, hoping she’ll say yes to the arrival of a new audiobook. I recently downloaded apps for our library onto my iPad, and we have been requesting digital and audiobooks.

“Nope,” she tells me.

Sighing, I pick up my son’s book about a fire ninja and begin to read, attempting to focus on the characters he so enjoys and wincing as his bony body squirms on me.

I wish I was the type of parent who enjoyed reading out loud to my children. I like books. I like reading. I like my children. But I do not enjoy sitting and reading aloud to them. When I sit down to read, I feel my energy wane and my mind wanders to other things I could be doing. My own voice drones on as I ignore the dishes needing to be washed, dinner needing to be made, laundry needing to be folded, and then put away. I’m a multi-tasking, Type A, efficient worker, and the weight of household responsibilities pulls at me as my schedule is interrupted. I sit here and attempt to fight the distractions, bound by my desire to be a good mom and connect with my child over stories.

I have seen many studies about the benefits of reading out loud, about the connections formed when I sit down and read with my children. They learn rhythm and new vocabulary by listening to the sound of my voice, increase their attention spans, and build comprehension, among other benefits. I do try to focus and listen to their comments about the characters and the pictures, to ask questions about the plot or setting to engage them. I do enjoy hearing their thoughts and appreciate how their minds work. I just don’t actually like to sit down and read out loud to them.

My son accidentally elbows me in the ribs and I move him to the cushion next to me. “Do you want me to finish this?” I ask him. “Then you have to stop moving.” I don’t like the frustration that comes out, and it takes effort to control it. I continue to read the story, attempting to add emphasis to the characters, growing resentful at the fact that I am stuck in this spot, hoping my son doesn’t catch my impatience. This isn’t how I envisioned I would be.

Some of my earliest memories involve my mom reading to me. We went through the infamous Little House book series the summer before I started kindergarten. She read the Narnia series and countless picture books. I can recall the cadence of my mother’s voice as it washed over me, painting pictures of prairies and woods, lions and witches. I was secure and warm by her side as she read about life on the prairie, snuggled up in my bed while she read about snowstorms and a White Witch. Though I was swept away by the plot, I stayed tethered to my mother, knowing that no matter what happened in the story, she was going to be there for me.

I hoped that when I became a mom, I would imprint upon my children the same love for stories—that they would sit quietly and listen as I read intently, stopping to comment and await their input. I wanted them to feel safe and secure, warm, and protected as I curled up with them and read to them.

I never expected I would be the problem.

I try. Really, I do. I research the best read-alouds for their ages and request the books from the library. I plan reading during their snack or quiet playtime, or just when they’re sitting nicely. I know they truly enjoy listening. The stories can be interesting, the characters comical or relatable, or the embodiment of someone we know in real life. But still, I am glad when I don’t hear the sound of my own voice anymore.

I finish the stack of stories my son brought over and send him off to play, fretting about the time I wasted and the mountain of things I need to accomplish. I work on the dishes, listening to the chatter of the children in the background, relaxing as I get a moment to myself.

“Now can we check if our book came in?” my middle daughter asks me.

“Great idea!” I reply and dry my hands to grab the iPad, hoping to hear that the audiobook we requested is available.

“Look! It came in!” my oldest says as she scrolls through the app. “I’m going to borrow it.”

“Who do you think the masked man is going to be?” I ask. We’ve been waiting on tenterhooks to find out what happened in our current series, The Land of Stories. The last book ended on a cliffhanger, with the protagonists coming across a masked man.

“I think it’s a bad guy!” my son pipes up.

“I bet it’s their dad,” my daughter says.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, and we talk about the clues from the last book, remembering details together and laughing at some of the crazy antics our favorite characters got up to.

I set up the iPad at the kitchen table, and the kids grab their art supplies. They settle in to color, and I start the audiobook. Then I continue with the dishes, parallel to my children, smiling as we all listen intently. I am content, not distracted by the pull of a mile-long to-do list from the never-ending drudgery of household responsibilities. My hands are working, so my mind is free to be engaged, and I laugh alongside my children as the narrator describes a silly scene.

I don’t like reading to my children, but that doesn’t mean we don’t read together. They might not hear the sound of my voice as often as they’d like, but they know I am near them, listening with them to the voice of a narrator whose words wash over us, painting pictures of magical lands and fairy-tale characters. There are plenty of characters and places we can talk about, laugh about, and connect with. The memories we’re making might not be precisely what I pictured when I imagined how I would be as a mom, but we’re still connecting with one another over books, sharing ideas, and learning from each other. And I have to say, I do like it.

Beth Robinson resides in Northern California with her husband and three children. A former teacher in a public school, she now teaches her own children at the dining room table. Her mother introduced her to the library at a young age, and she did the same for her children. She’s thrilled to see them share her excitement each time they check out new books. She’s even more thrilled that two-thirds of the children can read to themselves now. If Beth is not reading, you can find her gardening, attempting new recipes, or taking her children out to explore.

**4G Friendships** Nov 05, 2020
January. Perhaps feeling the weight of winter on our collective shoulders, our small church congregation begins a new practice of gathering in the basement after service for muffins and conversation. I grab muffins for my kids, talk for a minute or two to the few people I know, and then commence the awkward standing-around-trying-to-look-busy. I am grateful to have a whiny, clingy toddler because I can at least occupy myself being a mother instead of a loner.

We moved here last summer, and while I know it can take a long time to forge friendships, I leave church feeling discouraged. I long to be past small talk and to know people well enough that I know what questions to ask about how their weeks have gone. When my kids have finished their muffins, I help them put their heavy coats back on and head to the parking lot.

A midwest winter is a lonely thing when even our urban neighborhood goes quiet. The rest of the year, when grass is visible and the sun shines, we can linger on sidewalks and hang out on porches. There is an energy that flows from the streets to my veins, and it helps me feel connected. But in winter, the cold sends us all indoors to shelter, to warmth. We huddle up and hibernate. My children are snuggly, but they are not my friends.

February. I board a plane to Los Angeles for a weekend getaway with my dear friends, none of whom I’ve ever met in person before. I can’t help smiling as I walk down the plane aisle toward my seat, because I can’t imagine anything better in this moment than a weekend of adult conversation under the California sun. We stay up late every night, lounging around the hot tub or eating chocolate at the kitchen island, sharing family stories that make us laugh until we cry. When it comes time to head home to Indiana, I’m in awe of the fact that these friendships which started online have blossomed into something so deep and profound. Waiting to check my bags at LAX, I notice a few people wearing face masks and I make a note to wash my hands a bit more vigorously.

***

March. The weather has finally started to warm up, and it seems we are coming out of hibernation. On March 12, I keep my oldest home from school because he is running a slight fever. By the end of the day, we learn school is closed for the foreseeable future, and he will not get to say good-bye to his teacher or classmates. Over the course of two weeks, I watch my entire calendar get wiped clean by invisible but omnipresent forces.

I drive home from Aldi one day, not yet knowing I will soon make a semi-permanent switch to grocery delivery. Just before the final turn toward my home, I pass a median full of sunshine-yellow daffodils. Back in the kitchen, I say to my husband, “Have you seen all those daffodils?! They are beautiful. I don’t remember them from last year.”

“Lindsey,” he replies, laughing, “We didn’t live here last year.” My jaw drops open, and I am silent as I think it through. How can time simultaneously be moving so quickly and so slowly?

***

April. My friend Mary Kate, one of the women I met face-to-face in L.A., creates a group for our friends on a messaging app called Marco Polo. I had used it once before, several years ago, but few people I wanted to talk to seemed to have accounts, so I didn’t stick around. Now I dive back in. I see my friends’ faces, get tours of their gardens, and hear their children giggle (and shriek) in the background.

I open the app one day and notice that several of the women from my Monday morning prayer group are on there. I consider making a group chat for us—but it feels presumptive. Some of these women have been friends for decades, and I still feel like the new girl. Who am I to insert myself into their lives this way, to assume they’d like to talk with me more than they already do? But I take the risk.

I try to make that first message as lighthearted as possible: “Hey—this is a totally no-pressure thing!! Don’t feel like you need to respond. I know everyone is totally tired of screens lately, with all this at-home and e-learning and whatever. But…I just thought it could be fun. So, here we are. Again, no pressure.”

But I feel the pressure. I feel the pressure of needing to continue growing these relationships, somehow, even in quarantine. Otherwise, I fear I’ll be stuck totally alone and isolated by the time this is all over.

Within a few hours, all four other women respond with what feels like enthusiasm.

What I am learning during quarantine is isolation and loneliness do not necessarily exist in concert; it’s more than possible to have one without the other. I am more isolated than ever in this strange time, but my loneliness is slowly abating, thanks to a free app on my phone and the offering of an invitation.

For years, I have understood the power and necessity of vulnerability, but it’s always scary. It’s scary because until the very moment I hear someone say, “Me too” part of me keeps believing the lie that I am the only one. But one of the surprising gifts of the pandemic is that now, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am not the only one. The specifics of our experiences vary, of course, but we are all here, doing the thing: staying home, distance learning, canceling plans, wondering what life will look like in the year ahead. It is easier to step into vulnerability because we are confident others will understand what we’re going through, the factors complicating our decisions, or the way we’ve suddenly begun to resent the word “unprecedented.”

May. I look out across the yard and see my four friends, gathered around a fire pit in chairs spaced six feet apart. (A tape measure was involved.) In ten weeks, I have seen no one in person except for my four immediate family members, the bartender who handles carry-out at our neighborhood brewery, and the nice teenagers in the Chick-fil-A drive-through. But tonight, my prayer group and I move our conversation from 4G to fresh air, and I feel so light I could float into the sky like a balloon.

June. I’ve had all notifications on my phone turned off for months, but now I’ve decided to allow Marco Polo notifications. Every ping is a lifeline, my tether to the outside world, the cord that connects me to other moms in a season when I might otherwise feel totally isolated in my home.

July. I stand in my kitchen slicing up an orange with my phone propped up against the backsplash. I am listening to a message from my friend, and she is out on a walk. She is crying as she comes to terms with how much she will miss her daughter when she leaves for college. I feel two things at the same time: compassion and sadness for my friend in the middle of a hard transition, and also intense gratitude that she chose to share these raw feelings with me.

I begin to cry, too, and I’m not sure which feeling is the source.

August. This summer, the five of us dedicated what must be hours and hours of video messages to our questions and worries and hopes about the pandemic, schools, and anti-racism. We went along on rides to quarantine-appropriate camping trips and hikes, and we’ve cheered one another on through the dreaded COVID nose swab. We have said, “You’re probably asleep and won’t see this ’til the morning,” only to learn someone else was up folding laundry and someone else was watching Dirty Dancing. We’ve learned how awkward it is to pray aloud into our phone cameras.

Our church still meets on Zoom. My children are attending school virtually for at least the first quarter. We’ve moved into a new home, and we introduced ourselves to the neighbors standing at least six feet back. I don’t know when we’ll be able to open our doors and host a dinner or small group. I don’t know if we’ll get to spend the holidays in Florida with our families. Marco Polo still holds the majority of my adult conversations.

But this I know: I am not alone.

Lindsey Cornett is a writer and editor who lives in Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. If her kids aren’t demanding to be held, she’s probably carrying a pen, a book, or a coffee. In both writing and life, she hopes to provide hope and solidarity to any other women who find themselves afraid to make mistakes. She is a co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter of soulful encouragement for recovering perfectionists. Her writing has been featured at Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and (in)courage. You can always find her on Instagram or learn more about her writing and editing services at www.lindseycornett.com.

**Memories of My Grandmother** Nov 03, 2020
I keep a photograph of my grandparents on my living room wall. My mother’s parents sit shoulder-to-shoulder and my Grandpa casts a sideways glance at his wife, who looks straight into the lens through her cat-eye glasses with a wide, toothy smile. They look happy, content as if they know a secret. When I look into their satisfied faces, I remember being a child in their home, and I miss them.

Every Sunday afternoon, my parents, brother, and I sat ourselves around my grandparents’ big, round kitchen table for a lunch worthy of church clothes, tablecloths, and polished manners. With heads bowed, as Grandpa asked God to bless the bounty of crop and kitchen before us, I squinted against the plate of cornbread in front of me—my favorite. With the “Amen,” I seized a golden muffin, stuffed it with butter, and filled my plate with Grandma’s cooking: purple hull peas my brother and I spent summer afternoons shelling, the corn we husked that Grandma scraped and creamed, potatoes dug from sandy soil then boiled, salted, and mashed. The crowning glory was the cornbread, soft, warm, golden like the afternoon sun in August, sweet but salty with edges crisp from the cast iron pan. Grandma’s cornbread was perfect. To my child’s mind, Grandma was perfect.

Grandma’s house was a sanctuary, a place where you could find not only a home-cooked meal but a warm slice of cake to finish it off before you curled up in an armchair to read or nap. Her home was warmth, comfort, contentment, and rest.

Grandma never worked outside the home, but that is not to say she did not work. She served with her hands, sent her daughter to prom in homemade dresses worthy of the department store, filled the Methodist church with gospel hymns on piano, placed a warm meal on her table three times a day.

She knew how to want not because she wasted not, knew how to economize—canning what she could, freezing what she couldn’t, mending clothes she sewed for husband and children—because her husband’s modest single income required her to be so. She worked the invisible labor of caretaker of home and family, until one day she couldn’t do any of it.

I was ten years old when Grandma had the first stroke. What followed was a blur of medical equipment and change. I saw my mother wade through a mess of at-home care while her own mother faded before her eyes. In spite of doctor visits and extended stays in a rehabilitation hospital, the strokes did not relent, as if insistent on the defeat of a woman who sat down only to read her Bible.

Our Sunday lunches were replaced by afternoons in a nursing home, where I did my homework on a cold vinyl chair while my mother asked her mother how the nurses were treating her, whether she liked the food, whether she needed clothes from home. Grandpa was left alone in the house he shared with his wife for 60 years, until my mom found him one day unconscious on the floor by the kitchen table. The official cause of death was a heart attack, which is another way of saying heartbreak.

By then the conversations with Grandma were more about explaining who we were and whether she knew us until the conversations stopped altogether and her smile became something familiar but foreign, the way a toddler smiles at strangers. Then she was gone, too.

I first felt Grandma’s absence the day I graduated high school. After the ceremony, my parents and I took photos outside the big baptist church along with the rest of the graduates. Sandwiched between my mother and father, I smiled under my cardboard graduation cap as a friend snapped a few pictures of the three of us, then a couple more with my brother. As I walked to my car, I noticed lingering groups scattered around the parking lot. A handful of classmates, still draped in their wine-colored polyester robes, stood encircled by beaming family members. I saw my peers embrace grandmothers in soft-hued dresses and share congratulatory handshakes with nodding grandfathers, and I felt a loss as if I’d forgotten something essential.

With each milestone—college graduation, marriage, motherhood—I felt the same absence again and again. There were no photographs to take which might reflect the relationship I craved. As friends described holiday dinners at Nana’s house or obligatory lunch dates with Gram, I named my hunger: Grandparent Envy.

I wanted more than memories cut short by death. I wanted more time to sit in the dim evening light of my Grandma’s living room and ask her questions about who she was and who I might become. I wanted to exhort my grade-school self to ask more questions and take good notes before it was too late. I wanted her to hold my babies and read them stories, or sing along as her great-granddaughter played “Amazing Grace” on the piano. I wanted her to visit my kitchen and show me how to cook peas and make cornbread come out right.

What I ended up with was a handful of physical leftovers from a life—a few handwritten recipes, a box of photographs—and a child’s collection of memories. The rich aroma of cake batter as I sat on a squeaky step-stool and watched sugar, flour, butter, and eggs blend into something delicious in a domestic miracle. The red skirt she sewed just for me that spun like a pinwheel and made me feel like Annie Oakley. The soft, floral scent of her dusting powder and the cool touch of her hands while she read me picture books in the big armchair. The joy when she said “yes” to ice cream sundaes and soda, never making me choose. Her kitchen table, covered with warm home-cooked meals, and her perfect cornbread in the center of it all.

April is a wife, mama, and native Texan who loves hands in the dirt, hikes in the woods, and the company of good books. When she isn’t homeschooling her three wild children or muddling through their messes, you can find her barefoot in the garden, baking in the kitchen, or adventuring with her kiddos. During all the minutes in between, she writes. You can find her blog posts, personal essays, and fiction writing on her blog. She shares moments from her life at home and elsewhere on Instagram.

**Those Kinds of Friends** Oct 27, 2020
“When can we meet for dinner?”

There were four of us on the text thread. Coordinating our calendars required a herculean effort of texting back and forth, negotiating childcare duties with our husbands, and keeping our fingers crossed that no one would suddenly throw up while we were walking out the door. Finally, we found a date that worked for everyone and arranged to meet at a local taco restaurant.

Before our drinks even arrived, my friend, Elizabeth, got right to the point.

“Look,” she said. “my mom has a group of friends that meet for dinner once a month. They’ve been doing it for years, watched each others’ kids grow up, and gone on vacations together. I was wondering if y’all would want to be those kinds of friends. If you do, I think we should commit to monthly dinners together.”

We looked at each other awkwardly. Though we all attended the same church, our friendship was surface-level at best. But excitement sizzled up, too. We felt chosen, entrusted with the vision Elizabeth had cast. If we were honest, it sounded exactly like what we all craved, too: let’s raise our kids together, grow old together. She knew, even if we didn’t yet, that real friendship wouldn’t spontaneously blossom just because it sounded like a nice idea. We would have to take the first steps and commit to the logistical hurdle of setting aside two hours each month, in seasons that we could not yet foresee.

We all agreed. And a few days later, Elizabeth texted again: “I think I’ve waited the appropriate three days to text y’all after a great ‘first date’ to see when we can do it again! Get your planners out…”

Despite our erratic schedules, we tried, nobly, to organize a dinner together each month. We settled into an every-other-month kind of pace, but the first day of the new month reminded us all to try again. We took turns picking the restaurant, trying local joints, and discovering new favorites.

Our group text thread became a lifeline. We helped welcome new babies into the world by painting nurseries together and calming each other’s fears about childbirth. We started a Sunday School class together. And once we realized that we wanted our husbands to become friends too, we started planning couples’ cookouts and game nights, pitching in for a babysitter to watch our growing brood of kids.

Christmas was approaching. In contrast to our monthly dinners “out,” we began planning an elaborate girls’ night “in.” It felt long overdue: the last time I had watched a movie with someone other than my husband was with my college roommate … almost a decade ago. In our texts back and forth, we exchanged ideas for our evening together, growing more and more excited as we counted down the days.

When the much-anticipated night finally arrived, we snuck out of our houses as soon as we put our kids to bed. We showed up with movies and snacks in hand, scarfed down some Christmas cookies, and spiked our hot cocoa with liberal amounts of Bailey’s. Then, we settled onto the sofa, pulling blankets over us to watch Love Actually.

The camera panned across the London-Heathrow airport, zooming in on various couples who hugged and kissed as they reunited at last. Hugh Grant’s familiar voice set the scene by reminding us that “Love actually is all around …”

And that was all we remembered. An hour later, we slowly stirred, opening our eyes and stretching. We had slept through the entire movie and completely missed our night together! Unable to muster up enough energy to try again, we stumbled sleepily into our cars to head home.

Could there be a more appropriate symbol of friendship during this season of life? In the trenches of early childhood, as we struggle to navigate who we are and how to reclaim our identity, passions, and social lives, what we often need, more than anything else, is a long nap.

In the future, we will be able to make it through movie night without falling asleep. We will be able to leave our houses without worrying we will wake up our children. We might even be able to carve out a standing dinner date instead of scrambling to clear our schedules every few months.

For now, though, we live within the tension. We commit to our friendship without quite knowing how we will find the time for it. We trust that each small investment of time and energy will matter in the long run. Every text message, coffee date, and failed movie night — crammed into the margins of our busy lives — nurtures our souls and sustains us until the next time.

Because we’re those kinds of friends.

Callie Dean is a writer, researcher, and musician who believes that art can change the world. You can usually find her running, baking bread, or sipping chai. She lives in Shreveport, LA, with her husband and two sons.

**Thanks, No Thanks, Pinkie Pie** Oct 22, 2020
Lilly, barely 4 and still the baby, is laying on her belly in my bed beside me, chin in her hands, feet kicked up like she’s seen her big sisters do all her life. It’s about my bedtime and well past hers. An altercation between her sisters woke her up, and she needs a place to be while they settle down, so she’s chilling in my room while I read. It’s nice—there’s nothing really pressing; she’s just hanging out.

But then she spots a shiny, black battery bank on my headboard and grabs it, immediately bringing it to her ear. It’s almost exactly the size of a phone, even happens to have its “on” button where an iPhone’s “home” is. She proceeds to prop herself up on her elbows and spend the next—I wish I were exaggerating—20 minutes staring at this black phone-like brick. She scrolls up and down with her right index finger, types away with her itty-bitty thumbs, makes and answers phone calls and video chats. “Hello, fwiends…Yes…No, I don’t think so, but I will in the afternoon. But first, we will have dinner.” Her one-sided “conversations” sound eerily familiar. What has happened that my 4-year-old would rather talk to a piece of plastic than to me? I’m right here, reading, and that never kept her from chattering at me before.

I’m not offended that she doesn’t want to talk to me—it’s 10:00 pm and I’d rather not be talking to children right now—but why is the “screen” so intriguing to her, even when it’s not doing anything?

Then it comes to me—I remember being in my bedroom several weeks before, putting away laundry while Jenna (my oldest, age 9) chattered on, narrating a picture book she’d written called “The Boy Who Didn’t Baleev In Himself.”

“…and then the boy tried to fly, but he just fell on the ground. ‘Oof. I guess I’m just no good at anything.’ Mom! Are you even listening?”

“Wha? Oh. No, baby. I’m really sorry. I got a message and I need to just send someone a link real quick for work. Hang on a sec and I’ll listen better.”

[Unknown amount of time passes.]

“MOM. You said a second. It’s been like five minutes!”

“I’m so sorry. Here.” [I set my phone to silent and lay it face-down.]

This scene, or variations of it, unfolds constantly throughout the day. I’m trying to mom my kids, but a notification dings and I’m sucked into my phone. I manage good-enough parenting, but not a bit more. I’m not bringing my best self to them.

I guess that’s where Lilly gets it, this compulsive screen-staring. We’ve all heard how detrimental screen time is to kids and how kids tend to model their screen usage after their parents. We’ve all seen campaigns about not robbing the kids of attention by staring at the phone constantly. Honestly, I hate those guilt-trips with the fire of a thousand suns. I don’t need one more ounce of mom shame—not for staying home or working or vaccinating or using my phone. I am using my phone mostly for work stuff, and the work is meaningful to me. I do want them to see me doing work that helps others and makes me feel alive. It just so happens that my work is largely done on a screen.

And besides, this is not a one-way phenomenon. My various screens pull me away from them, but my kids also interrupt my creative work on the regular. It’s not like work is getting my best self, either.

This week, I was on a Zoom call with my team. I joined late (because kids) and resorted to letting them watch My Little Pony to keep them out of mischief. I grit my teeth—Pinkie Pie’s voice is distractingly obnoxious, even when she provides free babysitting. And then she was not doing her job at all—the consequences of utilizing an animated horse as a nanny. My middle two kids were in a yelling match and someone’s hair was pulled and someone was thirsty and she spilled her water so she needed more and also there was a puddle. I was progressively pulled away from my meeting as the chaos increased. ”Excuse me. Sorry,” I muttered as I muted myself. Finally, I just removed my earbuds and walked away to deal with whatever fresh hell just materialized in the living room, fearing the fallout of not managing this now.

***

So my children aren’t getting my best self. My work isn’t getting my best self. This dilemma reminds me of my kids’ hourly fights where everyone gets hurt and nobody wins. I feel bedraggled and guilty for giving everyone short shrift. I’m doing the best I can at all my roles, but what happens when “the best I can” kinda sucks?

I want to find a way to separate my realms, even if just a little, so they don’t intrude on each other constantly. I hate feeling forcibly disconnected from everyone all the time. I don’t expect to reach the oft-discussed “balance”—some unicorn homeostasis where my work is work and my home is home and everyone gets the best of me in their scheduled and well-defined slots. I just want…better.

I dream of sitting on the floor with all four babies, reading to them, playing blocks, offering art projects full of glitter, and then guiding them to clean those projects back up with grace and equanimity. My phone will be off and out of the room. My children will know they are my priority. And then when it’s work time, I will be entirely focused, monotasking at peak efficiency. My children will be within eyesight, but playing quietly together. Perhaps the big two take turns reading to the younger siblings. Oh! Maybe they can work on teaching the littles to read! If they get bored with that, they will begin quietly cleaning the house. They will cheerfully cooperate to manage their own behavior.

Uh…right. So that’s clearly not happening. Truth be told, their happy self-management is not the only part of this scenario that’s pure fantasy. I hate glitter—even more than I hate essays telling me I’m a terrible mom for using my phone in my kids’ presence. And while I’m being transparent, I’m just gonna say it: sometimes conversing with my children is boring. I love my kids. I love spending time with them. But when my attention is completely focused on them for long chunks of time, I get antsy and the clock slows down to the point where I wonder (constantly) if it’s broken. In addition, my kids get weird. They swiftly start feeling entitled to my full focus all the time, but I don’t have enough attention to give 100 percent to each of four children. The math doesn’t work.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to separate my worlds—years ago I got rid of most notifications on my phone, so I know now that when my phone dings, it’s probably something I want to see fairly quickly. (This works for me about as well as telling the children to watch My Little Pony while I have a meeting—I can try to minimize distractions, but they keep finding me.) The urgent always invades from whatever realm I’m not currently living in, and I always try to address it immediately.

That immediacy is something I am reexamining—when every need and request receives the same priority (the very top), life becomes unnecessarily chaotic. Maybe rather than giving all my attention to whichever need I’m trying to meet right now, I need to give more to assessing my own motivations. Is this need really emergent or does it just feel urgent? Do I want to respond right now because that’s necessary or because I neurotically and aggressively meet needs? Can this wait?

Perhaps the urgent does not need to be such a tyrant.

Eventually, I want my kids to become adults who know how to adapt to the world around them. I want them to know when to focus and when to switch tracks to attend to something urgent. But they won’t ever have “balance” entirely dialed in, so they will have to fight for it, just like I do.

As I sit at my table writing today, my kids are eating lunch. They pull me away every few minutes with a fight or request for more milk or food, but my work is getting done. (Both kinds of work.) I don’t always get it right, but I am showing them how to be people who do their best, even when “good enough” is as far as their best can go. It’s not comfortable, but I can teach them to live in the uncomfortable mess and pull of life as it is, rather than being mad about what it “should be.”

Do I really want to fully separate these worlds of mine? My work brings me sanity, saving my brain from an endless stream of unfollowable words from four different mouths simultaneously. And, while my children do pull me away from my creative work constantly, they also provide the bulk of the material for it. I hesitate to call it symbiosis—it’s a lot more frustrating than the word implies—but the bleed between my worlds isn’t all bad.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

**Not the First Time** Oct 20, 2020
“I’m just a little bit scared,” he says as we drive to the school where his evaluation will take place.

“You don’t have to be scared. I’ll be with you the whole time,” I promise as I watch him in the rearview mirror.

“No, Mom. I’m just a little bit scared,” he repeats, holding up his hand, thumb and pointer finger barely touching to drive his point home.

He may not be that scared, but I can barely see straight. Scheduling this evaluation for the morning after Daylight Savings was not my brightest decision. Neither were the multiple cups of coffee on an empty stomach. Part of me is unsure if it is the caffeine making me shake uncontrollably or the fact that my 4-year-old will be walking into a room full of school therapists ready to pick apart his every word and move.

This isn’t our first evaluation. This isn’t the first time I’ll be walking hand in hand with my child into a room full of professionals, the first time I’ll have a complete stranger tell me there is something wrong with my child’s development. Yet I am terrified, shaking, and on the verge of tears. I know what they will say, the diagnosis, but in order for him to get into the free preschool program with therapy, I have to let him go through this again.

The room may be different and the therapists new, but I am no stranger to the feelings overtaking my body, mind, and heart. It is still frightening; I am still scared. I’ve done my research and know what to expect. I know my son well enough to know why we are here and what they will find. But my mind begins to wander: what if? What if there is something else wrong that wasn’t caught the first time? What if the fears I have kept hidden deep in my heart are realized? What if this routine evaluation doesn’t go as planned?

These thoughts add to the anxiety I can’t control. I am relying on the bravery of my 4-year-old to get me through.

I hold tightly to his hand, more for my sake than his, and reassure him that everything is going to be fine. We have done this before, I tell him. I know he is going to do great. I’ll be there with him the whole time; he won’t be doing this alone. I hope these words soak into his subconscious as I let them soothe my anxious heart.

He is slow to start as seven pairs of eyes watch every move he makes. He sits on my lap as I rub his head, kiss his cheek, and tell him he is doing a great job. He is quiet and reserved, though cooperating the best he can. I tried to prepare him, but it is hard to remember the purpose of this strange encounter when you are four and thrown into a room of strangers asking you questions and dissecting every sound you make. Still, he was better composed on the outside than I was on the inside.

It’s not easy having people watch you so closely, listening so intensely, interrogating you to see what knowledge you hold that can be outwardly expressed. It’s hard on my mama-heart to watch. Part of me feels like I’m being evaluated too. You know the official diagnosis, so what have you been doing to ensure the success of your child? I have to swallow the guilt that threatens to consume me. I have to silence the voice inside my head that tells me I’m not doing enough, that he’s sitting in this room because of me and all the ways I have failed him since the moment he was conceived. As he sits on my lap, I continue to reassure him. The words I whisper to him are just as much for him as they are for me.

It is hard for me to hold my tongue and not translate for him when the words he has are too hard to understand. I know what he is capable of; I know what he can say and do. I know his struggles and his accomplishments better than anyone. There are moments I don’t hold back, sharing with pride all that he can do physically, just to ensure they know that he is extremely talented in other areas. I want them to know this disorder does not define who he is or determine what he can do. But they don’t care what I know, they care what he can and cannot communicate.

I hate to watch him struggle and not have me to lean on. I can’t minimize his weaknesses with my strength—my ability to understand him almost perfectly. I can’t be his voice, the one who knows every word he says, who laughs at the jokes no one else can understand. He has gotten used to me being his translator, his crutch when words are hard. I can’t do anything to make this better for him; helping him now would hurt him in the long run. I stay quiet, whispering comforting words and prayers to my broken heart, hoping everything works out for his best interest, even though it kills me.

Being in this room is heart-wrenching and daunting. For the hour we sit on these tiny chairs, surrounded by therapists rapidly taking notes, I try to keep one eye on my son and one eye on their papers. One by one they move down the row, each taking their turn on the floor where my son now sits playing. He gets braver the longer we are in the room. “I got what I need; your turn.” Every time they move along, I feel like I am being punched in the gut and I can’t help but speculate about what they are writing. I know the end result, regardless of what they find: special education, multiple therapists to assist him throughout the school week. It won’t be much different than the therapy he’s been receiving since he was three with the therapist who has all of my trust. I wonder how I will fit these other therapists into our life, how I will extend faith and grace to them as they work to help this boy of mine.

The diagnosis is given—they agree with the initial diagnosis from a year ago. The IEP is worked out. After an hour with my boy, they know what he needs and we work together to form the best plan. I thought once I knew for sure that his diagnosis wouldn’t change, that none of my fears would come to fruition, I would stop shaking, but I haven’t stopped since we left the house. All of this is still hard for me. After a year to process and work through his diagnosis, I thought it would get easier. I thought that with one evaluation and a year of therapy in our arsenal we would be better equipped for these battles. I don’t feel stronger, and it doesn’t feel easier. I am still watching my son struggle and there is only so much I can do for him. I have come to the realization I can’t fix this for him—I have to search for and rely on others to help us get through it, even though that means subjecting him to more evaluations.

I don’t think they’ll get easier. Fear will always loom in the depths of the unknown.

I gather the paperwork and carefully place it inside my bag. I hold my son’s hand as tightly as I can, relying on the bravery he showed me in that room to ease my anxiety. I swallow the lump forming in my throat as I tell him how proud I am. I know this coming school year is going to be hard for him, that it is going to push him to his limits more often than not. These hardships he has to go through, that I have to go through alongside him as his mother, are trying, nerve-racking. He’s only a little bit scared, though, and he makes me brave.

Jacey is a wife to her husband of eight years and together, they have three children. She finds solace in words and between the pages of a good book. Her writing has been featured on Coffee + Crumbs among others. You can find her on Instagram or jaceywrites.com.

**The Fruit-Bearing Tree** Oct 15, 2020
I stand at the granite surface of the kitchen island, chopping kielbasa into coins and feeding dry spaghetti noodles through each smoky disc for a dish in progress for dinner. A lone fly buzzes around, hoping for a taste of the meat, but I wave him away. I’m hacking the recipe from one of my 11-year-old’s favorite cookbooks in a manner that saves no time, but proportions smoked sausage and pasta noodles perfectly. Aiming my words at the smartphone balanced on my 32oz. green plastic tumbler, where I am recording an audio text to someone, I say something I have never said before: “My insecurity hurts you, but it’s not about you. It’s a deep-rooted weed. It’s a plant growing in the wrong place. God is helping me uproot it in this season, but it’s a messy process.”

The image of a diseased tree grows in my mind as we sit down to dinner and load really good pasta onto our plates.

After dinner—the only meal regularly staged at the kitchen table—I’m overwhelmed. That table is a lot after dinner.

The baby’s high chair is pushed to face the southeast corner of the table, between Mama and Daddy. Rather than watercolor smears on the dark wood together with notebooks, books, our butcher paper dispenser, Post-its, pencils, scissors, and succulent plants in glass containers, there are now crumbs, relish, corn kernels, and broccoli stems littering the table. The sun is going down and taking the rest of my energy with it. The pasta is mixed in with plates, silverware, and half-empty cans of soda and sparkling water, and it’s all sucking the life out of me. My husband is anxious and fretting for freedom too. He’s itching for respite after being on call all day with the double doors closed and monitors staring at him expectantly.

We stand at the table, trying to decide who will finish it all up in the next hour—Who will wash dishes and put things into Tupperware and scrape plates into the garbage and load the dishwasher and take out and replace trash bags? Who will be responsible for the baby? Who will run baths? Who will face the complaints and downcast expressions that inevitably follow the bedtime announcement?

I’m momentarily paralyzed. This happens every day. It’s no one’s fault, I tell myself. He’s working from home, not having a party. We’ve both been working our butts off.

Abruptly, my mind turns back to my pre-dinner revelation. (SQUIRREL!)

“It’s the tree. We have to fix the tree!”

“What?” Hubby asks. To me, he looks totally confused.

“Remember when that guy from the garden center said, ‘Make the tree healthy?’” I head back to the table to grab plates while he starts rinsing the dishes one-handed with the baby on his hip.

“Uh-huh…”

“Remember? He said the way to deal with pests on a tree was making the tree better.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“I’m the tree!” As I say the words, I think of those who birthed insecurity in me—interactions with people and experiences that scattered their white dandelion seeds in my soil. They set my root ball in the ground crookedly; they didn’t feed me nutrients I needed. My roots didn’t take hold properly, and I blew with changing winds—different opinions and circumstances. I hear the guy from the garden center echoing in my head as I visualize myself, a sick tree, and I finally understand his counsel. Trees hold their food and water in their needles or leaves, so if they’re not protected from high winds, they lose the very things they need to be strong and beautiful. Like a tree weakened by disease, which attracts pests, I have been twisted and eaten up by insecurity. From sapling to mature tree, all my connections with this world have affected who I am today—my growth and my areas of struggle.

“I get all worked up and scared over the kids and over my friends, but I feel like God is saying I don’t have control, and I never have. I can only be responsible for my responses. I have to make sure I’m well watered and fed and getting my nutrients from God instead of just worrying. Otherwise, faithlessness sprouts in me and casts a shadow on all my relationships. It affects them too.”

“Right,” Hubby said like it had been obvious to him before God enlightened me.

***

Insecurity is an old acquaintance. We first met when my best friend abruptly moved to Oregon, leaving me behind. Then, what felt like days later, we moved too. Life turned upside down for me. Fearing more loss and abandonment, I made relationships claustrophobic. I watched them closely and told them how they had to act.

Through the years, insecurity has done a number on my friendships. I have desired friends, valued loyalty, and feared abandonment in ways that border on illness, yet I grapple with doubt that any friendship can be a trustworthy environment for my heart. When insecurity led to pride, I let friends down too.

I’ve seen it too many times. Connections falling apart, turning cold, mutating into distant civility. Gradually, confidantes have transformed until you’d think we never knew each other. Did I ever actually know her? Or did we just become other people, gradually growing to dislike what we once loved?

I haven’t got it all figured out yet, but I’m beginning to realize: I tend to see every disagreement as an attack. Intellectually, emotionally, and rhetorically, I go to war. But insecurity cannot be my compass. Friendship won’t work if I always think I am right instead of trusting God’s wisdom.

Likewise, being a good mama isn’t about trying to control every decision and belief and direction of my children (or, worse, believing that I can, as if I am the Almighty). I love them, but I may not engineer (or even modify) them.

Motherhood and friendship—relationships and connections—become sick trees, if they’re overtaken by insecurity and fear. So, I’ve had to change my mind about how to do life in front of my children and how to bring God’s wisdom into my walk with friends. That’s repentance, and it’s the first step in the lengthy and dirty process of digging out unhealthy roots.

Insecurity doesn’t have to be an unrelenting wind that dries me out and makes me brittle. If I try to stand up to that wind alone, it will snap branches and create wounds leading to strange offshoots of emotion, behavior, and thought that diverge from the narrow path along which my Shepherd, Jesus is leading. Instead, I trust Jesus to be my Tree Guy, ridding the soil around me of creepers and other clinging plants. The Lord alone can pack the earth where I’m planted back into place and provide a guiding stake to straighten me out.

The truth is, God makes all things new.

I’m a fruit-bearing tree planted by God. As Lecrae said recently on Instagram, “Healthy trees don’t grow overnight. Neither do healthy people.” The spreading fungi of insecurity deeply influenced my mind—my perception—as I went through hard experiences and listened to mean words. The messages I received are just as real to me now as ever—the past isn’t the past; it’s now. However, I don’t have to drink in that insecurity. I can let God uproot lies and plant truth instead. I do that by changing my mind about who I believe—whether I will dig out the invading roots of insecurity by believing God instead. If I let God keep pulling up the thistles and dandelions and wild clover in the soil of my soul, maybe the evidence of Christ’s transformation will blossom more freely.

Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog at and on Instagram.

**Cry, But Not Alone** Oct 13, 2020
Sitting on the floor on the darkest side of the dresser, I sat rocking my baby, stifling my own sobs, and praying I wouldn’t wake my husband. We were living in my parents’ house until the drywall dust settled in our very first house. The days of being displaced stretched out before me–we had been at my parents’ for two weeks and it looked like another month before we could get back into the little house we loved. I desperately wanted my own space, but for the time being my little family squeezed into one bedroom—my son slept in a drawer on the floor.

Every time the baby whimpered during the night, I would quickly pick him up out of the drawer to sit hunched in the corner to start the feeding process. From the beginning, it had been challenging to get my son to nurse properly. Every feeding I would spend five minutes trying to nurse, then tiptoe downstairs to make him a bottle, and finish off each session pumping and storing milk for the next time. I quickly got adept at doing this by the light of the fridge, even in the middle of the night, but the pressure to keep the baby quiet through the whole painful process felt like a weight on my back.

It was exhausting, I sobbed through it all.

And the whole time, no one in my parents’ house except me knew what I was going through. Looking back, I know to call it postpartum depression, but then I thought I was just weak and failing at everything. We didn’t have our house together, I couldn’t get my son to nurse properly, and I couldn’t stop crying. In my deepest moments of pain, I wondered if I made a mistake.

Maybe I should never have had a baby.

I endured six weeks of extremely long nursing routines, having nursing consultants try everything from guards to teaspoons to help us, and at the end, I was left feeling like a failure. I was defeated and embarrassed by the amount of people who had seen me undressed and at my lowest with no progress to show for it until a new nurse came for a home visit. She let me cry and then told me I had put up a valiant fight and it was time to let it go. She could see in my eyes that I was not doing well and she gave me permission to just let it be. After six weeks of struggle, her affirmation that I was not a bad mom was the magic I needed. When I relaxed into that confidence, my baby suddenly started eating properly, sleeping through the night, and we moved back into our house.

It’s been eighteen years since those nights I spent curled up in the corner. I had two daughters after that son, and he’s now in his first year of college. I don’t rock babies anymore, but the depression never really left, and two years ago I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. I didn’t know then how many nights I would spend crying in the dark, with or without a baby, but I think about that twenty-one-year-old girl often.

If I could go back and tell her one thing it would be this: go downstairs and wake up your mom.

For so many years I thought crying had to be done alone. I thought I was the only one who could rock my baby, cry my tears, and bear the burden to figure it all out. I felt so alone and I wished someone would help me, but no one knew. Years later, I told my husband and my mom and they both said the same thing. “I wish you would have woken me up.”

People were never meant to go through life alone. We are meant to live in a far more interconnected way than our North American culture allows. When we’re isolated, it’s easy to think everyone we see thriving is doing it perfectly all on their own. But that’s a lie. They’re either not alone, or they’re not doing as well as we might think.

If you just had a baby and are struggling with postpartum depression, let me offer some hard-won advice: call someone. Wake someone up. Cry, but not alone. It’s hard to tell someone you’re wondering if you’re not up to the task of parenting and asking where God is in the night. It is life-giving to say these things aloud, and doing so does not make you unspiritual or a bad mother or the wrong person for the job.

It makes you normal. And that other mom you’re talking to? It makes her feel normal too.

So wake your husband, call your mom, open up in a mom’s group or at church, talk to your doctor or midwife, or even book an appointment with a counselor. Reach out. Be brave, honest, and vulnerable. The community built during the hard times will be there to support you for the next eighteen years. Rest easy, you were never meant to handle this alone.

Jennifer Holmes is a wife, mom, Christian School music teacher, and writer who also happens to have Bipolar II. She’s exploring how mental health and faith intersect and invites you to share that journey. She loves to podcast, blog, and share on social media, often early in the morning all wrapped up in blankets. Follow along at her website and on Facebook and Instagram (her favourite). Her podcast can be found by searching Jen’s New Song on iTunes, Spotify, or through her website.

**Putting In The Time** Oct 08, 2020
It started with a cough. A deep, hacking cough that shook my entire body, right to my core.

Literally.

I coughed for months—straight through Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. My bronchitis sounded worse than it felt, with one horribly embarrassing exception: every time a cough took me by surprise, a drop of pee did the same. By the second week, I wasn’t very surprised, and I had learned to cock my hip and subtly shift my weight whenever I felt a cough about to explode through my chest.

This is not fine, I thought.

My pelvic floor had been weak ever since I gave birth to my first son seven years earlier. He was tangled up in his own umbilical cord, and it took me six hours and the help of a fetal vacuum to push him out. At the time, I remember feeling very grateful I had been able to finish the job without a C-section, but in the months that followed, as I started trying to get back in shape, I realized I could no longer run without peeing. Not any distance. Not even if I limited liquids and took care of business before I set out. I guessed that the strain of pushing for so long had permanently stretched things down there. So much for the expensive jogging stroller. The loss of control wounded my pride so badly, I simply gave up running.

But, to tell the truth, I wasn’t that worried. Giving up running wasn’t a huge loss for me. We could walk to the library just as easily as run there, and I wouldn’t even have to get sweaty.

I thought I could just ignore my problem and it would fade into the background. I thought it was isolated and it wouldn’t affect how I lived or enjoyed my family.

Almost seven years later, I finally realized I couldn’t pretend my pelvic floor weakness into oblivion. It had followed me through two more births, and quite suddenly and unexpectedly became an issue that consumed almost every waking thought. I started wearing pantyliners to go on hikes and I would ask my husband to chase after our toddler when she tried to escape. I no longer trusted my body to perform the most basic function, and no amount of Kegels seemed to get me anywhere.

I cautiously brought up the subject with friends, who all agreed that sneezing is the worst. One well-meaning older lady told me that sex was the answer, and another told me I could just have surgery and forget about it.

Even as I nodded along, I didn’t feel reassured. I suspected my problem was worse than they imagined. I was beginning to grasp its magnitude, and I was afraid.

When I googled my symptoms, I learned that I had “stress incontinence.” Yikes. That sounds like a problem for a nursing home, not a 30-something mama chasing after toddlers. But if it had a name, then surely I wasn’t alone. Surely there was some way to find healing, some way I could cooperate with my own body again.

After months of anxiety, someone handed me the name of a physical therapist. “She’s great!—she can tell just by how you stand and walk what exercises will help,” my friend assured me. “She worked wonders for me.”

I showed up to my first physical therapy appointment wearing heeled booties, skinny jeans, and makeup. I care about my image, and I was about to tell a stranger that I also wet my pants sometimes. As I peered into the therapy room and spotted all the sneakers and leggings, I realized with chagrin that it had been so long since I’d trusted my body, I didn’t even own the right clothes to freely move around.

My therapist, a friendly and energetic woman, laughed at my boots and told me to stop apologizing so much. She didn’t bat an eye when I poured out my most embarrassing secret (and her subsequent questions made me realize I still had a lot to be grateful for). When I asked her with tears in my eyes whether I was ever going to feel comfortable in my body again, she told me something I won’t soon forget.

“Melissa, we can work on this. Your brain has forgotten how to connect to your pelvic floor. Those muscles are stretched out, but we are going to make them strong. We are here to remind your body what to do.” She told me that eventually, if I kept working on it, my body would remember how to hold itself together again.

“Are my knees supposed to hurt?” I asked her a few minutes later as I lay on my back with my feet on a chair and a kickball between my knees, crunching all the air out of my lungs. She assured me I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do, that my knees are connected to my adductors and my adductors are connected to my hips; everything is actually connected to everything else (just like the song says!)—even my stress levels.

I had been compensating for my lost strength by using every other part of my body in strange ways, so every part would have to learn to work differently—even my knees.

I was doubtful as I shoved my feet back into my leather booties and left. I had a new trick, but I wasn’t sure it would matter. Consistency has never been my strong suit; I’ve tried a few “miracle” programs before and never managed to stick to them. What if I can never reconnect with this part of my body I’ve neglected for so long? What if all my bad habits are too ingrained for me to overcome them?

I missed two days of exercises that week. It was hard for me to work a new routine into the hectic rhythm of my days at home. As I lay on my bedroom floor at midnight and attempted to repeat the simple exercise, curving my lower back down to the carpet and breathing out until my lungs ached for fresh air, I reminded myself to keep trying, that doing something is better than nothing.

I wish I could say I was all better after a week.

I wish I could say I don’t have to worry about my pelvic floor anymore. But I’m still working on it.

Connection (and especially reconnection) can be hard work. Sometimes it is uncomfortable, and sometimes a false start makes me want to give up in despair. But I can’t assume a real connection will happen without a deep investment, or without affecting every other part of my life. Just like any relationship I’ve ever had, forging a bond is slow and requires my persistence. No matter how much I want it when I start out, it won’t become second nature instantaneously.

I have to put in the time.

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith, and occasionally updates her Instagram.

**Friends Who Do Not Fear My Pain** Oct 06, 2020
I am a MOO, which has nothing to do with cows, although that would spark a smile. In my life, MOO stands for Mothers of Offenders. The word offender just made this all so serious.

I am the mother of an offender. This is my smashed-heart story.

That I am a mother at all still fills me with wonder. I knew from a young age my body would never be able to bear children. Instead of crying over that, I chose to live a large life of faith in the God who created me. In my early thirties as a single youth pastor, I began meeting with a group of at-risk tween boys. Actually I couldn’t shake them. They were beautifully messy and risky, and they eventually chose to follow Jesus. The night they made that decision, God whispered to me that these boys needed more than a youth pastor: they needed parents. With open hearts, my new husband and I parented more and more. Now, decades later, we have five delightful grandchildren who are being raised in safe homes, with love and the knowledge of Jesus—the very things their fathers didn’t have until they were older.

I wish this was true for all four of my sons, but as I said, I am a MOO. One of my sons committed a serious crime as a young man, and the prison system has been a part of our lives for 21 years now.

I still remember the phone call when this became our reality. I remember the awkwardness of the jail visits which later became prison visits. Jail and prison are very different, and I hate that I know that. I can still hear the door slamming and locking behind me for the first time, can still picture sitting in that booth, picking up that phone, and seeing my son’s face through that glass. My dear son, whose whole future had just changed, who wasn’t sure if he was still loved.

I also had to go to church the next Sunday and answer questions about the front-page article in the newspaper.

When my son was arrested, people tried to figure out what to say to me. Most often they truly meant well, but it didn’t touch the anger I felt toward my son. It didn’t touch the grief I felt over his lost future. It didn’t soothe the very public shame my family now bears. Shame is already a story stealer, and because my shame rested in the crime my son committed, I didn’t know how to put words on that any more than my friends did.

So I walked into a room filled with beautiful women just like me. We are MOOs. We support each other. But none of us want to be there.

This is a place we can be honest about the shame our own children have brought us. We walk each other through the court system and then the other systems in place for those who are incarcerated. But we wish we didn’t have to.

Being a MOO means I must enter into another person’s pain. To help her is to also relive my own pain. I have to hear stories that are tragic, stories that have no easy ending point.

Being a MOO also means we really see each other. We already know what the woman next to us means when she opens her mouth. No glassy-eyed I don’t understand. No judgment. No, I can’t bear to know this exists in my safe world.

This connection is a rare find. But to get it, I have to be honest about my own pain too.

I wish the universal nature of struggle made it easier for all of us to ask for help, especially in situations like mine, when the mistakes that led to heartbreak cannot be undone. But in a culture of scarcity and perfectionism, there can still be so much shame around reaching out.

It is easier to numb that pain—by eating or drinking the pain into oblivion, or becoming so “crazy busy” that I don’t have time to feel it. I could overshare my pain, trying to get a shot of dopamine from attention (or use oversharing as an excuse, believing no one understands me). Sometimes I want to do everything right, hiding behind a face that says I am okay even though I am smashed inside.

No wonder I can stand in a crowded church, worshipping God with all my heart next to people I love, and still feel alone. Sometimes I feel like no one really knows me. Sometimes I think I have to pretend I am someone else to find any connection.

Do you know what the best part of being a MOO is? In a small group meeting among other mothers who are not afraid of my pain, I get to share my real stories. Speaking these truths aloud in this safe space helps me live my other days in the real world.

We never compare whose pain is worse. Instead, we listen. We give each other words of encouragement. Sometimes we share out of our experience—we’ve been there before. Some words seem to come directly from the Holy Spirit, who comforts us in our sorrow. We laugh at things other people could never understand.

I don’t need to talk about my experiences with prison every day. Nor is it safe for me to talk about my story (and my son’s story) with everyone. Some people don’t care. Some people may be more interested in salacious gossip than my heart. Some people have enough in their lives to handle without the weight of my experiences on top.

Only certain people get to know this brave, vulnerable part of me. This connection with other moms who also know the awkwardness of prison visitations builds me up to live the rest of my life more fully.

I no longer live under a cloud of secret shame. For a few hours each week, I know I am heard and understood—and that is enough.

Brenda Seefeldt Amodea is a pastor, speaker, wife, and mom to four men with their own brave stories. Her life is a story of getting her heart smashed and the many times she has chosen to get up. She shares the beauty of her pain at www.Bravester.com. Sometimes these stories shared are better in person—complete with prayer together. Maybe you would like her to come to your group and share?

**The Desk** Oct 01, 2020
A huge slab of wood took up space in my laundry room until two years after our first daughter was born, the reason it was initially purchased long forgotten. While I was on maternity leave with our second daughter, my husband carried the slab down to our unfinished basement. When it reemerged, it had been transformed.

The creative artist I married lovingly crafted me a desk, which he secured atop the radiator in our front room–the playroom. He bolted it down carefully, adorning it with chains to give the illusion of a floating desk and mounting Edison lights on both sides.

My new workspace—a push present, for which child I am still unsure—faces the street and our beautiful trees. Sunshine streams in as the day progresses. The desk itself reflects the outdoors, painted a metallic mirage of blues and purples with my favorite flower, a Stargazer Lily, hand painted on the left side.

I stared at that desk each day for six months, long after returning to my office from maternity leave, wondering when I would get the inspiration to sit and create, willing the space to draw me in. Instead, it stayed separate, removed from the hustle and bustle of the room around it. Our children played in the room daily, but never touched the desk either. It was like it didn’t exist. Instead, it became just a wish or a promise for later.

COVID-19 hit like a ton of bricks. Working in healthcare, in support of front line workers, my stress and anxiety was only lifted when I received orders I could work from home. I was relieved. I could keep my family safe. I could control my exposure more readily. My typical anxieties about working from home were overpowered by this new, unforeseen stressor.

I am a working mother for a reason. I needed to be around people. I needed to interact with adults. I needed to feel productive and valued in a different way. Both of my maternity leaves left me exhausted and overwhelmed. I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. My husband is a natural caretaker. So when we had our first daughter, the idea of him staying home and me providing for our family felt completely natural, but it didn’t quite feel right being away from them either. My work schedule evolved into 6:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. so I could spend the afternoons with my girls. I thought that was enough.

I thought.

On my first pandemic work-from-home day, I arranged the piles of work I had haphazardly thrown in a box on my beautiful desk. The items looked misplaced, away from the sterility and homogeneity of my office, but also filled the desk with purpose for the first time.

I stuck rigidly to my original work schedule, rising at 5:50 a.m. and–without the commute or obligatory shower–was sitting at my desk by 6 a.m. I did the same work, ate the same food, and scheduled call after call to stay connected to the outside world, to somehow make sense of the time we were living through. I hoped to maintain as much normalcy as possible.

It was the little things that slowly started to chip away at my armor.

After days at home, my husband pulled out our old laptop and set it on my 2-year-old’s art table. She dutifully sat next to me, typing away, calling out the letters as she pressed, occasionally shimmying the mouse this way and that.

It was a treat to snuggle my then-8-month-old against my chest at morning naptime, carrying her upstairs and smelling her neck as she cuddled into me, stroking my hair as I stroked her back.

Zoom calls were made that much nicer when my coffee was magically refilled and delivered by my thoughtful husband.

I traded in microwave overnight oats for making them fresh in the pot, my two-year-old by my side. I traded writing with co-worker interruptions to writing with toddler disruptions. I traded blocking out landline rings and colleague yelling for Daniel Tiger and snack demands.

It was different and new, but it felt right. I had spent so much time since having my first child trying to separate my life as a mom with my life as a professional, working twice as hard to prove nothing had changed when everything had. I was miserable trying to balance an impossible load, trying to tear myself into pieces and still be whole when I arrived.

I came home in more ways than one that first day. I came home to myself in a way I never would have imagined. It snuck up on me. Establishing a new routine took work and patience. I am a hard nut to crack so it makes sense it would take a global pandemic for me to realize I can be both things simultaneously. I can be a talented professional and an amazing mom. Both roles can not only coexist but thrive, together.

I used to view the desk the same way. “Why won’t you inspire me?” I thought to myself. It didn’t draw me in enough to do what I thought it was intended to do. I thought if I had the space and the materials, it would be easier. I expected to sit and write the next great American novel, to actually get paid to bear my soul about motherhood and friendship and hard times.

But I wouldn’t let it into the story. No one touched it, no one experienced it. Everyone walked around it like a decoration. It didn’t get to live and stack up memories. I treated it for a singular purpose, and it wasn’t living up to my expectations. Just like me. I was treating myself as a singular purpose and I wasn’t living up to others’ expectations.

That desk is where I handwrite thank you notes, participate in Zoom calls, create reports and emails. Where I conduct interviews and mentor professionals. It is also a climbing gym, a breastfeeding station, a home for wayward stuffed animals, and Superhero Girl dolls. It hugs my two daughters and me with care and safety.

The desk has a purpose now. It fits neatly into our lives, entrenched into the playroom and our children’s lives – as am I.

Krystina Wales spends her days in donor engagement and communication for a healthcare organization in Baltimore, which she considers the best job in fundraising, and she is also deeply committed to volunteering in Baltimore City. But her favorite roles are wife and mom. When she is not adventuring with her two daughters, she is in perpetual search of a really good cup (read: pot) of coffee or mastering her life goal of crafting the perfect charcuterie board. You can find her on Instagram.

**Too Much Happens Before Coffee** Sep 29, 2020
Faintly aware of the familiar ethereal tune of my cell phone alarm, I swipe the clock icon toward “dismiss” to silence the symphony of chimes that interrupt my late-morning dreams. I suppose I should get up, I half-heartedly muse while glancing at the time: 8:03 am. Stretched out alone in our queen-size bed, I ponder all the things on my schedule for the day. I have meetings this afternoon. I can’t forget to water the hanging baskets today. I need to schedule that delivery, call the insurance company, and pay the bills for next month. No reason to delay; I’d better get started. I saunter off toward the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair down from a top-knot, but in our one-bathroom home, more often than not, this space is occupied at this time of day.

I make my way to Brian’s office, which was a guest bedroom before COVID hit in March. He has already started his work for the day, but it’s a slow morning. “Make sure you get your coffee sooner rather than later,” I tease. It’s the running joke in our home: “Too much happens before coffee.” Work may be slow now, but any number of circumstances could pop up before noon. I take a seat on the bed while waiting for the bathroom to be free, and our 4-year-old daughter ambles in, joining the two of us. With wild blonde bed-head and sleepy smiles, she crawls up next to me for a morning snuggle, hugs, and kisses.

“Hey Eleora,” Brian starts, “what is the song you sang to your sisters before falling asleep the other night?” Our eyes meet, and I grin knowingly. Our older two daughters, Olivia and Amelia, informed us after Eleora had fallen asleep the night before, that she concocted a tune comprised of “booties” and “butts” and other words kids find hilarious. Eleora bashfully hides her face in my side in response to this question. By now, her older sisters have joined our guest room/office gathering and have caught on to the conversation we’d begun a moment ago.

“Why don’t you want to sing your song for mommy and daddy?” Brian pries. It’s written all over her face: she’s embarrassed. Amelia pipes up, “I’ll sing it!” and proceeds to recount a silly tune where every other word is “booty.” Giggles ensue, but Eleora’s embarrassment turns into tears. Brian scoops her up and reassures her all is okay. It’s too early in the day for diffusing hurt feelings—we haven’t even had coffee.

Still in our pajamas, piled on the guest bed, we take turns finding Eleora’s most ticklish spot: her armpits. Before long, her eyes are dry and the small room fills with peals of laughter from everyone. We catch our breath as Brian glances over at his work. Still slow. We all agree there are times and places for goofy songs about “booties,” and Eleora no longer feels embarrassed.

I finally make it to the bathroom to get ready for the day and choose an outfit appropriate for a Zoom meeting, but still comfortable enough to wear around the house. I head to the kitchen to finally prepare breakfast when I notice the time: it’s already after 10:00 am. How on Earth did two hours just fly by? Astonished by the passage of time, I recount the pace of our lives just a few months prior. Alarms while it was still dark, Brian gone before the kids woke up, business all day, and exhaustion in the evenings. When COVID hit, none of us knew what was going on, and even with Brian newly working from home full-time, our days were anything but relaxed. I’d jump out of bed in a frenzy, racing to make a grocery run just as our local stores opened, hoping I’d be able to snag a pound of ground beef or a whole chicken. Upon returning home, I’d wipe down everything out of an abundance of caution, lest I bring an unknown virus into our home.

For many of us, those early spring days could be accurately described as chaotic.

I shake off the memory of those days and pull a box of blueberry muffin mix out of the cabinet. Yes, this is perfect for today, I smile. The girls will love this.

Minutes tick by as I prepare the muffin batter, throw a pan of bacon in the oven, and scramble seven eggs in my trusty cast-iron skillet while the aroma of blueberry muffins fill the air. Two batches of muffins later, and everything is cooked. I dole out servings among five different plates. 11:22 am, I read on the clock as I shrug casually, whatever.

“Breakfast is ready!” I call while delivering plates to the table. “MUFFINS!” the girls squeal as they bound in from the living room where they had been playing with Barbies and Matchbox cars. Brian emerges from the guest room and takes notice of the time. “I guess this is technically more like brunch,” I suggest. “Yep, but it works because now we don’t have to worry about lunch,” he teases.

Before sitting down, I fill two mason jar style glasses with ice and reach into the fridge for the pitcher of cold-brew coffee. A lot has happened before coffee today. I pour coffee and cream over the ice, plop a stainless steel straw into each jar, and ponder how much our lives have shifted from a cycle of work-school-eat-sleep to one completely outside of any cycle. A type of work, life, and school integration that sometimes affords us slow mornings, blueberry muffin brunches, and cold-brew coffee at 11:30 am. Much like our coffee that brews for eight hours overnight, slow and mellow, we have adopted some routines that are slow and mellow too.

The five of us enjoy our accidental brunch together, a fine way to wrap up a slow morning. A lot has happened before coffee: a lot of laughter and a lot of memories. Work beckons Brian back to the guest room, and I prompt the kids to get dressed for the day. They can’t stay in pajamas all day, right? My to-do list for the day is waiting for me, but I’m ready for it because of all that had happened before coffee.

Mary Kate Brown is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She writes online about her healing journey from autoimmune disease and champions others to be their own best health advocates. A “crunchy” mom at heart, her interests include holistic wellness, real food cooking, and faithful stewardship of our bodies, spirits, families, and land. Mary Kate, her husband Brian, and their three daughters left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs to pursue their dream of homesteading on a rural property just south of Grand Rapids, MI. Most days you can find her in the garden talking to her plants, homeschooling her three daughters, or taking appointments with fellow writers as a member of the hope*writers enrollment team.

**The Best Decision I Didn’t Want to Make** Sep 24, 2020
Do I really want to do this?

I was eight months pregnant. Four hours of tossing and turning now counted as “a good night’s sleep” so I could have one at least every now and then. Sitting in line at a coffee hut, waiting for something called a “White Zombie” which promised even more caffeine than a regular 20oz. latte, I discussed my plans for the evening with my BFF. (Yes, I was having an ungodly amount of caffeine while pregnant. Yes, it noticeably freaked out the bowling-ball-sized boy under my shirt. But I was low on options—I needed to parent my pair of toddler girls.)

My sister was in town for the first time since she’d moved to Europe a few years prior. We’d hung out some, but I felt a little panicked at our limited remaining time. Her plans that evening included a reunion of the book club she’d been in when she last lived here—and I was invited.

This morning, I’d dragged myself out of bed after an even-worse-than-normal night’s sleep. I was uncomfortable (see: eight months pregnant) and grumpy. The idea of dragging my enormous, introverted self, after dinner, to a stranger’s house full of women I didn’t know (but who all knew each other) sounded…less than appealing at 11 in the morning when I was already fried.

“I don’t know if I have it in me. I want to spend as much time with Kori as possible, but I just don’t know if I can,” I said into the phone. My friend reminded me I was free to go or to skip it, then let me talk myself in circles until I figured out what was most important to me today: I tentatively planned to go. Time with my sister was more valuable than avoiding the unpleasantness of peopling while pregnant.

As the day wore on, I continued to waffle. The regular business of toddler sass and making dinner drained what little energy I had left—the effects of my late-morning White Zombie had worn off long before—but changing a decision I’d already made seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I put on my cutest casual maternity top (making an effort, but not trying too hard) and a ton of concealer under my eyes and went.

When I arrived at the hostess’s home, I hefted myself out of my car, waddled past a row of unfamiliar vehicles (plus one I recognized as my sister’s), and nervously knocked on the door.

The women were warm and friendly. They asked all the usual pregnancy-related questions and we made the usual small talk. I felt the usual level of awkwardness and sounded the usual sort of derpy. Eventually, we all had our plates with veggies and fancy cheese and seltzer water and settled down to the serious business of the night. Since they hadn’t met in years, we weren’t discussing a common book; instead, everyone brought a book to recommend to the group. Now, I don’t people well under the best of circumstances (which pregnancy is not), but I can book like a total boss. We talked about the books we’d each brought (I brought Shauna Niequist’s Bread and Wine) and why we brought them (in my case, recipes). There was much laughter and much taking-photos-of-book-covers with our cell phones to add to our already-absurd TBR lists.

By the time we’d made it around the circle, it was late. I was exhausted (which, for me, is sometimes like drunk, but the happy kind) and more relaxed than I’d started. People started trickling out, but some of us stayed. The conversation worked its way from books to kids to childbirth. Before I knew it, the clock said 11 pm, my sister had gone home, and I was discussing rental property and postpartum sex with these women I’d only met four hours prior.

Kori went back to Czechia (well, Czech Republic as it was known then), but I kept meeting with those women. We discussed books quarterly, decided that was not frequent enough, so we added another. Now we meet six times a year with movies thrown in when the book happens to have one. We eat excellent food and have added wine to our beverage menu, but we still get to the serious book discussions and the gut-busting laughter. It’s been nearly six years now. Some of the members have cycled out and more have come in, but I still think of this group as the very best decision I really did not want to make.

I think of my beloved book club often when my introversion and exhaustion make the idea of peopling seem like far too much effort. The tired introvert still calls the shots frequently (I prefer to think of it as letting self-compassion win). But when I decide to move toward a crowd despite my hesitance, it’s always because of this group of strangers-turned-immediate-friends, the laughter they nearly didn’t bring into my life because I was too pregnant to meet new people, and the joy they are still bringing.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing, and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

**The One Who Walked Away** Sep 22, 2020
On the third day of unpacking and still surrounded by boxes and packing paper up to our ears, I decided it was time for a breather. We had just moved to Northern Virginia, an area I had never heard of or visited before we arrived. My husband and our 3-year-old son were out running errands, so I put a jacket and shoes on our 2-year-old daughter, bundled up our 6-month-old son in the umbrella stroller, and we went for a walk around the neighborhood. I couldn’t wait to explore our new surroundings.

I knew there was a little park directly behind our house, but I decided to take the long way around. Part of me hoped I’d run into some people and be able to introduce myself as the new neighbor. Another part of me hoped to make the walk without being approached. My daughter wanted to push my son in the stroller so we made slow progress. About 15 minutes later, we rounded a corner and meandered up a small hill. I told my daughter that the playground was near. Her eyes lit up and her little blonde head strained to look over the top of the stroller so she could see what was ahead. As the playground came into view, she took off running, leaving me and her brother behind. I caught the rolling stroller and followed her to the playground, parking it near one of the benches.

When I looked up from unbuckling my son, I noticed another mom across the playground with her three children. She waved, and I waved back. My heart leapt at the thought of meeting someone new and yet my feet were stuck to the ground. As I contemplated whether or not I should make my way over to her, she stood up and started gathering her things and corralling her kids. For a split second, I thought she was coming over to introduce herself and I felt a surge of excitement laced with panic. I fumbled inwardly to put together a proper greeting where I introduce myself as Catherine, instead of Mommy. Just when I had my words ready, she started walking away from us, toward a well-trod pathway between the trees.

As she disappeared, my heart sank down to my glued feet. I berated myself for not gathering up my courage and approaching her. I even thought about quickly hauling my own kids that way, as if to go home and “accidently” meet her, but fear again kept my feet firmly planted in the grass.

As I sat there, I pondered our many park days in our old neighborhood. How many times had I been the one to walk away?

I remember plenty of instances at our old home when my children and I had the park to ourselves, then another mom and her kids would make their way toward the playground. In a quick moment, I would decide that we had been out long enough (but truth be told, I just didn’t want to make small talk)—I’d gather my things and my kids and head home. Now, as the newcomer on the other side of the park, I realize that those were missed opportunities to make a new friend or even minister to people. Maybe the moms I never met were new to the area, like I am now. Maybe they just needed a listening ear. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As a mom, I find myself trying to balance two worlds: one where I desperately crave authentic adult connection and one where I desperately need alone time. These two worlds collide often as my small children loudly interrupt my scant time alone, clamoring for their own emotional connection needs. I feel drained, never full, always on the brink of running dry. I am not sure what will fill me up—spending quality time with my family when deep inside a part of me longs for a break, or finally being away, either out with friends or alone, and secretly missing the beautiful chaos of family life. These constant dissonances leave me feeling war-torn and battered.

I often feel like I can barely manage the basics of clothing and feeding my children or making it to the end of the day with my sanity still intact. I wonder how I can cultivate connections—with my family or with other women—when I am struggling to meet the physical demands of motherhood. The only answer I have identified is that when I am feeling this dry, I must run back to the Source. I must cultivate the connection with my Heavenly Father by spending daily time in His Word. Doing so will align my perspective with His and shape my mindset for the day. As I lean into Jesus more, I am reminded that He is the One who never walks away, that He desires and pursues relationship and connection with us.

It is He, after all, who made and designed us for relationships. He is the Well of Life that never runs dry. When I tap into the strength He provides, I find that it spurs me on to go the extra mile in pursuing connections with my husband, my children, and my friends. I am more in tune to the promptings of the Holy Spirit for ministry opportunities, taking a meal to someone or doing a grocery store run, listening to someone who just needs to vent, loving people where they are with no expectations.

When I move out of my sphere of comfort into the realm of discomfort, growth happens in ways I never expected. Taking a step in faith by being intentional in my relationships instead of being rooted in fear has led to some of the most meaningful and rewarding friendships I could have ever imagined.

So, the next time I walk to the park and encounter someone I do not know, I will gather my courage by the bootstraps, walk over and introduce myself. I never know whose kindred spirit is waiting for me on the other side of the playground.

Catherine Love and her husband live in Northern Virginia with their four young and very active children. When not making meals, tending to boo-boos, or giving hugs and kisses, Catherine can be found running, swimming, or reading. She is a sinner saved by grace and is deeply thankful for the work of Jesus in her life. She can be found on Instagram at or on her personal blog.

**No Bandwidth for Family** Sep 17, 2020
We moved from the old house—the only house our big kids had ever known—to have a basement like the one we have now. There was more to it, obviously: The old neighborhood was transitioning from Family-Friendly Oasis to Fast-Paced Urban Hub. All the affordable and sensible improvements we could make to the structure of our old place would not touch its need for serious renovations, and no matter what we tried, we shared our old basement with millions of spiders. For all the charm of that 1948 building and the half-acre of land upon which it sat, we outgrew it.

In this new house, God gave us all the things my secret heart desired, and for which I was too afraid to ask Him. Our son still longs for the narrow wood slats instead of these hand-scraped, wide plank floors, saying they were better for racing his cars. Everything else is the definition of more than we could have asked or imagined: composite decking, granite, laundry upstairs (read: not in the basement with the spiders). What’s more, now Hubby has his basement! It’s spacious and full of sunlight.

We have made it into a space for our family to play, another thing that could never have happened in our old home. Deep pile carpeting spreads out over epoxy for bare feet. Couches, a recliner, air hockey, arcade-style basketball, foosball, and ping-pong are all stationed along the cement walls promising family fun.

One night, as two-thirds of the big kids were gaming, the baby was running into the hammock swing then Whoa-ing back, and Hubby and I were breathing hard with the table tennis paddles in our hands when the realization hit us: we can only stand to talk to each other with phones in our hands, listen to each other if we’re also ping-ponging, and be happy if the kids are allowed to game from the time they wake up till the time their heads hit the pillow at night. Our brains have a deficit of attention. We have to be distracted to stand each other, to stand ourselves. I’ve learned this is part of what happens with too much blue light and too much distraction, like tv (the true opiate of the masses).

Too busy.

Too preoccupied.

Systems and devices deprived us of human connection. The devil sought to keep us relationally disconnected. Things like gaming systems and phones were ready distractions from the people in front of us, but we had choices. As we integrated our emotions with our thoughts, we finally accepted and said out loud, “We are giving our family away to distraction.”

In contrast to the night of gaming and table tennis, a tornado blowing eighty-four miles per hour, uprooting mature trees and dropping them on cars and fences, and shaking our A-frame swing set chased us into our basement for shelter. As the electricity went out, our entire family—Mama, Daddy, thirteen-year-old, eleven-year-old, nine-year-old, and two-year-old—huddled into one car so we could pick up Chick-fil-A for dinner. And into one room, because we had one candle and one flashlight as well as an assortment of battery-powered “lights” gathered by kids that made me smile—a lighted makeup mirror, a hover ball toy, and a Bluetooth speaker turned on its head because of the light ring around the circumference of its bottom. Robbed of our devices, which had run out of juice… In the dark, we finally engaged in a way we don’t often do, except when we vacation to new places that are more compelling than our electronic temptations—no wifi connection.

We are in the coliseum of technology—Hubby, Wifey, and family, and we’re cheering at all the distractions as our family time and connection is being devoured. We’re playing a part in the demise of our own relationships, while apps devour us, and devices offer us greater and greater spectacles.

We don’t have enough bandwidth for family these days.

***

Counselor Adam Young says, in his podcast, he believes we sin most against our children. Though my thinking can certainly change, I agree. Pride and complacency are most tempted by wet clay. As I work the clay of my children’s hearts, trying to mold rapidly drying earth into godly bricks—by teaching them everything from how to potty to how to cook, it becomes easier and easier to think I know it all.

Recently, we went on a vacation with friends who are walking ahead of us, already doing the hard work of parenting in longhand, rather than defaulting to our habit—a rapid method of connecting by substituting time for extravagant gifts, meals together for fast food—short parenting. We watched them and absorbed without ever hearing a word of judgment or correction or advice: Helping their children brush their teeth, encouraging them to get outside and away from big and small screens, getting up and taking walks and hikes and dragging them on a giant unicorn float named “Madame Majesty Sparkle.” They were completely present, instead of sitting back in pop up chairs of convenience and letting important bonds float away on invisible waves of time and apathy.

We came home committed to spending more of our time engaging life according to the example of connection our friends lived out so simply. We want to do the work it takes to get real meals made for the family, show we care by the effort we put into putting our things down to look each other in the eye and help with homeschool work, read a comic book drawn by our child, and get down on the floor to play with the baby. My oldest was the first person to say to me, “Good enough isn’t good enough,” and it’s true.

Before, our temporary satisfaction brought on by screens was followed by wicked withdrawal symptoms— ingratitude, sour stomachs, insomnia and melatonin issues, anxiety, depression, developmental regression and failures to launch, chaos, manipulation from the kids, and infighting between my husband and me. I have accepted good enough as our life for too long.

I have ignored the dead soil, broken connections, misfiring brains, dysfunctional systems, and developed a deep fear of the awful plants growing in our toxic field. I see the fruits of nonorganic play and genetically modified interactions resulting in a total inability to thrive. No one talks. No one listens. No one cares. We’ve been missing each other. Our failure to lead, whether it’s due to fear or weakness, is sin. For too long, it has enslaved our whole family.

***

We’ve become keenly aware there will be consequences for every idle thought, word, action, and system. Every apathetic or frustrated omission bears fruit at every intersection with ourselves and this world. Someone once said to me: “We’re either causing or complicit in the culture of our home.” When I consider the Kingdom of Heaven, I hear “culture.” It’s a climb to create culture, so we’ve begun to scale the mountain.

We’ve started leaving the tv to its master, the devil, along with all of the other devices under his employ (kidding, not kidding.) We started playing Trivial Pursuit together and eating at the dinner table again. Weekday video game meetings have been cancelled. Fuse-ball and air hockey and Pop-A-Shot together are fine.

We haven’t figured it all out—no one has—but we’ve said the scary things out loud to each other. We’ve opened our hearts to God so He can teach us to lead our family out of the ditch and help us amend the soil and weed the garden that is our family.

Jay is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their four children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog and Instagram.

**Thank You Very Much** Sep 15, 2020
“I am going to need to speak with you in my office,” the doctor said, and I thought nothing of it. I was so thrilled to see my baby kicking around during the ultrasound that I didn’t foresee that something might be the matter.

“Your baby’s brain and all major organs are fine,” he leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat, and that was when I realized that he was about to say the word “but. . .”

“But, it is clear to me that your baby does not have a left hand.”

I will never forget laying eyes on my firstborn son, three months after that ultrasound. I had pushed for over two hours and was afraid that I wouldn’t have the strength to hold him. When the midwife held him up to me, my first thought was that he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. His head was covered in a mass of dark hair. I held him and comforted his newborn cries. He settled on my chest and looked up with a piercing stare. There was an air about him that exuded confidence even as a newborn. He didn’t know that the average baby had two hands. He was just fine, thank you very much.

A seasoned nurse in her fifties cared for us that night. She bathed my baby, and her voice was sweet and calm like a mother when she reassured me:

“Just wait and see all of the things you will do now with one hand as a new mom. This boy is going to be fine.”

My heart warmed as worry fled. “Thank you very much.”

As he grew up, he continually surprised us by conquering anything he set out to do. A natural athlete, musician, and exceptional student with a charismatic personality that draws people to him, my son thrived with many strong friendships. Having only one hand didn’t seem to hold him back at all…until he was 14 and our family moved to England.

A new high school in a new country was a different story. He worked hard to figure out how things worked in this new place. We continually asked him if everything was all right, and he assured us it was. It was February of his first school year in England when he confessed something was wrong. He was being bullied at school because of his missing hand. He didn’t want to tell us he was struggling, but it was devastating for him to continue holding it inside.

“Mom, I don’t think that I can go on the geography field trip next week,” he approached me one day after school.

This wasn’t like him at all. “Why not?” I asked.

“The kids in that class are really awful to me. The teacher had us pick groups for the trip today, and no one wanted me in their group. Can I please stay home that day?” he begged.

The taunting was so emotionally difficult, my son ate his lunch in the bathroom. Depression was lurking at the door of his heart and mind. My husband and I wanted to talk to the school administration and implore them to help.

“Talking with the school won’t do any good, Mom,” my son told me, looking hopeless.

“Do you know the names of the kids who are giving you a hard time?” I asked.

“There are so many, Mom. I don’t know most of them. They are younger than me and older than me. It is like the whole school is out to make me feel horrible about myself,” he confided.

As we talked with him, I sensed a plug had been pulled from his heart and the lifetime of love and confidence that we had poured into him was draining out before our eyes. I have never felt so desperate as a mother.

Prior to this, I had heard of kids being bullied but never contemplated the soul-wrenching tension a young person wades through when they face that kind of degradation. Victims fear that if they report the misconduct and the bullies are given consequences, then the bullies could make life miserable when no one is looking because that is what bullies do. This particular school had a culture of bullying, and we felt helpless.

Eventually, my husband and I arranged to meet with the teacher leading our son’s year group to tell her we were considering finding a new school due to the bullying problem our son was facing. My desire was to help the school work through their problem so my son would be the last one who experienced this. I was hoping for the chance to explain to them how their methods had fostered this atmosphere to exist.

When we sat down, the teacher immediately began singing our son’s praises. His academic accomplishments and musical contributions were impressive. She had comments from other teachers to share with us about what a great kid he is. Despite all her praise, we tried to open up about the way his peers were treating him, and she immediately went cold.

“I don’t believe that is really happening,” she had the gall to say.

“What reason would we have to make this up?” my husband asked.

“You said he was eating lunch in the bathroom. I don’t believe it. We lock doors so students can’t do that,” was her response. (“When you are desperate, you find out which doors are open,” my son later informed us.)

That meeting quickly came to an end and we informed her we would be removing our son from the school. As we drove away, my blood boiled and my heart broke. The lack of empathy our son was being shown was shocking. Later that week, I wrote a long letter to the headteacher explaining how certain systems within the school were making it possible for kids to get away with bullying. I received no response. Not only had we not been heard, but bullying could persist and affect other students because the school wasn’t interested in taking an introspective look into or correcting their widespread problem.

I started making phone calls trying to find another school. Changing schools in England is not easy. Most of my inquiries were simply met with, “We do not have space in his year group.” However, there was one woman who brought tears to my eyes with her warm response.

“We do not have space in his year group, but I am so sad to hear what he has experienced. That should never have been allowed to happen. I can’t promise you anything, but please send in an application to my attention, and I will personally present your case to the headteacher.” Those kind words filled me with hope. She gave the gift of empathy by allowing her heart to connect to our plight even though she might not be able to offer a solution.

“Thank you very much,” was all I could say in a shaky voice and I hung up.

Fortunately, this school was willing to make a spot, and my son is now thriving there. The new school prioritizes the needs of every student and it is evident across the board. Their approach to everything shows their desire to care for their students as individuals. It is a safe place.

Empathy is not my strong suit. My wiring lends itself more to problem solving and perseverance than feeling. When I encounter a person with a problem I cannot personally relate to, or I do not see a solution for, I shut down emotionally and can be dismissive and distant. Standing against bullying with my son has taught me an important lesson about the value of empathy. Galatians 6:2 urges us to “Bear one another’s burdens,” it doesn’t say we are to solve everyone’s problems. Some problems are complicated and feel unsolvable, but as I come alongside and help bear the weight when life gets heavy, I lighten another’s load by letting them know they are seen and not alone. I have learned to put myself in someone else’s shoes and imagine what they are feeling as they walk their road, and in so doing, I have seen life-giving connections form. The solidarity we form through empathy is a source of hope we all need.

Amy Mullens and her husband are church planters in England as well as parents to four children (17, 14, 12, and 5). She is addicted to seeing Jesus change lives and loves to walk people through God’s Word in small groups, through her writing or over a cup of coffee. Exploring the English countryside, getting lost in a book, or catching up with an old friend are among her favorite things.

**Growing Back Together** Sep 10, 2020
I pull into a parking space facing the doors of the coffee shop, put the car in park, and freeze. Butterflies flit through my stomach and up into my throat. I run my sweaty palms up and down my thighs and take a deep breath. I see her pull into one of the front parking spots, gather something from her passenger seat, and walk in.

Meeting one of my oldest friends shouldn’t feel this way, but—other than her email invitation for coffee—we haven’t spoken in years.

When I saw her email, I thought it might be a scam or she’d been hacked. We hadn’t communicated in what seemed like forever, so why would she reach out now? But something nudged me to open the message anyway. It started simply enough: “Hey, it’s been a really long time, but I’ve been thinking about you.” My eyebrows shot up and my jaw dropped a little. I will do almost anything to avoid conflict, so opening back up a line of communication which had been conspicuously silent felt risky. “Maybe we could grab a coffee and catch up?”

My mind flashed back to our last conversation at her going away party, the awkward way I felt and the blunt way she’d tried to hold me to a higher standard. “It feels like I don’t know you anymore,” she’d muttered sadly.

“Well, maybe you don’t,” I retorted.

For months, I’d held back, slowly building a protective casing around a new job and relationships, thinking the old wouldn’t mix with the new life I was creating. I rarely shared the details of my life and the choices I was making. Maybe it was to avoid any conflict or maybe to prove—to whom, I’m not sure—I could do life completely on my own. I devoured every experience in front of me—those that were good for me and those that weren’t. She didn’t know a battle raged inside me—no one did. Independence pulled me one way and expectations from everyone else pulled the other way. I was trying to figure out who I wanted to be and didn’t think I needed any additional input. I wondered if it was safe to be myself around her anymore. Would she accept me if I was different than I was before? Maybe she would, but I didn’t know if I could handle it if she didn’t. So I just didn’t tell her—or anyone.

We didn’t exchange insults or raise our voices. It wasn’t dramatic or heated. The relationship just ended. Our many years of friendship, now fully cocooned in the past.

Before this, she’d known me deeply. We weren’t the kind of friends who merely made millions of trips to the mall and had slumber parties. Instead, we were sisters of the heart. We lamented teenage crushes and heartbreak, spent countless hours serving and worshipping with our church youth group, and helped each other achieve the appropriate height in our early 90s bangs. She cheered me on through college and finding my first job.

Conversation after conversation, we tried to figure out the best way to get her brother’s best friend to fall in love with her. And he did. I was a part of their meeting, many of their dates, and their wedding. Even after she married, I felt completely at home as the third wheel. Until I didn’t.

As my life began to change, we grew apart, and finally walked away from a decade of friendship.

But, now, at her invitation for coffee, I felt a clear nudge… this time it prompted a “yes” to her simple invitation.

***

I take another deep breath and reach for the door latch. I plaster on a smile, cross the parking lot, and open the coffee shop door. She sits just to the right of the door waiting for me. We greet each other awkwardly and quickly decide to order. She hands me a gift. I kick myself for not thinking to do the same.

I grip my coffee with both hands to keep them from shaking. For a couple of hours we sit, meandering through old memories and carefully cracking open outer shells to reveal the lives we’d grown since we’d parted. We avoid a minefield of difficult conversations but slowly begin to reestablish a connection. Her timid, “How are your parents?” soon turns into an “I remember…” while we laugh over fun memories. Little by little, the desire to reawaken our friendship begins to be exposed.

At first, her invitation to reconnect felt hard. After years of allowing my conflict-aversion to have the loudest voice, it felt daring and brave to say yes to coffee one afternoon—to say yes to a second chance at friendship. The choice required both of us to step into the possibility of rejection. I’m thankful she was courageous enough to send the first email and for the nudge I felt to say yes.

***

I whip into a parking space, and my phone lights up with a text, “I’m here and have a booth,” signed with a pink heart and a smiley face. As I hop out quickly with a skip in my step, I make a mental list of all the things we need to catch up on. The vibrant colors of the restaurant mirror our light-hearted greeting—a ready smile, a quick hug, and we jump deep into conversation. “Tell me about…” we both start, then laugh, “No, you start!” I slide in across from her. She’s already ordered chips and queso, and for the next two hours we do our best to fill in all the gaps of what’s been happening in our lives over the last few months. Conversation is easy and continues out into the parking lot. Another quick hug, and we say good-bye with a promise to schedule another time together soon.

Now, our conversations feel almost shorthand—we don’t need explanations of family background or how a story began. We laugh over old memories. We mourn the loss of grandparents. We’ve invited other old friends to join us occasionally, but mostly it’s just the two of us, usually over a long lunch and always with lots of new stories to tell. We understand how important this reconciliation was for both of us and we recognize the beauty in the longevity of our friendship.

It turns out, all those years ago, she did want to know all that made me who I was—the fun-loving teenager and the woman who struggles through hard things. She wanted to see and understand all my thoughts and choices. In the last 30 years, we’ve both grown into something new and beautiful.

Bethany McMillon is a coffee, football, and ice cream lover from McKinney, TX. She adores her number-loving accountant husband and her growing too fast boy. Bethany works full-time as a teacher and school librarian, which aligns perfectly with the joy she finds in reading and writing. She is passionate about building deeper relationships with both Jesus and those that she loves. Her spirit is most settled after she has connected with a friend about God’s mercy and grace over coffee, sweet tea on the patio, or even a side-by-side walk through a local neighborhood. She hopes to encourage women to find and hold onto those connections within busy and quick-paced lives. Bethany is a member of the Hope*Writers community and writes almost weekly on her website, www.BethanyMcMillon.com. She can be found on Instagram @BethanyMcMillon and on Facebook at Bethany McMillon, Writer.

**Navigating Disconnection** Sep 08, 2020
In the summertime, Wednesdays are reserved for a standing lunch date with some special ladies. I’ve grown with and known these moms for nearly a decade, so as we sit around a table enjoying a few rare hours of grown-up conversation, our discussion inevitably spring-boards back to the topic of our children and to the blessed struggles we encounter with our lovable progeny.

These moms and I have long since graduated from the endless exhaustion of 3am feedings, torturous toddler debates, potty training and frazzled temper tantrums. Thankfully, those early childhood battles have been successfully won at this point, or at least survived.

We’re now war-torn veterans stepping into a new role with grown-up kids. Some of us are newly initiated empty nesters. A few of us have one or two out the door with some stragglers at home, hanging on in high school. As promised, these babies grew up, and, yes, they will always be just that—our “babies,” no matter what the numbers on their driver’s licenses say. So plunging into this new chapter of necessary separation is a frightening transition, and the ever-present question we ladies keep circling back to again and again is essentially this:

How do we begin to disconnect?

It is counterintuitive to talk about disconnecting with your child. I’ve spent more than two decades fighting tooth and nail to make solid connections with these kids, to help them know they can fully trust their dad and me to instruct them in everything from tooth-brushing to long division to forgiving and loving one another. We’ve made so many connections at so great a cost, why ever consider a disconnect?

We do it because it’s right and good for these new adults (or almost-adults) to begin to stand solo, to trudge their own paths. It sure doesn’t feel that way to my mom heart, though. I’m not sure how to responsibly turn off the spigot of 24/7 support, care, and full-on instruction that they still seem to need. Never mind that these young adult-ish humans in my house are making it quite clear they are ready for that well to run dry.

This is perfectly normal, of course. Kids are always desirous of their own complete and total independence far sooner than they are capable of sustaining it. Parents know that, which may be why we struggle so fiercely to know how and when to properly step back.

“They could fail!” my friends and I catastrophize.

No, they will definitely fail at times. And meet with pain. And consequences. Still, the healthy human progression toward becoming a competent adult requires a disconnection begin to inch into the picture.

That’s one of the reasons we keep our Wednesday lunch dates.

“I worry that I didn’t teach him enough Scripture while he was young.”

“Do you think she is remembering not to go out alone after dark?”

“He does NOT need a credit card!”

“Oh, hey, have I told you what my precious, bonehead adult child did last week?”

Our roundtable of moms is a merry mix of laughter, worry, and unwelcome ignorance. It’s an infectious kind of ignorance that sticks to your bones and might make you twitch a little, because the reality is that there are so many things happening in our big kids’ lives right now that we are not privy to. They have stepped into this big, free, dangerous world, and mom can’t be there to swoop in with a safety net, instruction manual, and Spider-man band-aids.

Disconnection is a scary thing for me. It’s a faith-building thing. Thankfully, God knows what’s up even when I don’t, and they are His children, too. Primarily so, in fact. Why do I always forget that?

And so we grown-up girls continue to weekly pass around the chocolate-chip cookies and remind each other of our own Father’s instruction to “train ‘em up in the Word and they won’t depart.” Sometimes, though, it looks very much like they might. So we put down the cookies and we pray and pray some more. And we commit them to His hands, all the while knowing God may have to pry our sticky little mommy fingers away.

Disconnecting in a holistic and enriching way requires a kind of grace and peace only God can supply. We are digging hard into that truth. This circle of veteran moms encourages one another, but we also affirm that we don’t have the answers. We settle for cheering on the mom who decided to not take the bait for another fight with her grown kid. We commiserate with the mama whose baby is met with some hard consequences for a foolish adult decision. We remind each other again and again that, though we miss them, the goal has always been for them to go. And they are still in process. We remember out loud that the women we are now didn’t exist when we were twenty, so our babies probably still have some space to grow. And so, it seems, do we.

Thankfully, God is at work on us all.

In days past, we felt ourselves to be a physical life-line for our children, literally keeping them alive with food and boundaries and love. But we are not designed to stay in that life-line role. And I have to believe that when a healthy disconnection takes place, a new and different kind of connection will be established with these adult children, something that’s richer.

Less of a lifeline and more of a love-line.

Less about requirements and desperation; more about respect and willing affection.

If the Wednesday mamas had a mission statement, I think we would say our goal is to become the most highly valued advice-givers our grown kids could ask for. Advice, mind you, not necessarily instruction. Man, that’s tough, because advice-givers often must wait to be asked for their advice.

So we mama bears struggle to wait in the fringes until our grown cubs decide to come to us. We pray God will give us peace in the waiting, no matter how long. And we pray also He will keep them from drowning in the torrent of good advice that will surely burst forth when they do finally ask. We breathe our Father’s grace and trust He will make this weird, difficult, adult-sized new connection into something beautiful that points right back to Him.

Jennifer Hildebrand loves piecing together words to explore the intersections of faith and daily life. Her poems and personal writings have been featured in print and online in publications such as The Rabbit Room, Fathom Magazine and Christian Woman Magazine. Jennifer lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband and three kids and periodically shares poems and other musings at brandedmelody.blogspot.com.

**Press Forward** Sep 03, 2020
The day after he played Super Mario Odyssey for the first time, I felt some serious buyer’s remorse.

I sat in the toile wing-back chair in our front room with a novel tented across my legs. My 7-year-old son revolved around me like a spinning top, throwing out sheer nonsense as fast as his mouth could move. Cappy can turn into animals, and Pokios climb with their noses, and the Luncheon Kingdom is full of pink lava.

This was obviously not the Mario I remember from my childhood.

Not that I ever actually played Mario. I consider myself allergic to video games. Why did I agree to let him play this?

“Wait, what?” I asked aloud, utterly mystified. “Is Cappy Mario’s new sidekick? What happened to Luigi?”

“No, Mom, Cappy is Mario’s hat! I captured Cappy, and now I can throw it at other stuff.”

“What?” I asked again. My head was starting to hurt. I tried to stay engaged because he was obviously excited…but at the same time, I didn’t give two tiny figs about Mario. I let my son chatter on for another minute before waving my hands in surrender. “Buddy! Buddy!” I called, trying to get his attention. “I think I’ve had enough of Mario for now.”

“Can I just tell you one more thing?” he asked eagerly. I slouched down in my chair and hung my head.

“Okay. One more.” I’m sure he could hear the dread in my voice.

***

“Mom! Will you come watch me play Mario today?” my son asked a few weeks later, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His face sparkled with light and hope.

I could think of literally nothing I wanted to do less. Watching someone else play video games sounded about as enjoyable as shaving my legs.

But those eyes. They were so earnest.

He wanted to share something with me, something he loved. On his scale of least to most favorite activities, Mario was off-the-charts amazing.

“Please, Mom? You can bring your computer and do work at the same time!” he wheedled. “Daddy usually works while I play!”

My heart broke a little for this boy who just wanted the undivided attention of a parent, someone who would see his spectacular accomplishments and his near misses. Someone who would build a common vocabulary with him and get to know his passion.

“Sure, bud,” I agreed, ruffling his hair. I settled on the couch and watched him play for 20 minutes, forcing my eyes to focus on the screen (and trying not to giggle at a far more entertaining sight: my son leaping around the room, mirroring Mario as he mashed the controller buttons). To my surprise, the bizarre puzzle pieces I’d been gathering for days began to fit into place. Now I knew what he meant when he said he could throw Cappy to become a Goomba. Now I had a visual of his ship, decorated with stickers, and the Crazy Cap Store that sells vegetables and costume hats.

I still genuinely believed video games were mind-numbing and useless. But my son did not agree. To him, this was a magical wonderland.

***

I drew the line at talking about Mario with every waking breath. Doesn’t this kid care about anything else? I wondered on the car ride home from school. I had asked how his day was, and he spent the next five minutes telling me about a conversation with one of his classmates…about Mario.

I just wanted to know about school. I wanted to know whether he was respectful to his teacher and whether he got to play on the jungle gym during recess. But here he was again, chattering about where he thought Princess Peach was hiding.

In a stroke of genius, I thought of a solution that would kill two birds with one stone. A Mario journal! I crowed to myself. I could trick him into practicing writing (don’t judge me) and also give him a place to share all the mundane details he observed and things he wanted to try without having to listen to it anymore!

Back at home, I pulled out a bright red composition notebook and presented it to him. “This is your Mario notebook!” I told him magnanimously. “You can write anything you want in it—all the things you have been telling me about! The kingdoms you have visited, the stuff you are collecting, where you found a moon…whatever you want! And we can spend ten minutes every day talking about what you wrote.”

He took the notebook reverently and got to work. He wrote “Mario Notebook” on the front cover and immediately proceeded to make lists. Lists of creatures. Lists of hats. Lists of moves Mario can do. Yes! I thought. This is going to work.

But when he ran out of ideas a few days later, there he was, asking for my help.

I was exasperated. This journal was supposed to set me free from Mario. But now, he continuously updated me on how many pages he had used and how many words he had written, the number of moons that had special names—and could I guess which kingdom they came from?

Mario was starting to feel like an imaginary best/worst friend. This was the exact thing I dreaded, the exact reason I never wanted to open the door to video games in the first place: my son’s whole life revolved around Mario.

And, by extension, so did mine.

***

It turns out, my son is not the only one who can talk endlessly about his passions. Months later, I started reading a book about nutrition, and I found myself enthusiastically sharing kernels of wisdom with my husband. At dinner, he gave me a sidelong glance as he loaded extra greens onto his plate. My heart began to glow. He had listened to me! He cared about something I cared about!

But then a pit grew in my stomach as I suddenly saw parallels between my passion and my son’s. Just as I don’t intrinsically appreciate video games, my husband harbors no enduring love for discussing broccoli. He chose to invest in something solely on the basis of my interest.

I had not bothered to pay this kindness forward. I could recall exactly zero of my son’s Mario chronicles. His exuberant speeches went in one ear and out the other.

How would I feel if my husband responded to me that way? I wondered. Invisible. Unloved.

Is that how my 7-year-old feels?

I might not care about Mario very much, but I certainly care about my kid.

I would do anything for him—and actively listening should be on the list, even when he’s talking about Mario.

Maybe Mario is more than a meaningless game: it’s a path to genuine connection with my son’s heart. I want him to know he can share with me the things that matter to him, and I will not make him feel small. I want him to trust me with his big questions and ideas. Someday I want him to call me on the phone (or whatever the kids are doing), not just when he needs something, but because he misses me.

I’m pretty sure that starts now.

***

“Mommy! Daddy printed me a list of all the blocks and stuff in Minecraft!” I frown accusingly at my husband while my son talks a mile a minute. “Look! I bet I can make these with Legos. How old do I have to be to play Minecraft?” I sigh. Great. Here we go again, with a whole new game.

But I catch myself before I begin to sprint in the opposite direction.

Maybe God is allowing a new opportunity for me to embrace my son.

It’s harder than I expected to change my own mind. I don’t love video games. I don’t want to know them intimately. But I want to know my kid.

If that means I have to sit and play with him, then I hope I can do so with a whole heart. I hope I can find the courage to grab his hand and press forward into his wonderland.

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith, and occasionally updates her Instagram.

**Family You Choose** Sep 01, 2020
In all of my failings as a mother, perhaps “framily” is the least of my sins.

As an active-duty military spouse, I have spent my life building community and then leaving that community in the span of about three years. My husband’s orders rotated us to new duty stations back and forth across the country. For a few of the 11 years on active duty, we lived in my hometown, near my family and the people I grew up with, but most of those years landed us in places I never imagined living. Military life has afforded us many adventures, the best of which involve the people who were strangers one day and chosen family the next.

Recently, a mentor asked me to reflect on how I intentionally created a community culture within my family. How have I built our family’s life to sustain moves, to bolster each other, to be each other’s soft place to land?

I was surprised. “I didn’t,” I admitted.

In my years of intentionally creating community outside our four walls, it never once occurred to me to be so intentional inside my home. I guess I assumed that the ways I did things would be picked up along the way without much planning on my part.

In a lot of ways that is true. My boys are both proficient in speaking Southern (“yes ma’am” and “yes sir”) as well as sailor (four-letter words that I’ll leave to your imagination)—things they gleaned without me teaching them.

As I pondered my mentor’s question, I was pretty hard on myself. How could I have been so good at building community for myself at each new duty station and miss the fact that I was not being intentional at home? You don’t know what you don’t know—and I didn’t know.

Thankfully, the people I crossed paths with over the last few years have filled in the gaps in my family’s life in ways that I could not have planned if I tried.

Almost a year into being stationed in New York City, I was offered a short-term job at the USO of Metropolitan New York. For me, it was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to work in an office in Times Square, and plan a two-week-long event. I was living my college self’s dream…except I wasn’t in college: I was the mother of two preschoolers. Manhattan work hours and preschool hours don’t mix well. Enter Miss Ash-a-wee (Ashley), my husband’s cousin, a recent college graduate with nothing to do for the summer. We offered her a weekly paycheck, access to one of the greatest cities in the U.S., and two cute little boys who needed her time and attention three days a week.

From the moment Ashley entered our home, the climate changed. She was everything I am not: soft-spoken, patient, easy-going, adventure-seeking. The boys were drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and I was grateful for her presence. We were in one of the busiest seasons of our lives, and I know we would not have survived it without her. My boys loved spending time with her, and I was amazed at the difference her presence made in our home. When my oldest son learned to read in the months following her departure, the first thing he did when he finished reading Hop On Pop was tell me he wanted to read to her.

In New York, we also leaned on Miss Fiona, a married adult we met at church, who had no children of her own. She often watched the boys in the evening so my husband and I could go out to work events or on dates. She was also nothing like me. She was loud and laughed easily and danced Irish jigs. She was always up for park dates, ice cream parties, and trips to Nanny Candy’s. She doted on my boys simply for being themselves. Miss Fiona taught them all the important things about living in a commuter town: how to get a good look out the train window (cupping your hands around your face then sticking it all the way up to the glass), how to “mind the gap” (jumping over the gap between the train and the platform as if you were Mary Poppins hopping into a sidewalk painting), and most importantly, there’s always a treat waiting for you at Grand Central Station if you are a good commuter!

It was easy in New York to welcome neighbors into our lives, to celebrate holidays together and treat each other’s homes like our own. These people—Ashley, Fiona, our neighbors, and others—were more than friends to us. They were like family, or “framily” if you will.

When we moved west to California, I was worried about the large hole in our lives as we said goodbye to people I knew we could never replace. I wondered how we could be lucky enough again to find another “framily” of people who would love us deeply, people who were all the things I was not.

But it had become second nature to look outside my four walls. Upon arrival in Southern California, though I was grieving the loss of my people and my home, I did my thing again, that outward search to fill the hole in my soul.

I joined a Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) group and became part of the leadership team. Through my MOPS group, my family met and made friends. Those families became our people, the people we most needed that season. They didn’t replace our New York framily, but they added to it and made our lives richer.

Somehow my closest friends were the camping, hiking, outdoorsy types. Again nothing like me—my great adventures are found in the pages of a book on my cozy couch, and walking round-trip to school is a gracious plenty “hiking” for one day, thank you very much.

Once again, my boys were gifted bonus moms who are nothing like me. They take my boys hiking and let them pick up bugs, filling spaces that this indoorsy girl was never going to fill.

But it was more than that. Most of our new west coast framily had children younger than my own. So, in addition to bonus moms, my boys inherited bonus siblings too. I got to witness my boys speak a little softer, wait a little longer, and share a little better because of the time they spent with our people in San Diego.

As I sipped coffee and pondered the questions my mentor posed, I was tempted to think only of my failures. “I guess I actually spent more time with friends than I did teaching my kids about community,” I told her with a sinking feeling. I felt ashamed—maybe I had done this all wrong. I wasn’t intentional about creating a family culture that could sustain anything Navy life throws at us. I missed the mark as a mom.

But when I look at my boys and see the things they love—outside, bugs, dirt—when I see their affinity for commuter treats and the tenderness they possess, I am reminded that I did the best I could. I didn’t always provide the softest place to land, but by living in community I provided the people who did. From my own shortcomings came some of the greatest community members—framily—any family could ask for.

Jenny Lynne Stroup is a military spouse, writer, teacher, mental health advocate, and an active member in both military and civilian communities. She loves coffee, quiet time, and community. Her work has been featured on Her View from Home, Task and Purpose, SpouseBuzz on Military.com, Legacy Kids Magazine, and her personal blog.

082 // Ages & Stages Recap (and How to Create a Virtual Mom Squad) – The Kindred Mom Team Jul 02, 2020

Host Emily Sue Allen and KM team members Robin Chapman, Mary Kate Brown, Bethany McMillon, and Melissa Hogarty to close out the Ages & Stages of Childhood series on KindredMom.com. The group discusses the beauty and importance of having a virtual mom squad and announces a new Kindred Mom Resource: How to Create a Virtual Mom Squad, which you can download today!

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter, “The Work of Flourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram(@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Melissa Hogarty

Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids (ages 7, 5, and 1), who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith, and occasionally updates her Instagram.

Bethany McMillon

Bethany McMillon is a coffee, football, and ice cream lover from McKinney, TX. She adores her number-loving accountant husband and her growing too fast boy. Bethany works full-time as a teacher and school librarian, which aligns perfectly with the joy she finds in reading and writing. She is passionate about building deeper relationships with both Jesus and those that she loves. Her spirit is most settled after she has connected with a friend about God’s mercy and grace over coffee, sweet tea on the patio, or even a side-by-side walk through a local neighborhood. She hopes to encourage women to find and hold onto those connections within busy and quick-paced lives. Bethany is a member of the Hope*Writers community and writes almost weekly on her website, www.BethanyMcMillon.com. She can be found on Instagram @BethanyMcMillon and on Facebook at Bethany McMillon, Writer.

Robin Chapman

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

Mary Kate Brown

Mary Kate and her husband Brian are high-school sweethearts who recently left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs for a rural property in Western Michigan. Together they homeschool their three daughters, and are making plans for turning their new property into a small-scale homestead. After overcoming numerous health challenges due to autoimmunity, Mary Kate is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She leads an online group teaching the basics of an anti-inflammatory diet, and inspires others to incorporate simple, nourishing, real-food recipes in their own homes. She also writes online at www.choosinggraceblog.com, and you can catch up with her on Instagram @choosinggraceblog

Read some of Mary Kate’s writing:
Dare to Dance / New Baby, New Mom

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

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Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**Let’s Go for a Jog** Jun 30, 2020
“Let’s go for a jog,” I suggest. Huck hops up eagerly and waits by the front door while I find my shoes.

I leave his leash on the hook in the hallway. We’ll be sticking to the trail that runs through our homestead this morning; he’s free to run as far and as fast as he wants. Instead, however, he sticks by my side. The pace is agonizing for him; I’m not a natural runner, nor do I have the energy of a 7-month-old puppy. He’d rather be playing rough and tumble with the kids or chasing chickens in the pasture, but right now, everyone else is indisposed. (Plus, he was banished from the pasture to minimize chicken trauma. It negatively affects egg production; who knew?) Anyway, right now, I’m all he’s got. I know he wants to sprint forward, but he matches my stride nonetheless.

Eventually, he starts to dart ahead, only to turn abruptly and come darting back. He looks at me expectantly as I sidestep a fallen branch. “Go on,” I coax him. He knows this path – into the woods off the back of the driveway, across Tadpole Creek, along the bottom of the pasture by the barn, out to the clearing around the pond, repeat. This route is familiar to him. He should feel safe here. But this dog? He was created for companionship. He refuses to leave my side. He doesn’t want to run alone. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I stumble over him whenever my footing changes slightly on the trail.

***

“It’s only 9 a.m.?” I ask incredulously as my eye catches the clock on the microwave. We’re sitting at the breakfast table for the second time today, even though it’s technically too early for a morning snack. We’ve been at it for three hours already—board games and bike rides, dance parties and dishes, laundry (and more laundry). Drake eyes me expectantly as I wipe coffee stains off the kitchen counter. I sigh. Almost six hours to go before the bus brings his big brother home. It’s going to be a long day.

I tell myself this is just a stage, and I should enjoy this one-on-one time with my youngest son, but truthfully, I’ve been struggling in this season since Hayes started first grade. This summer, my boys were inseparable, like Garfield and Odie, always side-by-side (even if one was somewhat domineering in most of their adventures). Sure, there was fighting and wrestling and all the general mayhem of budding masculinity. But mostly, they were the best of friends – finally, the hard work of raising them 23 months apart was paying off. At the very least, they entertained each other, leaving me free to go about my business.

Then school started, and Hayes up and left for eight hours of each day (the audacity!), leaving Drake a little lost. A true extrovert (who knew those really existed?), my littlest guy craves companionship every second of every hour, all the livelong day, and with big bro away at school, I’m all he’s got. To the credit of his sweet, mama-loving heart, he seems perfectly fine with this. I, however, consider myself a poor playmate—I’m not a natural at imaginative games, nor do I have the energy of a five-year-old boy. He has nine fenced-in acres to explore, plus a whole playroom full of fun. This place is familiar to him. He should feel safe here. But he refuses to leave my side. He doesn’t want to play alone. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I stumble over him whenever I take half a step backward.

“Let’s go for a jog,” I suggest. He hops up eagerly but waits outside my bedroom door while I find my shoes.

***

I can feel Huck’s impatience growing with each lap, and frankly, so is mine. He’s disappointed by the pace I’m setting. I’m exasperated with him for staying underfoot. He ventures increasingly farther away before turning back to me, quivering with palpable anticipation of the path ahead.

“Go on,” I coax him again, my breath coming heavier with the exertion of exercise. I’m wearing out quickly – from the jog itself or from his expectations? Maybe both. I can’t sprint with him. I have to reserve my energy. I have my own goals and plans for this time. I just wanted to go for a jog, for crying out loud, and somehow I’ve found myself in the middle of a metaphor for my fears of failing as a mom.

Finally, Huck’s eye catches movement ahead on the trail—a squirrel perhaps, or possibly a bird—and he’s gone, spurred on by something more fun, something more his speed. It seems the pull of a new playmate is greater than his loyal instinct to stay by my side. At the next clearing, I get a glimpse of him far ahead, running with all his heart, tongue lolling to one side. He is in his element now. Do dogs smile? He looks like he’s smiling.

Soon, he catches back up from behind, and once again falls into step with me. I’m on my last lap, the cooldown lap (my favorite), and have slowed to a brisk walk. This time, however, he doesn’t seem to mind. We can enjoy each other’s company now that he’s done what he needs to do. He’s struck out on his own and come back to trot happily by my side.

***

“Mommy, can you drop me off here?” Drake asks on the first day of preschool. We are standing in the middle of the foyer, the other kids streaming past us hand-in-hand with their mothers, and I am slightly taken aback. It’s not so much that I’m sad he doesn’t want me to walk him to class (though I would arguably be heartless without the little twinge that grips me at this moment); it’s more that I’m surprised. My constant companion hasn’t willingly walked across the room from me in the past month, and now he wants to leave me here to make the long trek down this hall on his own.

“I think your teacher wants me to walk you in today,” I tell him. “You can go by yourself tomorrow.” He shrugs indifferently and turns to lead the way. The cacophony of little voices up and down the hall makes my head spin a bit, but my little social butterfly is in his element now. He greets his teacher and a few familiar friends while I linger in the door to his classroom. “Bye bud,” I finally call when it’s clear he’s settled in. He turns to wave at me. He’s definitely smiling.

As I walk to my car alone, I see a little glimpse of his future. This child of mine? He was made for companionship, and I won’t always be the one to provide it. His brother will continue to fill the role, of course, but there will be others, too. As he grows, he’ll catch sight of someone more fun, someone more his speed—a group of friends, and one day, even a girl—and he’ll take off with them, leaving me behind. I pray for these future companions right then and there. I pray for friends who will help him stay on the right path when he strikes out on his own. And I pray that he will know he can always catch back up. No matter what stage of life he’s in, he can always fall back into step with me. I will never be too far away on his trail.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Bre Humphries lives on a little hobby homestead in North Georgia with her two sons, a hunter of a husband (it’s his name as well as his favorite pastime), eight chickens, two goats, two pigs, and a dog. Quality time is her love language, she’s passionate about whole foods and healthy living, and she’s happiest when she’s outside, especially in the fall. In whatever quiet time she can carve out, she documents adventures across her community as Contributing Editor for North Georgia Living magazine and writes about motherhood and faith for sites like Kindred Mom and, occasionally, a personal **blog**.

**Nothing Feels the Same** Jun 25, 2020
I waddle across the sterile room and lower my eight-month pregnant self onto the edge of my dad’s hospital bed. Four days earlier, my mom found him on their bedroom floor, paralyzed and speechless from a massive stroke. He has made no progress since.

I lift his hand and tuck it between mine. “Stephen and I are going to drive back to Ohio tonight, Dad.” He nods in agreement.

“It’s probably best if I have this baby there rather than here in Chicago, yes?” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, anything to bring air into a room that was otherwise holding its breath as we waited for the next doctor’s opinion. Dad smiles with half his face while the other half folds and droops.

“It certainly isn’t going to go the way we planned,” I say to him. “But I’ll bring your grandbaby to Chicago as soon as I can. You get better so you can hold this baby.” It is a ridiculous thing to say. You get better. As though it were up to him.

As Stephen and I make the five-hour drive back from Chicago that night, I try to imagine how the next month will play out. Our first baby is due in three weeks, and the vision I have spent years creating is crumbling. I imagined my mom and dad sitting in the waiting room, nervously anticipating the news. I imagined Stephen dressed in hospital coveralls, just like in the movies, bursting into that waiting room to announce the arrival of a healthy baby. I imagined them cradling their new grandbaby and then sticking around for the next week to help wash clothes, cook meals, and hold a baby when I needed to sleep.

It is clear to me now that none of this will happen.

I don’t know where Dad will be in a month. In the hospital? In rehab? Maybe home? But I am certain he will not be in my hospital recovery room holding his grandbaby.

And as for my mom, I don’t worry much about where she will be when I have this baby. Surely she will be there with me. Moms don’t miss that kind of thing.

***

As my due date approaches, my mom says we will play it by ear. She will do her best to get to Ohio, but it will be hard to leave Dad as long as he is in a full-time rehabilitation facility; it will be impossible if he is released to come home.

The week passes.

My due date passes.

Six more days pass.

The next morning, my mom calls as we are getting ready for church; she says she will not be coming to Ohio. Dad has been cleared to come home in a few days.

“I have so much to do to get the house ready for him,” Mom explains. Her voice breaks like she is struggling to get out each word. “Some men from church are coming over tomorrow to move the furniture. I need to find someone to install more railings, and the physical therapist needs to teach me how to help Dad bathe and climb stairs. Oh, Joy, I cannot imagine how he is going to climb these stairs.” I hear the panic in her voice.

I say I understand. I say it is the best decision, and I will be ok.

It isn’t exactly a lie. I do understand. It is probably the best decision. And I will be ok. But I still hate the whole mess. Our first baby is about to be born, and we will have no family at the hospital. No family.

I finish getting ready and quietly cry as we drive to church. This damn stroke messed it all up. How did this happen? Doesn’t everyone have family come to the hospital when a baby is born?

***

Twenty-four hours later, my water breaks. As Stephen tosses bags into the car, I call my mom hoping she might change her mind and come. She doesn’t say either way, but on the drive to the hospital when I call again, she is packing her bag.

I imagine her, alone in her room with two Vera Bradly weekender bags open on her bed. No doubt she is talking out loud, volleying between her packing checklist and prayer. Nothing about this is easy; anxiety and unknowns are stacked against her. Dad has always been the driver, not because Mom couldn’t or wouldn’t, but because when the family goes somewhere, Dad drives. Driving five hours in a car by yourself when your husband is in rehab and your daughter is in labor is bound to rattle anyone. But she is coming anyway.

Mom arrives at the hospital just after 4:00 that afternoon. Charlotte is born at 4:35.

She made it. Our family was there.

***

Mom sits in the delivery room as I nurse Charlotte for the first time, and she calls Dad so I can tell him about his granddaughter. She follows behind me as the nurse rolls me to the recovery room, and she takes my picture as I bite into a glorious Jimmy John’s Turkey Tom sub.

In true mom fashion, she comes bearing gifts. She pulls a dozen baby girl ensembles from a bag and even comes with gifts for me: books, lip gloss, a killer orange leather purse, and a hairdryer she claims will change my life. She listens to the fresh details of the day as she holds Charlotte, and she meets our friends as they invade the hospital room with all things pink.

Mom leaves the next day, arriving back to their home of 28 years, which has now been transformed to be handicap accessible. Dad is released from rehab two days later and comes home to relearn his life. Mom is now a full-time caregiver for her husband, a man who talked her ear off for the past forty years but can now only utter strange sounds. Her life is a constant whirlwind of physical therapy, speech therapy, doctor appointments, and administering prescription medicine at just the right hour of day and night.

I think about my mom often during those early weeks of motherhood. Our day-to-day motions bear such a tiny resemblance to the lives we knew a month ago. We both care for someone at all hours of the day and night, stepping up when everything in us wants to sleep or cry or quit. Our love is pushed to its limits as someone else’s needs soar above our own. We both question God, “Am I really the best one for this job? I don’t think I can do it much longer.” Meals show up at both our doorsteps each day around 5:00. Cards flood both our mailboxes, and we both know people all over the country are praying for us as we adjust to a new normal.

But I can’t shake the guilt that even when I want to kick, scream, and whine about my new normal, I am also flooded with joy. I asked for this child, prayed for this child, and for every moment I am exhausted, there are two other moments I am smiling. I think about the future with excitement. What is in store for this child and our life together?

But not Mom. When she wants to kick, scream, and whine about her new normal, she is flooded with fear. She never asked for this stroke to paralyze dad’s body and steal his speech. She is exhausted and scared, and although she never says it, she must be mad. What about her future? What is in store for dad and their life together?

***

I waddle across Charlotte’s bedroom floor and lower my three-weeks postpartum self into the La-Z Boy recliner. A suitcase lies open on the floor, overflowing with enough outfits for a month-long getaway even though we’ll only be gone for a weekend. I pull Charlotte close and position the Boppy as she begins to nurse.

“Well, girl. You up for your first road trip?” I whisper. “This isn’t how we planned it, but I promised your Pop Pop I’d bring you to Chicago so he can hold you.”

The next morning, we make the five-hour drive; Dad is waiting in his wheelchair. We carefully place his swaddled up granddaughter in the crook of his left elbow and snap pictures as he smiles with only half his face. The day is beautiful and heartbreaking, and by 8:00 that night, we’re sitting silently in the living room, too tired to speak.

“Well, I need to get Dad ready for bed,” Mom says as she unlocks his wheelchair and lifts his feet onto the footplates. She turns him toward the hallway. “That was a big day for you, wasn’t it hun? I bet you’re exhausted.”

I catch myself before echoing her exact words to Charlotte. Instead, I lift Charlotte from the blanket on the floor and walk behind Dad’s wheelchair as we all head toward the stairs.

“You go first,” Mom says to me. “It still takes us a while to do this.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Nah. We’re getting the hang of it.”

I walk up the fifteen steps to the second floor. I know it is fifteen steps because I’ve counted them, dozens of times. When you’re a kid, strange things like how many steps are in your house matter, so you count and recount and ask your parents questions like if the last step up to the landing counts as an actual step. My old blue bedroom is now the guest room, still with my Kristen and Molly American Girl dolls displayed on a shelf.

Everything about this home is familiar, but nothing feels the same. I now have a daughter lying on the bed in front of me, and I can hear my mom’s voice coaching Dad with each shaky step. She reminds him which foot to lift first and where to place his hand on the railing. She counts down the stairs as they approach the landing. “Only four more to go. Three…two…one. We did it.” I hear them exhale in unison, a sound of both exhaustion and triumph.

Mom pokes her head into my room as she walks by. “Goodnight, sweet Charlotte. Thanks for coming all this way to visit your Grammy and Pop-Pop. And goodnight, Joy. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.” She lifts her gaze away from her granddaughter to meet my eyes. Grief and joy hang heavy in the air between us, and we both know this isn’t how we thought it would be.

“Thanks, Mom. You too.”

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Joy Becker is a wife and mama living in Cincinnati, Ohio. She recently resigned from a twelve-year career as a literacy coach and first-grade teacher to become a full-time stay-at-home-mom with her three young darlings. She is a lover of new notebooks, October, and goat cheese, and a hater of traffic, scary movies, and overcooked asparagus. Her writing has appeared on Coffee + Crumbs, MOPS Blog, and Mothers Always Write. You can peek even further into her love for Jesus, food, motherhood, and friendship at www.joyabecker.com.

**Preparing for Abundance and Drought** Jun 23, 2020
On a beautiful late October afternoon, I visited Ein Karem, Israel. It was one of those perfect autumn days—sunny, no jacket needed, but with the hint of cooler temperatures. My friends and I walked through the hilly ancient town in the suburbs of Jerusalem exploring and talking about all that this town has seen–from the biblical story of the visitation of Mary and Elizabeth to the burning of ancient olive groves as Palestinian farmers were displaced, to a quaint and thriving artist’s colony. After visiting the Church of the Visitation and enjoying a delicious Israeli lunch, we walked up a hill to a small convent.

As we wandered the gardens, looking at the valleys and terraced hills surrounding the town, we stopped at an ancient cistern built hundreds of years before. My new friend Eli, a native of Jerusalem, talked about these cisterns, still scattered throughout the region. When families and communities would move and settle a village, the first order of business was to build a cistern. Some were for family use and looked like a large planter pot, but the particular one by which we were standing was large, reminding me of a small swimming pool, and would have been for community use.

Cisterns gather rainwater, not only for daily cooking and cleaning, but also for the inevitable times of drought. The large basins would keep crops alive, livestock quenched, and families with the necessary water to continue daily chores. It took planning and preparation to build the cistern—let the rains slowly gather in it, use the water enough to keep it from growing murky, and still ration some for the heat of summer. As I observe the history around me, I wonder if farmers just wanted to get on with the business of planting olive groves and depend solely on rainfall to keep them nourished. Building something for a non-rainy day takes time and energy that can be placed in a more tangible practice.

I’ve always viewed my world more as a series of well-planned lessons rather than a winding adventure. I’d like to blame my training as an elementary teacher, but this way of compartmentalizing ages and experiences has always been part of my nature. Cognitively, I know that life doesn’t work this way, but hope springs eternal as I try to map past and future experiences and expectations.

I’ve been home for months now and that cistern has stayed with me. My youngest starts full-day kindergarten next year and I’ve gotten the range of questions and observations about how I’ll spend all of my free time. Our family is approaching a time of transition, regardless of how my personal days will look. It will be a change having both of my girls in the same place and on the same schedule for most of the day.

What I’m remembering is that now is not necessarily the time to plant the trees or look forward to the harvest. Now is the time to focus on the cistern.

What am I constructing for this next season that will sustain us through the transition?

What practices are we putting in place as a family that will see us through both abundance and drought?

As my children move through the world of elementary school, I see how I give up more of my ability to manage their content, and I rely on those foundations and cisterns to nourish us. I think learning these lessons is good for any time, regardless of transitional phase. But I also want to be intentional with the coming months, to remember that transitions take time and energy in ways that are unpredictable.

In some ways, the cistern affirmed my way of thinking in lessons and plans and strategies. Really, it’s a reminder to step back. Sometimes I need to do the work that doesn’t seem as pressing but will be lifesaving down the road. As we walked away from that convent, I reflected on the fact that these cisterns are still here, centuries later. Many of the original olive groves have died off or been burned, but these cisterns are still here, gathering water and nourishing communities, if only symbolically.

What are lessons and rhythms that will remain in our family years from now? I see some things changing because of season or need, but others are weaving their way into the foundations of our life. What will my daughter’s children see when they dip into the cisterns my grandparents started years before? Now more than ever, I’m taking time to notice the ways we build and maintain our family’s cistern, knowing that we have the opportunity to fill it well.

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Annie Rim lives in Colorado with her husband, two young daughters, and a feisty dog. An educator, she has taught in the classroom, at an art museum, and now focuses her attention in the playroom. She teaches English to immigrant and refugee families at her daughter’s school, facilitates a book club for SheLoves Magazine to bring readers into the intersection of faith and social justice, and spends her pockets of free time writing and reading.

**I’m Afraid Too** Jun 18, 2020
“When no one is sleeping with me, I feel very alone,” my almost seven-year-old says as he walks toward my side of the bed. His eyes are turning red, tears threatening to fall down his soft, baby cheeks, and his bottom lip trembles. I feel an ounce of guilt for the rude way I greeted him when he came into my room.

Right after I tuck my children into bed is the most coveted time of my day; I hold this time closely. I read and write, and pray I don’t see any little faces peek through the crack of my door. Rarely, if ever, am I left completely alone, though. I can count on at least one of my children walking through my door, asking for water, or to be tucked in again. I greet them with a heavy sigh and put my pen down on my bed, give them what they ask, and then tell them, usually in a sharp tone, to go to bed.

“I have nightmares in my entire body,” he tells me often. “In my legs and behind my eyes. I tell my brain to stop, but it doesn’t like to listen.”

I never know what to say to ease his fear. As much as I wish I had these quiet hours at night to myself, my king size bed is usually occupied by two out of three of my children. My husband works nights, and they are especially needy and afraid when he is gone.

Tonight, he is worried about bad guys breaking into our house. He asks if our windows are strong enough to keep them out–if they have ladders tall enough to reach the highest windows.

He’s beginning to understand how the world works. He knows some bad guys break into houses and hurt people. He knows people die and don’t come back. He is starting to understand that this world can be a hard place to live in.

I still see him as my seven-pound, eleven-ounce newborn baby– my first baby. He cuddles up next to me on the couch and gets sad when my lap is already taken. He runs to me and gives me random hugs and kisses, tells me he loves me and that I’m the best mom he’s ever had. He plays with his little sisters, crawling around and acting like a baby to make them happy. He is sweet and innocent, and I want to shield him from all of the hard and scary things giving him nightmares throughout his entire body.

“You have no reason to be afraid. You are never alone, I am always here with you,” I hold his face in my hands and stare deep into his big, brown eyes, desperate for him to believe me. “There are no bad guys in our neighborhood. I would never let anything happen to you,” my words offer little comfort. I can tell him over and over again, but he is at the age where he knows I am not capable of everything, I promise. I know my limitations, too.

“How will you keep the bad guys out?” he asks. He wants specifics. He wants facts. My words are filled with empty promises because I don’t know the answers he needs; I don’t know what words I can offer him to ease his fears. I have little control over our lives; I can do everything in my power, but I cannot keep the bad guys away from my children. I cannot stop the world from being scary.

I don’t even know how to keep my own fears at bay. I have no idea how to comfort myself when I have to do terrifying things like sending them to school. I am terrified of receiving a phone call that something happened or turning on the news and seeing their school surrounded by police cars. I worry about taking them to the grocery store or the mall or the museum, always on the lookout for bad guys trying to hurt others.

I’ll be honest here. As much as I enjoy having my king size bed to myself because sleeping with kids can be a literal pain in the neck, I miss them when they sleep in their own rooms. It brings me comfort when I wake in the middle of the night to see and hear them snoozing away right next to me. Tucking my children in brings a wave of anxiety strong enough to knock me off my feet. I wake with a jolt in the middle of the night, sneak into their rooms, and listen for their heavy breathing, watch their chests rise and fall, and pray they will wake up in the morning.

As my son grows older, he leads me into uncharted territory. I am confronted with the fact that I don’t know what I am doing. Every night he sleeps next to me, I wonder how much longer it will be acceptable to bring him into my bed, so he doesn’t have to be alone. I wonder when I will have to stop shielding him from the ugly and scary things this world has to offer.

My words never feel adequate to ease his fears. My words are never adequate to ease my own. I feel like it is my responsibility to be strong, brave, and act as if nothing terrifies me. On these nights, when he comes to me desperate for answers, handing him the fears I carry seems cruel. I want to wrap him up in a hug and whisper to him, “I’m afraid too. This world scares me too. We can be scared together.” Instead, I’ll pull him in close, whispering words of comfort we are both desperate for, words of comfort to wrap us up and keep us warm. This bed is too big for just one anyway.

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Jacey is a wife to her husband of seven years and together, they have three children. She finds solace in words and between the pages of a good book. Her writing has been featured on Coffee + Crumbs among others. You can find her on Instagram or her blog.

**A Letter to My First Baby** Jun 16, 2020
The day I told you you were going to be a big brother, I cried more tears than I cried on your first birthday. I knew you were too little to understand what it meant for me to be having another baby, but I needed you to hear it from your momma first, because, well, you are my baby.

Since that day, we’ve had many conversations, you and I, about the changes that are coming. I tell myself I’m preparing you for a big transition. But I know by the ache in my heart and your eagerness to quit with all the chit-chat so you can get back to playing, these talks are mostly for me. I know it seems odd because I’m the adult, the one who made this decision and the one growing this new life. Why should I feel anything but joy? But sweet love, you must know that you were my baby.

As my stomach swells with the pride and joy of your little brother or sister, it’s getting harder and harder to pull you up against me. We’ve had to adjust, you and me, shift the way you fit across my chest. Change the way I carry you and play with you. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. This slow adjustment is happening in obvious ways in my body and in quiet, tender ways in my heart. I am excited for this little one we’ll be holding in a few months, so much more excited than it may seem. Yet, there’s an unfamiliar heaviness in my heart. A feeling that seems requisite when carrying a baby in your arms and another in your womb. Because, well, you were my first baby.

And yet, here you are! My sweet boy, toddling around my feet, throwing balls, and playing with trucks. Those quiet newborn coos have turned into belly laughs and loud protests when you want your food right now! As you grow, your curiosity and energy often take you out of my arms and into whatever new fun you have discovered—yet you always find your way back. Even in the midst of the changes that are happening, I can see you still need me, so very much indeed. But it’s different now. Though that reality is exciting, it’s also hard, because you were my baby.

I dream about the ways you will love, protect, and (let’s face it) get into trouble with your new little sibling. Thinking of you as a big brother brings an added thrill to this pregnancy, which has been such a gift. Although logic tells me this baby will be different in so many ways, I can’t help but picture you when I think about delivery rooms and tiny onesies and that newborn baby smell. When I think of my baby, I think of you.

They keep telling me my heart will grow times two when this baby joins our family, and there’s more than enough love to go around. Today, in this moment, as I’m watching you sleep, I’m banking on that profound mystery. I have surrounded you with every bit of love I have ever known because you were my first baby.

The thing is, Momma knows just how much time and attention goes into loving a newborn. This little one will need me in all the ways you once needed me. I worry you’ll feel less valued, less loved. Ok, I’ll be honest. I’m worried I’m going to miss you because you were my baby.

Yes, it will be an adjustment with this new baby around. It will be an adjustment for you, big brother, and it will be an adjustment for your momma. Life is full of changes. Some will be easier and more joyful than others. But through all the changes life may bring, of this you can be sure: You will always have a place.

My lap will never be too full for you. My lips will never tire of kissing you. My eyes will never be done adoring you. Our home will always have room for you. Whether you become a big brother to one or to many, many more. Whether you are a year old, eighteen years old, or eighty years old. No matter the distance or the differences that may lie between us, you will always belong here.

You are and will always be my first baby.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Jessica Schatzle is a new, old mom. At the age of 37, she found herself knee-deep in diapers, baby giggles, and the whole new world of motherhood. As a physical therapist turned working mom, she takes great joy in helping both her patients and fellow moms find hope in their unforeseen stories. Forever seeking the Author of Hope in her own surprising journey, she writes about everyday life with an eternal perspective. Next time you’re vacationing in the Black Hills, give her a shout! She and her husband have a seat open for you at their table right between the high chairs and cheerios. Come for the insider tips to local outdoor adventures, stay for a cup of coffee, and a little hope for your journey. Until then, you can keep up with her tales on her blog or follow her on Instagram.

081 // Ages & Stages: Spiritual Growth at Every Stage – Lee Nienhuis & Lindsey Cornett Jun 15, 2020

Host Emily Sue Allen and KM team member Lindsey Cornett chat with Lee Nienhuis, author of the new book Counter-Cultural Parenting, about Spiritual Growth at Every Stage of our kids’ development as part of the Ages & Stages of Childhood series on Kindred Mom.

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter, “The Work of Flourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram(@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Lindsey Cornett
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

Lee Nienhuis
Lee Nienhuis is an author and passionate Bible teacher. She is the communications specialist for Moms in Prayer International and the host of the Moms in Prayer Podcast. A sought-after speaker, she shares a dynamic vision for the next generation of Christ-followers. Lee and her farmer-husband, Mike, have four kids and live in West Michigan.

Get a free chapter of Lee’s book here!

Lee on Instagram
Lee’s website
Lee’s Book
Lee’s Moms in Prayer Podcast

Lee’s Character Quiz

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

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Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**Hey Mom, Do You Have 20 Minutes?** Jun 11, 2020
“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes?” my 22-year-old asks. “I have a break at work and called to see if you ever taught 1984 by Orwell. Do you think the colors in the book are symbolic?”

“I’m not sure; I haven’t read the book for years.”

“You should read it again so we can discuss it. I never read it in school and feel like it’s an important work of literature I should have in my repertoire.¨

Though 1984 is not on my must-read list, I download it on Kindle because I love the idea of a book club with my adult son. I look forward to his calls both for the intellectual challenge and because I enjoy hearing his voice.

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? I really want you to read Atlas Shrugged with me.” When he got married, I assumed that our 20-minute sessions would come to a close. But they didn’t, and I was afraid his new wife would take offense to him calling me on his break. So I asked her.

“Are you kidding?” she replied, “You are saving me from having to read over a thousand pages of Ayn Rand’s economic philosophy. Believe me, I’ve heard hours of it second hand, and I don’t need an extra 20 minutes.” But I did. The 20 minutes were mine. I have to admit that I read the CliffsNotes and faked it. He knew but still called.

Books aren’t the only thing we discuss on his 20-minute breaks.

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? Did you watch the presidential debate last night?”

I knew he’d call so I’m prepared: I watched and took notes!

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? I think the pastor took this verse out of context in the sermon yesterday, and I want to discuss it with you.”

Oh goody! These are my favorites.

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? I think I came up with a really good set for my stand up comedy, and I need to see if the humor is too intelligent for the average person.”

Is he trying it out on me because I’m his mom and I give honest feedback, or because I’m of average intelligence? I don’t really care, I’m going to laugh for 20 minutes as I google his vocabulary words without him knowing it.

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? I’m developing a D & D campaign and could really use your help.” I listen intently as he describes the secret passageway of a tomb that can only be opened by answering a riddle. “Mom. Are you still there? How is the secret door opened?”

“Oh, oh, I know this! I know this!” I really do know the answer, because I knew he’d ask. He’s been testing me to see if I’m listening for as long as I can remember.

Being gifted makes him obsessed with learning. Being ADHD makes him obsessively talk about what he’s learning. Being observant makes him realize I’m not really listening to what he’s obsessing over.

When he was in preschool, he’d follow behind me as I did dishes. “Did you know sea turtles only poop every three days? Did you know that slugs have noses? Did you know elephants are the only animals that can’t jump? Did you know that koalas …”

In early elementary, it was Yu-gi-oh, “Yugi saved Hiroto Honda from Ushio, who is the biggest bully.” I didn’t watch the show, play the game, or know who any of these characters were. Truth be told, I really didn’t care. So I half listened.” That’s nice.” “How interesting.” The other half of my brain was trying to figure out if I’d accidentally scheduled the dentist on the first day of baseball practice. “Mom! Mom! You aren’t really listening. What was the name of the bully?” He caught me. I had no idea. He retold me about Ushio and how he bullied Hiroto Honda. He graciously allowed me to retake the test, and I am happy to say I scored a C+ on Yu-gi-oh characters.

At the wise old age of seven, my son began training me to listen. His obsessions may have changed over the years, but his desire to connect with me hasn’t. I’m grateful to God for the opportunity to continue building our relationship, one 20-minute brick at a time.

My ability to listen didn’t develop in “Six Easy Steps to Active Listening,” but rather in fourteen years of my son’s ongoing question, “What did I just tell you?” I have no doubt our coffee break conversations happen because my son taught me that listening wasn’t about the subject being discussed, but rather about loving the person who is speaking.

“Hey Mom, do you have 20 minutes? I need you to watch the second to the last episode of BoJack Horseman. It’s about existentialism, and I’ll call you on my drive home to discuss it. I know you don’t watch the show, so let me catch you up on what happens before this episode.”

I’d better wrap up this essay because I have a deadline to meet. I need to watch Season 6, Episode 15, “The View From Halfway Down,¨ so I can talk about the meaning of life with my son when he calls.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Joyce Pinero credits all 5 of her children, ages 9 – 32, for teaching her to listen. Currently, her ears are tuned into her nine grandkids, all eight and under, who enchant her with stories of laughing squirrels and dandelion wishes. She lives in North Texas with her husband, parents, and nine-year-old daughter. Most mornings you’ll find her with feet propped and dog in lap as she types on her chrome book. Follow her at her blog, where she writes about finding God in parenting a child with mental health disorders.

**A Tale of Two Toddlers** Jun 09, 2020
I wake up to a light dusting of snow, just enough to illuminate the neighborhood. It’s a Saturday sprinkle of winter bliss. “Alexa, what’s the temperature outside?” I ask while filling the coffee carafe with water. The high desert dropped to a low of 25 degrees. Is it summer yet? I slept a solid seven hours, a true miracle. I can’t let all of this energy go to waste. Even if we don’t get outside, we have to go somewhere.

My daughter’s favorite indoor activity is “going to a restaurant.” (She takes after her mother.) “What kind of restaurant do you want to go to?” I ask. “Hmm… how about pizza?! No, ice cream!” my almost-four-year-old squeals. “Well, you can’t have pizza or ice cream for breakfast. How about we go to the little café with the yummy pancakes?” I suggest. Deep down, I know that a pizza might actually be the more nutritionally balanced option. Oh, well.

Everyone agrees on a chilly morning adventure to our favorite café. My husband and I load up the van and secure all three children in their car seats, a feat truly deserving of a pancake reward. I quickly push the heated seat buttons, and I always turn on the heated steering wheel for our driver, known by the baby as “Da.” The nine-month-old is happy anywhere we go as long as it’s early. He does not like that car seat after 4 p.m. The two-and-a-half-year-old wants to be like big sister. If she wants carbs covered in sticky sugar, brother needs them, too.

We order our food at the counter, grab a large table, fill the cups, wipe down the high chair, and clean six little hands. My husband holds the squirmy baby, and I put the big kids in booster seats. Everyone is happy for a brief moment. Cue the tale of two toddlers.

Toddler one: Sits still in her booster seat, patiently awaits the arrival of a warm breakfast, and uses her fork to cut the pancake into bite-sized pieces. The only help she needs is pouring syrup.

Toddler two: Fidgets in his booster seat, asks to eat every five seconds, cries because the pancake isn’t cut, and cries when I cut it up. I have to hold him to quiet his very loud screams. I calmly talk him through the pancake process while hurriedly fixing his plate. (I am a multitasking pro by now.) He gets back in his seat and decides he doesn’t want to use the fork anymore. “You can eat with your hands, buddy. Just pick up the pieces of pancake and dunk them in the syrup.” After a frantic five minutes, which felt like forever, he finally settles.

My oldest children are only 15 months apart. They have been toddlers together for much of their lives. But I see a shift coming. My daughter is almost a preschooler. Her independence shines. The toddler side only comes out when she’s sleepy. And that big kid persona is ever-present when she spells her name for strangers. “W-R-Y-N spells Wryn!” she shouts for all to hear. Little brother is still in the thick of it. His tantrums are regular. He must have a nap or total chaos ensues. He needs to be held; he needs to be the baby. I catch glimpses of what’s ahead when he sits still and paints circles with his watercolor brush. I see the big brother protector when he gently kisses baby brother. But my middle boy is smack dab in the middle of toddlerhood. “ROBOT, ROBOT, ROBOT,” he chants while pulling off the couch cushions and chasing big sister.

Breakfast is almost over. We sit at the table with full bellies and sticky hands. I look to my left. Toddler one is finishing up the sausage she stole from my plate. She smiles at me and gulps some water. I shift my gaze toward toddler two. In the moment of quiet, no one noticed him reach for the syrup. With a big piece of pancake in his left hand balanced against his chest and chin, he tilts the heavy syrup bottle with his right hand. I see the concentration in his face. His brow furrows and his little arm shakes as he waits for the syrup to drip. “Oh! Let mommy help you with that!” I cry. I take the big bottle and swirl a little more syrup around the last piece of pancake. Breakfast crisis averted.

We clean up and get everyone out the door with the promise of making footprints in the snow. I carry toddler two to the van after stomping in the thin layer of powder on the sidewalk. He’s sticky from head to toe. “Did you like those pancakes, buddy?” I ask. “Yummy in my tummy!” he cheers. On the drive home, my husband and I recount the near-miss syrup spill. We talk about how hard it’s been with our middle boy. He’s either too young or too old. He’s either trying to catch up to his big sister, or too rough with his little brother. Doesn’t he deserve a chance to be just right?

My toddlers are so close, yet so far apart. They both need different things from me. Sometimes I forget to adjust myself to their needs. My expectations don’t line up with their limitations. I expect my son to sit quietly, use his fork, and politely ask for more syrup. I expect him to use a napkin instead of his jacket. I expect him to keep up. My daughter doesn’t have to keep up with anyone. There was a time not so long ago when she was the messy one with constant meltdowns. She threw her spoon and screamed so loud it made the table next to us stare. My son deserves the same luxury of being fully a toddler. He deserves to be slow and sticky.

I made a pact with my husband to focus more attention on our son’s needs in three specific ways. First, we would have more one-on-one conversations with him. His voice can be overpowered by the big girl and the baby. Next, we would try our best to do whatever he asks. His chief request is to be carried. He’s telling us exactly what he needs; we just have to listen and respond. Finally, we will cheer loudly for his little victories, even when he’s slow and sticky.

“Where would you like to go today, buddy?” I ask my boy.

“See the animals!” he exclaims.

“Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite animal to see?”

“Gorilla! Ooh-ohh!” he screams as he beats his chest and jumps in the air.

We went to the zoo the next day. The sun was out and the snow had melted. With only 45 minutes before closing time, we raced to see the gorilla. Toddler one ran in her little heels. My husband carried toddler two. And the baby snuggled on my chest in the carrier. We got a great view of brother’s favorite animal. “I love the gorilla!” he cried. Another little boy his age was playing close by. They studied each other for a few moments, smiled, then high-fived.

He doesn’t have to keep up. He’s just right.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Audra Powers is a stay-at-home mom living in the high desert of Albuquerque, New Mexico. She named her three children after birds and loves the great outdoors. On the weekends you’ll find her hiking in the foothills, playing guitar, or thrift shopping. She writes about faith, family, and living motherhood empowered. Catch up with her on Facebook and Instagram.

**You Can’t Tame a Unicorn: How to Unplan Birth** Jun 04, 2020
I told the triage nurse exactly what I needed. Self-diagnosing my contractions as the result of dehydration from a stomach bug, I told her to hook me up to some IV fluids, and I would be on my way, thank you very much.

Total denial.

According to my powers of uneducated deductive reasoning, I could not be in labor. I was only 36 weeks. I had been sick. Dehydration can make the uterus forget its place and start contracting without permission. And the most important reason I was not in labor: I was not ready to have this baby yet.

Several semesters deep in nursing school prerequisites, I was tackling the gnarly beasts of Organic Chemistry and Genetics in my hardest term yet. With only a week left until finals, I had perfectly planned my third babe to make her debut after finals, with time to spare. I could not possibly be in labor. This was not the plan.

“I think you’re in labor,” the triage nurse tells me. I continued to deny this when I could manage to speak in between breath-taking contractions. But the cervix doesn’t lie, my friend. Apparently, my babe had not read my class syllabi and didn’t care that she was crashing the party unfashionably early. She chose today as her birthday.

Our sweet Hazel made her unpredicted entrance into our lives and hearts a matter of hours later. Just as we were steadying ourselves after this wave of spontaneity crashed over us, another swell rose on the horizon. Hazel’s early lungs were unable to provide the oxygen she needed, and she would need to be sent to the neonatal intensive care unit.

There I was, holding my baby by her NICU isolette, studying my notes to prepare for exams.

This. Was. Not. The. Plan.

And yet, this was the reality. The true, crazy, can’t-make-this-stuff-up reality. Now I had to choose how to respond. I could mourn the loss of my perfectly timed birth, or I could be thankful that my baby was safe and well no matter how she had arrived.

So I embraced my crazy reality. I crammed while snuggling my tiny study-buddy. I took my exams and aced them. Hazel came home from the NICU and was lovingly enveloped into our home. While her birth had not happened how I had meticulously planned it, Hazel joined our family in her own unpredictable and dramatic way. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Her wild birth is now a part of my story and hers, and it is all the more beautiful for being real and unscripted.

And now, as a labor and delivery nurse, I have the privilege of shepherding women through their own unique births. Some go according to plan, and a great many that do not. The greatest lesson I have learned through my work as an OB nurse is that it is the little people that run the show. They are the ones who dictate their own birth stories. Baby flips to breech? Scheduled c-section. Baby stops growing? Early induction. Baby’s heart rate drops, indicating she can’t tolerate labor? Emergency c-section. As a nurse, I know that sometimes keeping babe safe means letting go of our own vision of how this momentous day will play out. As a mom, I know that it can be scary to let go and plunge into the unexpected.

Most of us go into birth with a plan in mind. Whether it be a five-page specification of every detail or a simple vision of the day, the glorification of taking control and doing birth our way is very on-trend right now. But I learned that if we cling too tightly to those plans, we risk being disappointed in our amazing day instead of embracing the fact that we are meeting our little one for the first time. You see, birth is like a wild unicorn, friends. It is beautiful, magical, unpredictable, and messy. It cannot be bridled, and that is part of its beauty.

The miracle of life has so many facets; it is impossible to orchestrate it. I thought I could bend it to my will. But while I was profoundly mistaken, I was also surprised at the beauty that took the place of my plans. So I encourage you to hold loosely to your preconceived notions too, mama. Let’s leave room for the beauty and spontaneity of the mythical creature of birth. Let’s keep our eye on the prize of taking home a healthy baby. Let’s dare to unplan our births and openly welcome our babes in whatever manner they come into our arms. Because the story of our baby’s birth – with all of the craziness, unpredictability, and beauty – will be a part of our story. No matter how it is told, it will be beautiful. We can plan on that.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Theresa Phillips is a mother, author, nurse, and mom-encourager. She runs a crazy household of 4 young kids and moonlights as a labor and delivery nurse, where she has the privilege of inaugurating women into this amazing society of motherhood. Before nursing, she was a therapist specializing in marriage and family therapy and had the honor of helping those in crisis. Now she marries all three areas of experience into a powerhouse of encouragement for moms. She’s like your midwife, best friend, and therapist all rolled into one! For regular encouragement in this crazy mom life, follow The Gritty Mama on Facebook or Instagram.

**Pinball Mom** Jun 02, 2020
I sit with my three-year-old daughter in the dining room as she kicks and screams. I’ve tried holding her, talking to her, yelling at her, yet nothing is working to calm her. I’m asking her why we’ve placed her in time out (to finish the thing up), but I might as well be speaking Dutch because she has zero cognitive ability to reason through this disciplinary action.

Rewind: She went missing just before lunch as I was finishing up homeschool with my older kids. We found her (quickly enough so I didn’t panic) in my van, squirreling away LifeSaver mints in her pocket and her mouth as fast as she could. She got caught red-handed, so the whole time-out scene ensued.

It’s exhausting, the disciplinary gauntlet my three-year-old creates for me and, though I know it’s necessary, I never love it.

Fast forward: Minutes after the preschooler finally settled, I’m bopping along in the same mint-laden van (minus a few) on our way to Costco with my twelve-year-old daughter and nine-year-old son, harmonizing at the top of our lungs to Hamilton. (Sometimes the three of us can do three-part harmony, and it’s amazing.)

“Mom, what does ‘ironic’ mean?” my son asks. I search my brain’s database, and all I can come up with is Alanis Morissette circa 1995. I ask my daughter-turned-copilot to find the song on my phone. We leave “Angelica, Eliza, (and Peggy)” to head over to “rain on your wedding day” and “a free ride when you’ve already paid.” He loves the song and comes up with his own irony: You buy all the toilet paper in Costco, and then don’t use any of it (thank you very little, COVID-19).

My two older kids stay close at Costco, help me load the cart with our regular groceries, and accept “no” for an answer as we pass by toys, books, and clothes that aren’t in the budget this week. At one point, my son needs to use the bathroom, and we come up with a very specific plan about where he can find me when he is done; he doesn’t need me to go with him. The kids help get the stuff up onto the conveyor belt, and, after purchasing everything, they help load it into the back of our minty van. As we begin to drive away from Costco, I hear both kids, unprompted, say, “Thanks, Mom!” One for some books she’s been wanting to get and the other for a LEGO set he paid for himself.

As we get closer to our house, my daughter pipes up, “It’s just awful that he cheated on his wife,” circling back around to the plot of Hamilton. (My brain is usually caffeinated just to keep up with her myriad non-sequiturs.) We’ve talked about this particular topic many times since she started listening to the soundtrack. I reply as I have in the past, knowing that repetition is the beginning of understanding.

“Yes, it is awful. When you sleep with someone, you share your whole soul. Eliza knew that, Alexander knew it, and so did the other woman. That’s why it hurts Eliza’s heart so much and why she takes herself out of society for a while.”

“Here, Mom, look! I pretended to do an autograph in my Wings of Fire book! It looks so real.”

And we’re onto the next thing.

I glance over from the driver’s seat and see she’s found a black pen and scribbled a fake autograph in the front of her new book from Costco.

As we back into the driveway, I hear a groan from my son in the backseat, “Do I have to help carry everything inside?”

“Yes, you do,” I say as I back into the driveway. Honestly, knowing that my older kids will help bring in our Costco haul saves my sanity (and my back) after a long day of homeschool, disciplining, prepping food, and shopping runs. They’re my teammates, and I rely on them for some of the physical labor involved in my everyday life. (One day, I will write about the time I had to bring in all the garbage bins. By myself. I will title it: MY EVEREST.)

Two minutes later, inside the house, the three-year-old’s tantrum has faded, and she’s showing me how she can carry all her lovies at once and do a jump. It seems like her quiet time with Daddy while we went to Costco served its purpose, and she’s back to a fully-functioning toddler. I smile big and say, “Wow!” as I shift from the deeper, older kid car conversations back to mom-of-a-toddler. I get a snack for my two-year-old son, who is just up from his nap and following me around the kitchen, saying, “NACK! NACK!” like some deranged duck. I text with my mom, who has taken my eight-year-old son to her place for the afternoon. She texts back that he’s finished his reading assignment, and that he’s loving his one-on-one time with Grandma.

Then it hits me. I am…Pinball Mom.

Switching between littles and bigs can feel like pinball—Up! Down! Side! Other side! Diapers! Pre-teen angst! Booboos and bandaids! Laughing together at memes! Cuddles! Watching shows together! Middle-of-the-night bad dreams! Writing assignments! Copywork! Spelling tests! Board books! Chapter books!

Sometimes, my interactions with my children are about stealing mints and hiding in mama’s van and time outs and opening snacks. And other times, it’s about the sacredness of marriage or the definition of a highly nuanced word or unsolicited “thank yous.”

Hear me out: I will never tire of the opportunity to help guide and instruct my little kids. But the hours I’ve already spent guiding and instructing my older kids when they were little is starting to pay off in a way I don’t think I ever could have imagined. The discussions we are able to have now and the jokes we are able to share together make all of the work I put in years ago seem worth it. This motivates me as I continue to guide and instruct my littler two babes.

My older children serve as a welcome change of pace from the slog of the littles. The big ones also require a lot more deep thinking and consideration and late-night chat sessions. After years of only littles, I am up for the challenge of these new older realms while still able ping over here to witness the wonder of the little years.

***

I am rocking my three-year-old little girl before bed—the thief who stole the van mints earlier today. Her brother (the deranged duck) is already asleep close by. We quietly sing “My God is So Big,” and I brush her hair away from her face and kiss her and tell her how much I love her: “Forever, no matter what.” As we rock, her big sister comes into the room.

“Mom,” she whispers, “will you come into my room next and scratch my back?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

I am, after all, Pinball Mom.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Lynne lives just north of Los Angeles in a little suburb called Canyon Country, CA. Her five children (ages 2-12) challenge her sock-matching skills, her culinary prowess (especially when it comes to boxed mac and cheese), and her ability to conjure the best bedtime stories possible. She and her composer husband of 15 years enjoy date nights about twice a month where they get to finish a thought and eat the food when it’s still hot. You can find her on Instagram.

080 // Creativity & Curiosity – Tami Leitz Jun 01, 2020

Host Emily Sue Allen chats with mom and artist Tami Leitz about creativity, curiosity, and parenting kids with special needs as part of the Ages & Stages of Childhood series on Kindred Mom.

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “The Work of Flourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram(@emily_sue_allen).

Mentioned on this Episode

Watercolor Revival on Instagram – Artwork by Tami Leitz

Watercolor Revival on Facebook – Artwork by Tami Leitz

Glitter & Ink Facebook Group led by Tami Leitz

Tattoos on the Heart (affiliate link)

Guests on this Episode

Tami Leitz

From 14-32 years old art made me feel like a fraud. Intuitively I knew there was something more profound inside but I didn’t have words to describe it. Winning scholarships or creating something others found lovely was empty. Why make art if even when you win you losses? I spent the beginning of my adult life working for social justice through foster care and in the special needs community all the while wondering what is the purpose of art anyway? We need shelter, companionship, education… but do we need beauty? Artists wrestle within themselves, creating not because someone has asked for art but because they could not live fully without it. Art is not a competition or a commodity. It is a gift. Art draws from the deep well of humanity, offering form to the unseen. Those years without art were like living without a limb, one I willingly cut off. We were not created to simply survive. Creation is given the ability to create! Look at this extravagant world, every sunset a unique masterpiece. How many wonders are hidden under the ocean or beyond the starts? I couldn’t live out my identity as an artist until I understood that I am myself art. In this paradigm shift it makes perfect sense that I would love people our culture doesn’t. Things like disability and mental illness don’t fit into our prescribed arrangement. Why make people who loose? Because they aren’t loosing, we just don’t see it yet. That is why we need artists, to show us the beauty right here, inside and all around us.

Tami’s Website
Tami on Etsy
Tami on Instagram
Tami on Facebook

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**The Wisest Investment Parents Can Make** May 28, 2020
I knew this moment was coming, but somehow it arrived more quickly than I anticipated.

As I hesitantly retrieve the last remaining penny from the jar, I’m forced to face the reality that my firstborns’ childhood has now come to a close. Nine hundred thirty-six weeks have passed since my triplet sons made me a mother eighteen years ago.

Scrubbing the daily pile of dirty dishes, I was visually held accountable for how well I was spending the time I’d been given to raise my children. Two glass jars full of 936 pennies graced my kitchen windowsill, begging me to contemplate how I was investing in the fleeting days of childhood.

Dropping the final coin into the spent jar, I remember sitting in the middle school gymnasium halfheartedly watching my sons play yet another game of basketball. My thoughts were centered on what meal I was going to prepare for dinner when we got home. My eyes were focused on the emails lingering in my inbox rather than the court. The mom sitting next to me on the bleacher began telling me about the baby shower present she was gifting her expectant neighbor.

As she talked about the 936 penny countdown clock, I realized that I needed to make this gift for myself, even though I had already spent the majority of my pennies. With less than 200 weeks until my firstborn sons turned eighteen, I no longer wanted my meal planning or my smartphone to distract me from the precious moments, sometimes disguised as mundane, of raising my children. I split the pennies into two glass jars, waking up to the fact that more than 700 pennies were already placed in the “spent” jar. The coins remaining seemed so few—yet so valuable.

Each Monday, as I moved a penny into the spent jar, I contemplated how well I had invested in that past week. Had I been more present in the daily happenings, or was I still thinking more about all the tasks I needed to accomplish? Had I mostly been frustrated and angry or joyful and peaceful? Was I more purposeful in my conversations with my sons or in the plans we made as a family together?

I now see an empty jar that began full, signaling the truth—my boys have grown into men now ready to make their way into the world without me.

As I stare at the pile of copper coins, I question what our wisest investment we made while raising our children was. Was it buying the home across the street from our local public school? Was it all of the activities and opportunities that we had allowed our kids to participate in? Was it the vacations we had taken or the family meals shared around our table? Was it the sleepaway summer camp we sacrificially sent them to, the mission trips to Mexico we took, or the simple days we spent hanging out together at home? What was it that brought the most meaning to our full jar of spent pennies?

I contemplated what meaningful gift to give our firstborns to mark their milestone 18th birthday. No material item seemed worthy of such an occasion. It hit me what our best investment had been as we gifted our sons with a series of eighteen dinners, each with one of eighteen different men who have influenced their lives.

My husband and I prepared a guest list and invited one to join our family around our dining table to share a meal and stories twice each month throughout our sons’ senior year of high school. I let go of my insecurities of not being a great cook or having a super clean house to celebrate what mattered the most to us—our relationships with people. Several men flew in for the occasion, others drove across town to surprise the boys on random school nights with a cake and words of wisdom.

Every time we gather for one of these eighteen dinners, I’m reminded of the best use of our 936 pennies—time spent building meaningful connections with others. My efforts to surround our sons with strong family relationships and loving friendships is the wisest investment I made.

While raising my children, I did my best to model what it looks like to be a loving friend, family member, and spouse. I purposely involved my sons and daughter in opportunities to serve others in our home, community, and world. My husband and I proactively sought out ways for our children to be mentored and coached by adults who shared our value system. We used our vacation time to strengthen our relationships, not just entertain ourselves. We invested in experiences instead of purchasing material items throughout our children’s lives, and we now reaped the blessing of our intentional efforts to build a loving community around us.

The visual countdown clock helped hold me accountable for investing in what would matter in the end.

How we choose to invest our time will determine the details of the childhood we provide for our kids and how we, as parents, will feel when it comes time for the imminent launch of our children into adulthood.

God willing, we parents get 936 weeks to raise our child from birth to eighteen. Let’s intentionally invest our time wisely in what will matter the most at the end of full-time parenthood, and our lives- people.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Amy Carney is the Author of Parent on Purpose: A Courageous Approach to Raising Children in a Complicated World. Amy and her husband of 22 years are parents to five teenagers- 18-year-old triplet sons, a 17-year-old daughter, and a 13-year-old son recently adopted out of the Arizona foster care system. You can find her on her blog, Facebook, or Instagram.

**Outside Looking In: Marking the Chapters of Motherhood** May 26, 2020
I scan the shelf at our neighborhood’s public library until I find the book I had placed on hold. I grab it with a sense of accomplishment: this morning is for running errands and getting things done. This is the third stop on my list, and I relish how productive I can be on a morning like this. A morning without kids in tow.

I take advantage of the freedom to let my eyes skim over the spines of books on other shelves, leisurely leafing through one or two. Movement catches my eye, and I glance over my shoulder to the community room behind large glass doors. An energetic librarian leads a group of parents and tots in a song with actions. My eyes scan the room and I spot two of my friends. As my hand juts up to wave, I realize they won’t notice me. They are absorbed in watching their little ones waving colourful scarves in the air.

I clutch the book to my chest as I watch for a few more minutes. A year ago, I would have been on the other side of the glass, dancing, and singing, and laughing with my son.

I feel my chest tighten as I remember the mornings I spent in that room with all three of my children over the years. How we would pack the stroller with everything we might need to be away from home for an hour: diapers and cheerios and water bottles. Then we’d walk the 10 minutes through the neighborhood, the older two stopping to hop in a puddle, wave to a cat lounging in a window, or pick up a special stick that we’d later add to the ever-growing collection on our back step. We’d roll the stroller right into the library, park it along the wall with all of the others, and find a spot on the rainbow patterned carpet.

A trip to the library was one of the ways we’d fill those long days together.

In the last weeks of summer, when the daylight started to dwindle, my youngest and I read books about kindergarten. His older sisters told him stories of what to expect. He opened the card his new teacher mailed to him, the one that told him how excited she was to finally have him in her class. I put all of my energy into making sure he was ready.

When school started in the fall, I marked the transition for my kids by taking their pictures with signs that proudly proclaimed which grade they were starting. They wore their new first day of school outfits and hugged me goodbye before stepping into their classrooms.

I walked home, stepped into my empty house, and stood in the living room, breathing the silence. It felt glorious. I had been looking forward to these mornings alone for months. I had long dreamed of what I might do with all of this space.

But I hadn’t realized that in watching those other moms and their younger kids in the library, I would suddenly feel so sad.

As I stand outside the program room, looking in at scarves waving in chubby fists, it hits me that I don’t belong in there anymore. I’m in the phase of field trip forms, home reading books, and PTA meetings, not parent and tot library programs where we learn sign language and songs about bumblebees.

I scan my library card at the kiosk and check out the book I’d come for. I drive away in my van, knowing I can squeeze in a stop at the post office before I need to pick up my son from kindergarten.

As I drop a letter into the mail slot, I’m reminded that we have been intentional to help our kids mark their significant transitions. We’ve celebrated milestones from the first time they roll over to their first steps to starting school. They have memory bins stuffed with important keepsakes from each year of their lives, marks on the wall documenting their growth, and photos filling the albums on our computer.

But somehow, I’ve slipped into new stages of parenting without acknowledging my own transitions. I am not the same mom I was when my oldest was a baby. I’m more relaxed, more self-aware, and somehow stronger. There are no marks on the wall for me, but not because I haven’t grown and changed.

There is power in naming something: could it be important for us, as moms, to name the chapters for ourselves, to somehow mark the passing from one stage of mothering into the next? Can we think of small, simple ways to give ourselves space to say goodbye when a stage of parenting ends?

I arrive home from my errands just in time to get back to the school. My son and I hold hands as we walk home, his big-kid backpack hanging off his shoulders. At lunch, I watch him dip his grilled cheese in ketchup and listen as he tells me all about his morning. I smile as I reflect on how much he’s grown, how much older he seems from a year ago when we sang those library songs. And I’m so thankful for this stage of parenting, even if a bit of sadness lingers that we’re no longer waving scarves at the library.

Julianne Gilchrist is a mom to three, a spiritual director, speaker, and writer. She also works with The Studion School for Spiritual Direction. In all she does, she tries to create space for others to slow down, take a deep breath, and notice God’s presence in their everyday lives. You can find her at juliannegilchrist.com

079 // Leadership in Motherhood – Lindsey Cornett & Mary Kate Brown May 24, 2020

Kindred Mom team members Mary Kate Brown and Lindsey Cornett join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about leadership in motherhood as part of the Ages & Stages of Childhood series on Kindred Mom. This episode explores how principles of leadership from any other sphere apply to motherhood and support a thriving family culture.

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and receive the weekly digest newsletter we send to our readers/listeners!

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “The Work of Flourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Books Mentioned on this Episode (affiliate links)

Belonging and Becoming: Creating a Thriving Family Culture by Mark & Lisa Scandrette

Bringing Out the Best in People: How to Enjoy Helping Others Excel by Alan Loy Mcginnis

Fashioned to Reign by Kris Valloton

Guests on this Episode

Lindsey Cornett
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

Mary Kate Brown

Mary Kate Brown is a homeschooling stay-at-home mama living in the suburbs of Chicago. She is married to her high-school sweetheart Brian, and together they have three daughters. She decorates cakes, is a hobby gardener, enjoys reading, and she writes about faith and motherhood at www.choosinggraceblog.com. Catch up with her on Facebookand Instagram.

Read some of Mary Kate’s writing:
Dare to Dance / New Baby, New Mom

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**It Just Gets Better** May 21, 2020
“Come on kids, we’re going to the beach today,” I announced one morning. They’d grown accustomed to impromptu beach days since our move to Western Michigan in early spring. Fortunately, living on the West side of Grand Rapids meant a number of gorgeous beaches were well within a forty-minute drive of our rental home.

I kept beach gear packed in our minivan, towels rolled in a mesh beach bag by the door, swimsuits usually hung out to dry on the back porch, and sunscreen was optional. We slipped flip flops on our feet, made a quick stop by the grocery store for some grapes, cheese cubes, granola bars, and extra water, and we drove to a new spot: Rosy Mound.

Social media is incredibly helpful when you move to a new area. Locals know all of the best spots. Rosy Mound was highly recommended and seemed right up our alley with sand dunes, a quiet beach, and stunning views. Windows down and music turned up, we drove through miles of farmland while the girls and I sang along to our summertime playlist. We pulled up to a small parking lot and visitor center and loaded our essentials. I couldn’t bring a stroller because our one-mile hike to the beach included wooded sandy dune trails and hundreds of stairs. We all had to walk. We left towels and toys behind and set out on our hike. I carried the backpack with water and snacks as I watched my three daughters run ahead.

No one needed diapers. No one needed naptime. No one needed me to tote five million things along with us on every outing. I felt light. Our hike through the shady dune woods felt like a new level of freedom. I was taking my children to the beach, one mile on foot from the car and toilets, with no stroller, alone.

In years prior, I’d never have been able to manage such a day trip. Restaurant outings when I only had one child were stressful enough. Weaving through a tightly packed dining room with an infant carry seat in tow, occupying a restless baby at the table, and barely finishing my own meal, made me despise eating out. Venturing to a secluded beach alone would have never been on my radar as a fun outing in that season of life.

Watching my children grow up is certainly bittersweet. I recall the hours I spent swaying in the darkness watching my babies drift off to sleep. I would linger, holding their tiny bodies close to mine, praying I’d be able to remember what it felt like years later. We spent a good number of years home, keeping with the pace of little legs, short attention spans, and naptimes.

Sentiments like “enjoy every second” or “it goes by so fast” caused me to grieve a little bit of those fleeting baby years. The idea that one day I’d look back on them with nostalgia forged the association of their growing-up with loss. However, I am learning it is not about what I fear we may lose in the early years, it’s about what we have to gain in the coming ones.

Many of our outings that spring and summer looked much the same: one bag with a few essentials, our able legs, and willing hearts. My three-year-old trotted after her big sisters, my oldest blazed the trail ahead, and my middle kept up somewhere in between. I followed behind our parade. We climbed up a final set of stairs at Rosy Mound, over the last sand dune before we reached the lake. A crisp breeze greeted us at the top as we caught a glimpse of endless blue water just beyond the rolling, sun-baked hills of sand. We were almost there. The descent down the other side of the dune was easier, and as we emerged from the cool shade of the trees, we basked in bright sunshine. Sweaty after our hike, we splashed in the gentle lapping waves and lost track of time.

Hours later, we drip-dried on our hike back through the meandering wooded dune trails to our car. I smiled at each passerby as I carried my three-year-old on my shoulders. Sandy, sweaty, and sunkissed, we settled contentedly into the air-conditioned car to head back home. It wasn’t long before all three girls nodded off to sleep. I glanced back at their messy beach hair and pink cheeks and smiled, feeling the familiar sense of nostalgia I’ve felt before when each of them were just tiny babies. I didn’t want to forget this either.

Venturing out on solo beach trips in this season are akin to the countless days we spent at home in seasons past— we’ve embraced the present. As my children grow, I don’t mourn the departure from their baby and toddlerhood, but embrace the newness of their childhood. Along with beach days, I embrace the skinned knees, loose teeth, two-wheel bike rides, elaborate Lego creations, and the endless adventures their imaginations take them on. I look back on those tender moments of the past and realize they’re ones upon which our new adventurous ones are built. No one ever told me it just gets better, but I am learning that it does.

*( Yes! Please send me the weekly Kindred Mom newsletter with the latest podcast episodes, essays, and helpful links! )*

Mary Kate and her husband Brian are high-school sweethearts who recently left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs for a rural property in Western Michigan. Together they homeschool their three daughters and are making plans for turning their new property into a small-scale homestead. After overcoming numerous health challenges due to autoimmunity, Mary Kate is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She leads an online group teaching the basics of an anti-inflammatory diet and inspires others to incorporate simple, nourishing, real-food recipes in their own homes. She also writes online at www.choosinggraceblog.com, and you can catch up with her on Instagram @choosinggraceblog

**What in the World Will You Do With Yourself?** May 19, 2020
Floor plans and scholarship applications litter my dining room table these days, and the talk around dinner is all about the future. Life as I know it is about to undergo a drastic change here on this country hill. Having homeschooled a brood of four sons for the past twenty-one years, I’ve seen our story trending in this direction and felt the current of life rushing toward the door. I have not missed the significance of the unpredictable number of place settings at dinner, the unexpected date nights when my good husband and I realize we’re going to be home alone—Again!

I have become an object of concern to some, since the “baby” has turned 18 and is poised to graduate in the spring. They ask, tentatively, kindly, as if, perhaps, it might be a tender subject for me, “What on earth are you going to do with yourself?”

I’m used to questions. Although I did not realize it at the time, I have since noticed how unusual it is to schlep a shopping cart and four sons through a grocery store. “Are they all yours?” was the most common query I received in the season of the loaded blue mini-van, but my favorite was the inappropriate and completely boundary-less, “Do they all have the same father?” (What…??)

Today, standing in this liminal space holding a stack of blue and tan Pfaltzgraff and an indeterminate number of forks, the questions from all the seasons of my mothering life meet and dance in a circle around this emptying nest.

In a sense, nothing has changed.

The duties are all still there: the food prep, the studying, the laundry, the teaching, the vacuuming, the long listening to friends. The proportions are all that differ. Even in the intense season of four daily math lessons and multiple sports-and-music drop-offs and pick-ups, I would have been found rummaging around in the Sermon on the Mount while parked outside the middle school or scrawling lines into a well-floured notebook while rolling pie dough.

The love is all still there: Little hands still hold loaded paintbrushes and cut gingerbread boys from sticky dough at my kitchen counter, but they belong to my grandchildren now. The concerned phone calls, the proffered wisdom, the checking-in now runs in both directions, as our sons have surpassed us in many practical ways, but continue to do us the honor of asking our advice now and then. Band-Aids are no longer dispensed on the daily, but encouragement and help to the young women in my life feels a little bit like healing.

My mothering life goes on, and this is surely what will lie at the center of whatever response I live my way into in answer to this season’s new line of questioning. When the house was perpetually noisy, when pizza was on the menu every Friday, and we argued over which Disney movie to pop into the VCR, I thought I would never forget any of it—I would remember it always just the way it was. The stories we tell one another about our family in the past have been molded by the shape of our family today. Funny stories become a better memory every year. Wrongs of the past, while still wrong and regrettable, have been so completely forgiven that the sting of the story has been swallowed up in love.

Maybe what author Madeleine L’Engle said of herself, looking back upon a full life, is also true of my family: “I am still every age that I have been.” The stages of a mothering life are built from a series of moments: now, now, and now quickly become then, and my family-as-it-is collides in memory with my family-as-it-was. An action verb, mothering always has and will continue to comprise elements of giving and telling, listening, and nurturing. Mothers in every season are tasked with the creation of safe emotional space, long after the need for clean socks, and a full lunch box has expired.

What in the world will I do with myself now that my boys have become young men and my mothering in the flesh will soon be, primarily, a mothering of the spirit? The answer, I believe, will be another question, because it has been the question all along:

“What story do I want to be able to tell going forward?”

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Michele Morin is a teacher, reader, writer, and gardener who does life with her family on a country hill in Maine. She has been married to an unreasonably patient husband for nearly 30 years, and together they have four sons, two daughters-in-love, and three adorable grandchildren. Michele is active in educational ministries with her local church and delights in sitting at a table surrounded by women with open Bibles. You can find Michele on her blog, Facebook, and Instagram.

**Lessons Learned in the Produce Aisle** May 14, 2020
Nothing in my life welcomed unsolicited (and unhelpful) advice quite like the terrible twos. Though tenderly given, the primary encouragement I received loudly affirmed, “Just wait until she’s three! Three is far worse.” The exact statement varied, but the big idea was clear: no one liked three and I wouldn’t either.

Two was hard, and it did, in fact, contain some incredibly challenging and truly terrible days. It brought big emotions, big challenges and lots of tears—for her and me both. But Two, and all the terrible it brought, was nearly overshadowed by the impending doom that supposedly was Three. It was my understanding that Three would bring me to my knees, and it would begin the inevitable breakdown in my relationship with my daughter. Three, the monster, was about to rear its head and devour my family.

But Three rolled up one gray, soggy summer morning, peeked its sweet little head into my room and requested a tattoo and a good cup of coffee to start her year off. I’d been prepared to greet Three with trepidation, armed with tools to take on the year before me—far more terrible than Two. I was ready for the hardship, the struggles and battles before me. I was, however, not prepared for the laughter that Three would bring to my home. I was caught off guard by all the joy that came roaring in with Three.

Three is laughter and stories and invitations into an incredible world of imagination. A world that’s filled with rich storytelling, curiosity, messy crafts and so many too big words. I won’t dismiss Three. Three has left me with some sizable breaks and bruises. It is hard. Perhaps it is even a bit harder than Two, but likely only because I already survived Two, and Three is yet to be overcome.

I’ve noticed how easy it is to romanticize the victories we’ve already attained. Just stand in front of the produce section at the grocery store until your child has a meltdown and wait for that first wise one to step up. At this point, I’ve already heard so many varying versions of “You think that’s hard? Just wait until…” You’ve heard it too. Wait until their attitude comes out full force, wait until puberty hits, wait until they’re a teenager. Then it will really be difficult. But it’s never a mom in the throes of a big Three tantrum whispering this to you next to the asparagus. No, it’s always someone who has already arrived on the other side of the exact place your feet are planted.

My mom survived eight rounds of Three. “You’re allowed to like your kids.” She said it quietly, gently, as I shared my frustrations and mixed emotions with her. “You’re allowed to enjoy this stage, even if it’s hard. It’s okay to laugh and enjoy it without wondering what’s coming next.” This wisdom, the words I needed, spoke life into my weary heart when I confessed feeling discontent with the stages I felt stuck in. Hers was one of few voices assuring me that I didn’t have to dwell in the worst parts of the ages my kids were in. Those words planted a seed of rest in a heart that was desperately desiring it.

Three is challenging. So is One, Two and, as you intimately know, each age and stage our children walk through. If I could relay back advice to my slightly younger self, I’d assure her that it’s okay to admit that raising little people is hard—regardless of what transpires this day. Regardless of the naysayers’ prediction of the hard to come, here and now is allowed to be hard as well. I wish I’d allowed myself the permission then to simply delight in the little joys of One without looking for all the signs of the next terrible stage coming.

I’d like to think that when I’m an old woman, quietly grocery shopping on my own, I’ll be able to observe a mother-child scuffle and simply smile in remembrance. Instead of extending my own knowledge of the potential gloom and doom on the way, I’ll offer a quick, “You’re doing great. It’s hard, but you’re doing it!” Because I know, despite the very real and very big challenges Three dragged into my home, it primarily brought laughter and curiosity.

Terrific, tremendous Three, I would never trade you.

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Stephanie Wilcox is a wife and stay at home mom to two delicious little girls. She fell in love with the written word at a young age and delights in the life pursuit of loving and knowing the Living Word. You are most likely to find her hiding from the laundry or outside barefoot with a book in hand. Find her on Facebook or Instagram.

**You’re the Worst!** May 12, 2020
She was standing in her partly-open doorway, leaning slightly forward at the waist, fists balled, arms locked and sticking out a bit behind her, yelling.

“You never want to do anything fun! Only boring stuff! I HATE YOU!!! YOU’RE THE WORST!!! MAYBE IF YOU COULD BE GOOD AT ANYTHING FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, THIS WOULD BE EASIER! ”

Her mouth was open wider than I thought possible and spittle was flying forth as she raged at top volume.

It was so cartoonish I actually laughed out loud. (I’ll let you imagine how that might have gone over.) This was only last Tuesday, but I honestly don’t remember what I did about it. I’m sure I did something.

The whole scene is swallowed in the hilarity of her Shrek-like anger. Is this good parenting? I have no idea. If someone had described this situation to me just a few years ago, I would have had two thoughts: first, I think I’d die if my child said something so hurtful to me, and second, that’s SO disrespectful! My child will NEVER do that. Or if she does, she won’t do it twice.

News flash, Younger Robin: you won’t die and yes, she will do it twice or really a lot more. Actually, both my big girls have told me they hate me and I’m “the worst,” and the smaller two picked up on it and started mimicking, so I’ve now been “hated” by a three-year-old. And of course I address disrespectful and hurtful comments, but addressing it any one of dozens of ways won’t necessarily make it stop.

***

Jenna moved from a bassinet in my room to a crib in her own when she was about six months old. I bought a little clock that changed from yellow to green when it was time to wake up and faithfully came and got her at 9:01 every morning, so she could see it turn green and learn to expect me immediately. When she was ten months, my husband and I would giggle at her video baby monitor in the mornings as she would stand, arms crossed and leaning on the rail of the crib, staring at the little yellow orb, knowing morning would come and with it, Mama. As a first-timer, this reinforced my conviction repetition really is the key to behavior modification. Easy-peasy.

Preschool added challenges to this formula: growing independence combined with more (and more and more) babies meant my attention was divided even as consistency became more important. Even so, when we decided the big girls were old enough to clear their places after being excused from the table, it took relatively little effort—mostly periodic reminders and maybe one or two predictable toddler “You’re not the boss of me!” standoffs—to make it our reality. Changing their behavior was still well within my grasp.

***

Preschool behavior modification still works for me… for the two children still in preschool. As the bigger two leave that phase increasingly behind them, I have to find new tools. It’s still jarring to remember, unlike the early years, I can actually make them do very little. When I try to use basic “carrot and stick” behavior modification with them, well… I wind up with a seven-and-a-half-year-old screaming in my face.

I’m learning. Slowly, imperfectly, I’m figuring out how to connect with them so I have a place from which to speak to their emotional outbursts and the inappropriate behavior that comes with them. I’m trying to respond with compassion and guidance rather than completely-understandable offense. I realize now that “YOU’RE THE WORST” is actually the best compliment my kids can give—it means I’m doing my job holding them accountable for their actions, and they don’t like it but feel safe enough with me to voice their displeasure, however wrongly.

None of my children learn well when they’re in HULK SMASH! mode. If my girl is dysregulated enough to be behaving this badly, she’s reacting from an out-of-control amygdala. (We call it her “feeling brain.”) My first job is not to address her misbehavior or disrespect. It’s not even to make her stop yelling. Job one is to calm myself so I don’t add to the problem, then help her regulate. The “How can we do better?” chat can happen once her “thinking brain” is calling the shots again.

And I’m learning this anger doesn’t tell the whole story. When my kids are doing hurtful things and I’m questioning every parenting choice I ever made to cause this madness, I need to remember the whole truth: I have influence, but not as much as I used to believe. I could modify their behavior pretty effectively when they were littler, but the older they get, the more obvious it is: they are who they are, sin and all. Just like me. No amount of my parenting can take their sin away—that’s why Jesus had to die.

But that’s not the whole story, either. The rest of the truth is they’re created in the image of a God who loves them, and they reflect that glory. Imperfectly, but as surely as they sin, they reflect His nature.

My second grader’s rage doesn’t have to crush me. Sometimes laughter is the correct initial response. We’ll be okay. The same child who was raging at me last Tuesday spent all her money (earned a quarter at a time) to get her siblings gifts on her own birthday. She’s growing into a delightful, imperfect human. We all are.

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Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying hard to learn how to do motherhood in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and on her blog.

078 // Legacy Begins in the Little Years – Jennifer Van Winkle & Song Harri May 11, 2020

Kindred Mom team member Jenni Van Winkle and KM Alum Song Harri join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about building a legacy beginning in the early years of childhood, as part of the Ages & Stages of Childhood series on Kindred Mom. This episode explores the investment moms can make in their children that help them grow into capable, honorable adults.

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “Notes on Nourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Jennifer Van Winkle

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

Song Harri

Marilynn Song Harri is a happy wife, mom and homemaker in the small town of Walla Walla, Washington. While she keeps very busy raising and teaching five children at home, she pursues a life of simplicity, laughter and loving Jesus.

Read some of Marilynn Song’s writing:
Transformation Series – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 / Riding Into Love

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**What Now?** May 07, 2020
When we brought our little, orange baby home from the hospital, we set him down next to the piano, asleep in his car seat, and looked at each other. What now?

Did the professionals seriously just send us home with a baby…by ourselves?

His entire life so far, I felt like we were being graded. Everyone who stepped into our room on the maternity ward kindly explained I knew nothing, and urged me to keep a detailed log of his schedule. I assumed something terrible would happen if I neglected this, and I couldn’t answer their inquiries clearly. Nurses came at all hours to discuss my son’s weight, his pooping habits, and how his circumcision was healing.

When we arrived home with our baby, I wasn’t sure what came next. I felt unqualified to handle a newborn independently. My son wasn’t latching well, and there were no nurses hovering nearby to grab my boob and show me a different hold that might work. Help was gone.

We were alone.

What now?

My husband and I looked uncertainly around our living room and then down at the sleeping, jaundiced baby who was about to turn our lives completely upside down. We felt like imposters. What were we supposed to do with this little person? Were we allowed to leave him in the car seat as he slept? Would someone jump out of the curtains and scold us if we tucked him into a Boppy on the couch?

After a short discussion, we dragged the car seat next to the window, so the sun could shine down and change his face into a less startling color. All our blurred snapshots would later show that he looked alarmingly like someone had dipped him into a bucket of apricot dye.

Our first visit to the pediatrician was scheduled for the following day, and I already had a pit in my stomach—like I’d neglected to study for the most important exam of the year. I worried they would readmit him to the hospital for phototherapy. I didn’t know yet that the doctor would need me to strip my child naked to assess him properly. The next afternoon, we would show up at the pediatrician’s office with a bulging diaper bag, a baby comfortably dressed in short sleeves, and no blanket. We would miss our appointment window (because we had no idea how to leave the house with a newborn) and subsequently find ourselves shivering in a freezing supply closet (the only place our pediatrician could work us in) trying to wrap our son in a burp cloth and shield his naked body with our arms. If shame literally burned, I could have kept that room toasty with the heat of all the things I wished I had known earlier. In that moment, jaundice would barely register on my emotional radar.

But I couldn’t see any of this yet. The first day in our living room, I was too busy fretting about being in charge of someone else’s life, realizing that all those years of babysitting had not prepared me after all.

When he awoke, I sat down on the couch to nurse him, half-buried in a mountain of pillows. I couldn’t tell if I was feeding him correctly, but it sure hurt like the dickens and made a slippery mess. My husband sat next to me, leaning into the mountain, holding our son’s tiny fists away from his face. We whispered little jokes to him to mask our growing frustration. “Fingers are friends, not food.”

I cried as he struggled to latch. His problem was not a dreaded tongue tie, but that after spending six hours being squeezed in my birth canal, all he wanted to do was bite. And boy, did he. He suffered from a clamp-down reflex so ferocious that we later nicknamed him “Tiger Baby.” Never have I been so grateful God made newborns toothless.

When mealtime was as finished as it was going to get, we looked out the window at the sunny skies and decided to go for a walk. We tucked the baby into his bright red stroller and set out for a slow neighborhood circuit. Three doors down, a pregnant neighbor ran out to meet us. She cooed over our tiny son and handed us a congratulatory bottle of wine. We stuck it in the basket beneath the baby seat and kept walking.

Precisely halfway around the block, when turning back would take just as long as pressing forward, I discovered that I could not walk any farther. This had never happened to me before. I was mistress of my body, always. If I said go, it went. I might move slowly, but I never quit. How could I hit my limit after less than half a mile?

My husband graciously offered to get the car, but I couldn’t admit that level of defeat. Instead, I took a small step forward every five seconds. The throbbing, wounded space between my legs felt like it was about to fall out of my body onto the sidewalk. Sitting down would be a dream. Preferably with ice.

When we finally made it back home, I stood gingerly on our lawn with the baby while my husband folded our stroller. The forgotten bottle of wine crashed onto the concrete driveway and shattered.

A little something shattered inside my heart, too. Somehow, that bottle of wine represented my independence. It meant that I could still relax and enjoy something that had nothing to do with a hungry, pumpkin-faced baby. Its demise felt like an existential loss I could never recoup. My hope for relief was running down the driveway in dark, red rivulets.

It would be weeks before I got over the feeling that my life as a mother was one big test. It would be weeks before I discovered the joy of having my baby curl his body toward mine, reaching for me because to him, I was the world.

It would be months before I began to trust my intuition more than the advice of strangers.

It would be years before I accepted the truth: sometimes I will get it wrong, but this doesn’t make me a “bad” mother. I’m not a failure when I don’t predict a need for blankets or two changes of clothes. Much of motherhood makes me uncomfortable because I don’t like learning as I go. I still wish for the certainty of knowing what will come next.

But now I realize I could see just enough that first day. His little tongue sticking out. His little orange fists and dark hair. His trust. His love. And mine.

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Melissa Hogarty lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children. She believes deeply in the power of reading and the love of Christ. She loves to bake, sing loudly, and make her own home décor. She blogs about food, faith, and family over at Savored Grace, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**Before He Leaves** May 05, 2020
“Jonny!”

I yelled up the stairs three times before I gave up and texted him instead. Texting my own kids in my own house irritates me, but I hate it a little less than trying to get the attention of a 17-year-old who always has headphones in.

Jonny appears one minute later in the living room with a, “Hey mom, whatcha need?”

Two minutes later, we’re sitting on the couch, each in our own corners, feet meeting in the middle, and I’m looking over his college application before we finalize it. He will need my credit card to pay the fee, so we have to finish this last part together. He explained to me that the student at the college assigned to help him through this process told him that if he called in, he could save twenty dollars on the application. So I sat and watched him talk on the phone, read off my credit card numbers, and then pray together with this student. The application to Bible college and a pastoral theology degree is now complete.

Suddenly I think of the days coming so soon when I will no longer have irritation yelling up the stairs for his attention because he simply won’t be there.

Earlier that afternoon, I had dropped off my middle child, my grade ten daughter, Arianna, at the church. She boarded a bus with her best friend, and they left for the Toronto airport to fly to Israel for two weeks. I’ve gotten more pictures and messages from other people on the trip I know than from my very independent girl. She, of course, is having the time of her life. It’s just on the other side of the world from me.

Thank goodness I have a 12-year-old Emma-Doodles at home who is stuck with me for a while.

College is on my mind lately, and it seems that every sermon illustration or funny story I hear is of some 18-22-year-old boy causing havoc and almost dying at college. I kid you not. The stories abound. I wonder if he’ll be okay. I wonder if I’ll be okay as these kids I’ve held and loved and raised start leaving me. But who can argue that spending winters in California instead of Ontario isn’t a great idea?

Along with all these stories of the chaos college-age kids can start, I’ve also realized something else. These people didn’t stop growing and learning at 18. Somehow even though I’m still learning and growing and maturing, I forgot that I don’t have to make sure my kids are perfect by 18. God’s not finished with them or me or anyone yet.

Still, I worry, does he remember to cook chicken all the way through? Does he know how to cook well enough to get through college? Will he eat a vegetable in the next four years? What about handling money? Thank goodness his friend taught him how to iron his own clothes. I could go crazy thinking about thousands of things, so I’ve decided for my teenagers I want to focus on making sure one thing is solid before they go.

Love.

Do they love God and love others well?

If they have those two things down, everything else will fall into place. There’s no way I can anticipate everything they have to learn to prepare them for every situation for the rest of their lives. While this mom would love that measure of control, it’s just not possible.

So I’m preparing myself to let them fly. Maybe let them cause a little chaos. Make a few bad decisions. Go through a few hard things. They will be okay, and I will too. I will remind them and pray over them that they love God and love others.

And maybe I’ll check on the chicken thing too, since I’m thinking about it…

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Jennifer Holmes is a wife, mom, Christian School music teacher, and writer who also happens to have Bipolar II. She’s exploring how mental health and faith intersect and invites you to share that journey. She loves to podcast, blog and share on social media, often early in the morning all wrapped up in blankets. Follow along at https://www.jensnewsong.com and on Facebook and Instagram (her favourite) Click here to find her podcast, Jen’s New Song, on iTunes or Spotify.

**The Best Stuff in Life** Apr 30, 2020
We sped from the airport to the beach as soon as we landed in Los Angeles for the long weekend to celebrate two big events: our fourteenth wedding anniversary and our daughter’s thirteenth birthday. Perhaps unconventional (like the rest of our lives), we zippered these two celebrations together, as we’ve done from the beginning.

On our very first wedding anniversary, we dined at an outside table on the Seattle waterfront over a great big baby bump and fresh halibut, nervously anticipating our daughter’s arrival and the forthcoming parenting adventure. We didn’t know one baby could lead to seven, but because we have always been “us” with little ones in the mix, it seemed natural to bring our thirteen-year-old girl and three-month-old little boy along for our weekend away in LA. The rest of the kids stayed home, split up between two households that have become more like family than friends. They were on a weekend adventure of their own with best buds.

As we rolled up to the beach, she squealed with delight in the back seat. “Look at the sand! It’s so different from the beaches around Seattle!” She gushed over the dunes and the expansive horizon, and the amazing California sun. Seattle rarely has cloudless days and blissfully warm temperatures, even in the middle of summer.

The baby slept in his car seat, having used up all his wakeful energy on the flight, so my husband offered to stay in the air-conditioned car.

“I don’t need to put my feet in the sand,” he said. “You go play in the surf. I’ll just watch, all creeper-like from the car.” Ha.

“You sure?” I asked. “We can keep the baby covered in his bucket seat and just sit out on the sand, if you want,” not really thinking about the physical feat required to slog through sand with the awkward carry of a bucket seat with a baby inside.

“I’m sure.” I think he wanted a minute to catch his breath from a long morning of hauling us and all our gear through two airports and across a busy city with notoriously bad traffic. He probably also wanted to have a few quiet minutes to check in on the steady stream of memes that come through his social contacts.

Having traveled straight from Seattle, I was in long pants, which I was determined to roll up to my knees so I could walk along the water’s edge without getting the ankles soaked. Ten seconds on the hot sand with my bare feet reminded me that, yes, the water is farther away than it looks from the parking lot, and also, walking in the sand requires core and pelvic floor strength moms of seven may no longer have.

My daughter and I made our way down to the water’s edge, and she skipped through the surf with enthusiastic abandon. I stood back a little ways, looking on while she gobbled up every sensory detail of beachgoing.

I found a small purple shovel someone left behind and used it to dig a giant “13” into the flat sand.

“Alaina, come stand over here! I want to take a picture.” I had to say it a second time, a little louder, so she could hear me over the incoming waves.

She obliged and I tried to find an angle to capture the scene without her shadow falling right over the numbers. The mid-morning sun was to her back, rising in the sky. She gave me her quirky smile, and tipped her head to the side to indicate she was ready to get back to the water, and I had one of those hit-you-like-a-truck moments when I realized—really realized—she wasn’t a little kid anymore.

Of course I knew she was thirteen, but as I tried to connect her age with the girl in front of me—my first baby, wild curls, free spirit, and a ruffle around the bum of her toddler swimsuit (the way she looked last time we visited a California beach together)—it didn’t quite compute.

Just two blinks ago, I was walking her to preschool several days a week—curls bouncing, a Mickey Mouse backpack slung over her shoulders, and little flip flops with a strap around the back clinging to her feet as she ran with excitement to her next adventure. It’s no different today. She brings unmatched enthusiasm to everything she does; undeterred by challenges, unfazed by any pressure to perform. She still runs with flat and heavy feet, pounding her legs into the ground like a wild horse on the move—sometimes slipping into a gallop more than a run, even at thirteen, no matter how silly it looks.

Along the edge of the breaking waves, foam and surf splashing up her long, teenager legs, she kicked at the water with delight. I sat down in the sand a little up the hill, my flip flops beside me, and took it in. Tears filled my eyes out of nowhere, and a glance down at her sandals beside mine—the same size—made them spill over with holy wonder over how babies become grown so very fast.

I watched my daughter with the expanse of the ocean beyond her. I treasure this and every other holy moment I’ve held privately in my heart. I am only one who gets to see into her world from my unique vantage point; as her mama.

No one else carries the memories I have, like the sound of her saying, “Let’s twirl, mama!” Even at 3, she was nudging me out of my comfort zone. Twirl? Serious girls like me don’t twirl. Not until we give birth to sparkly, effervescent little girls who don’t take no for an answer, grab our hands, and start the twirl for us both in a patch of green grass near the park playground.

“I want you to come run in the water with me, mama!” The taller version of this girl held her hand out to help me up, so she could drag me to the waves.

I joined her, reluctantly, because I didn’t really want to get my jeans wet. She playfully kicked the water at me and asked if we could follow the waves out and sprint back up the hill to just barely outrun them as they came back in. I was a little unsure, but I obliged and tried to keep a close eye on the pattern of the waves so I could be sure I was on the winning side of that race.

“Isn’t it so fun?! The water is so warm!”

All was good and well until an extra big wave came in with shrieks and giggles as water splashed up and soaked my pants through, well past the knees. So much for staying dry!

We laughed and walked along the beach for a little while longer. Mother and daughter—lingering in a simple, holy moment of togetherness—helping each other find the best stuff in life.

Maybe mamas don’t have to be completely responsible and practical at all times. Maybe it is good to twirl. Maybe it’s necessary to get soaked. Maybe these are all signs we are living the good life with our eyes wide open, all-in for the adventure we’re on together.

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

**Prepared for the Pandemic** Apr 29, 2020
I say I’m a pinball, and I’m glad the machine belongs to God. I can look back and see that when I started dreaming about things and feeling an urgency to take certain steps, it was God preparing me, gently nudging me into position for what was to come. I had no idea how COVID-19 would change our lives on the day we went to our favorite restaurant to celebrate our son’s grades. I did not yet understand how personally God had helped us to collect tools and materials with which we’d build systems to carry us through this present storm.

Our favorite waitress, Kim, was grateful and surprised when we hugged her, as we had done many visits before. “The craze going on in the world is making us hug our sanitizer instead of people!” she said. “People are buying water and toilet paper so they can sell what they’re hoarding online. I’m not worried about myself,” she told us, as she pulled herself away to pour a warm-up of coffee into cups at another table. Her fear was for older people living on fixed incomes, bravely gathering themselves for their weekly shopping trip, only to find the pandemonium of lines, basic staples out of stock, and rationing.

Now that restaurant is closed, except for curbside pickup—online orders that detail the make and model of the car in the “Catering” notes.

God knows the end from the beginning—not to say the pandemic is our end, but it did not surprise God. Well before the pandemic arrived, my heart and mind had been increasingly drawn to the idea of teaching our children at home. My husband did not share my desire. It had been a point of contention for months. I was ready to pull the kids from school and hit the homeschool thing with all my energy. My husband thought it was wiser to step into this possibility with a little more caution, and he pledged his support in gathering supplies and homeschooling on the weekends. Still, God was leading me to do one thing in all areas—prepare. He knew ahead of time how my desperate and seemingly futile homeschool agenda would weave perfectly into what I call “the craze.” While I was scheming to shift education from outside of our control to within it, fear of the virus and confirmed cases led to school closures and suddenly, homeschool was the only option. Oprah Winfrey once said, “Opportunity has to be met with preparation.” God called me to trust Him to hear and answer my prayers. I will not end up begging for bread, even if there isn’t a single roll of toilet paper for miles. I am established, and my path is being made straight; because I’ve committed homeschool, the craze fallout, and my family to Him in the name of Jesus.

I remember being on the phone with my husband in the kitchen having one of our tense micro-discussions—the kind where I needed to fit in a full day of feelings, thoughts, and questions into a few minutes. We had many things over which we needed to “come into agreement,” while his attention was divided between me and his computer screen, fielding pings, replies, updating code, and a meeting he just got out of and the one about to begin. I was heated, not just frustrated; I could feel it in my skin. Maybe my meetings never took place in real pants or conference rooms, but my bun and I fielded the emotional pings of kids bullied mercilessly at school. I needed to be ready with replies when my kids told me about the uncensored TV some of their teachers allowed them to watch and some of the language they were allowed to use. I felt a desperate sense of urgency to bring them home from that environment.

“Why do you trust the school and not me?” I asked him. “God knows I can do it. He has equipped me.” My friends kept saying this to me. It was hard to believe any of it when my own husband—the person God made to be one with me—was nervous about my ability to educate our children.

“I trust you,” he said and then he called me a pet name—salt in the wound of his doubt. “I just think they’re doing well. It would be weird to pull them in the middle of the year,” he said. “Why don’t we just allot some time on the weekend to see if it even makes sense for us.”

I felt patronized, because I like to have my way on a shorter timeline. Public school got eight hours a day for months to prove itself. I was allowed only a few hours a week, but God opened my heart to see I could throw my complaining mentality away and choose a better mindset from the shelf. I could use the opportunity he’d offered—teaching them on the weekends—to organize myself, familiarize myself with the materials, and set up a lesson plan.

If I hadn’t taken those steps months ago, I would be totally overwhelmed by what’s happening right now. If I hadn’t prayed while I couldn’t see the thing I wanted or the way to get to it, I wouldn’t have been ready when God gave me the answer to my prayer.

*****

We started to sense that even if we were not panicking, we’d better prepare, so we got some canned foods and toilet paper. Good thing, too. That was around March fifth. A few days later, too much persistent chatter with other moms had me wringing my hands about water, so Hubby brought home six cases (not the four or five I’d requested.) When he went to Walmart for diapers, wipes, and bacon, there was zero tissue—not even the thin, scratchy prison tissue I’ve only bought by accident in the past. Then the Governor told all the superintendents in the state: School is canceled for four weeks. He tightened the jar of our isolation by demanding restaurants and pubs close. The problem: We are inside that suffocating snow globe, shaken by COVID-19. Our lives are inside.

Fear rose in me as I saw the change in the community mentality—the lengths people go to avoid eye contact and maintain physical distance. Shoppers wear hospital-grade masks and gloves, and the tension concentrates in the air like water vapor, invisible to the human eye, but slowly drowning us all. Hopelessness wafts from shops instead of coffee smells, desperate small businesses emailing daily, now offering “contactless delivery” options. In-person services clumsily shift to online, like square pegs in round holes.

Within my marriage, my husband and I disagree about what it means to have a proper margin of security, and about when and whether and how we could possibly have any idea of the timing for a market correction. I filled my cart for just one more grocery delivery, and then we quietly fought to the death during family movie night as my thumb hovered over the Apple Pay confirmation thumbprint.

“What does Mama want to buy?” one of the kids wanted to know.

“What do we need a First Aid Kit for?” asked another.

*****

Before the Shelter in Place Mandate officially closed schools, my oldest came home from a regular junior high Friday, talking about a friend’s birthday party. I hoped the venue would honor the booking given the unfolding events.

Ultimately, the smelly trampoline place was open for the birthday party, but barely, I realized, as my friend texted me pictures. It was a ghost town.

As I considered the pictures, I began to have a heavy thought: I don’t want this to be the end.

I want life to resume.

Life—the parts that can be taken for granted as boring—is fragile and hollow, holding together only as long as there isn’t too much pressure. People walking by with their dogs or driving by in their trucks, waving and smiling—that simple, neighborly connection—is actually precious.

For my own reasons, I gathered homeschool materials and tried to convince my husband that my new education agenda can work. I was talking with a neighbor recently, and she surprised me by saying she’d been doing the same for her own reasons. She has a son with special needs, and her only hesitation is not a skeptical partner; it’s the very necessary services that public school has always provided.

Weeks into the Shelter in Place Mandate, different Mama Bears have reached out to me saying: “I think it’s important for our kids to see us going about our normal routines as much as possible during this time. It teaches them that we still have to keep living. (Insert prayer and heart emojis.) They aren’t alone.” Another said: “I feel like I am dreaming all of this! It’s pretty scary. All I’ve been doing is praying. (Prayer emoji.)” I italicized their words to emphasize what stood out to me—fear, and in one case, the way it’s making her search for God as COVID reigns in our minds. We aren’t alone.

The isolation has revealed my arrogant belief that I was holding my life together. From inside the snow globe with my face pressed against the glass, I wondered: Will regular life begin again? Then I read this declaration by Bishop Jakes: “This is a great time to pray, plan, and prepare… Many people are just waiting for normal to return, but disruptions come to liberate you from what was, and to prepare you for what’s next!” I realized there are other wise ways to view these current events.

Although I hadn’t seen it this way at first, my husband’s heart has opened and given me an opportunity to walk out the homeschool vision I’d been imagining. Watching my kids build the robots my successful homeschool friends recommended, I know God was preparing me.

Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and a podcast intern for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective.

*You can find some of her musings on her blog at http://www.jayjonesmomagram.com and on Instagram @jacelya_jones.*

**Thoughts in Her Head** Apr 28, 2020
My daughter walks home alone from school now. She takes the same path we’ve traced year after year, beginning in kindergarten when her backpack touched the backs of her knees, and her baby brother was strapped to my chest, and her little sister was in the stroller. Last year in third grade, I stood at the corner and watched to make sure she safely crossed the street and followed the instructions of the crossing guard. Now, in fourth grade, she meanders quietly home, processing her thoughts after school without the constant chatter from a sibling or probing questions from me.

During the early years of school, I would pester her when I picked her up at her teacher’s door. What did she do? Who did she play with? But she would refuse to answer my questions, despite trying the alternative, “What was your favorite part of today?” or “What games did you play with your friends today?” I was constantly met with, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

I retreated to give her space, stopped asking her questions that only caused her to bristle. Instead, I let her be independent and sort out whatever she needed to. I didn’t know the thoughts in her head, so I prayed that all was fine at school, that bullies were not tormenting her. I kept in contact with teachers and was told that all was well.

After her walk home today, she rings the doorbell, despite it being unlocked. I open the door to greet her with a hug, examine her face for signs of anything out of the ordinary. She has her sweatshirt tied around her waist, forehead sweaty from the walk home in the bright afternoon sun. She tosses her backpack and sweatshirt on the couch and walks to the kitchen. “How was school today?” I call after her.

“Fine,” she stops to answer and looks at me. “Can I make myself a sandwich?”

“Do you have any homework?” I reply. I ask this question every day. She rolls her eyes at me. “No, I did it in class.” She also tells me this every day. This year has been a breeze for her, and she hasn’t had homework since the first week of school. I’m not sure if this is a blessing or a curse. We had some epic homework battles, but it was also nice to sit with her and communicate.

“Yes, you can make yourself a sandwich,” I tell her. “But wash your hands first!” I get another eye roll.

Later, I notice her facing the whiteboard easel we have by our dining room table. She holds a purple marker and looks up at me. “What should I write here?” she asks, marker poised. She’s drawn a simple picture of a girl resembling herself: short brown hair, headband, and plain t-shirt. The girl stands alone on a hill, an empty thought bubble hovering above her head, waiting to be filled.

I grasp for something witty and inspiring and cute and not too silly for this girl at the top of the hill, something that will glean a positive reaction from my daughter and allow us to bond. I weigh phrases in my head, probably overthinking the impact of any words I might suggest. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

I look at her and realize she’s turning ten next week. I no longer see the tiny baby I screamed into the world, the infant I couldn’t bear to set down after we brought her home from the hospital. Those blue eyes constantly gazed into mine, her hunger seemingly insatiable, our bond a primal, physical one. Three years where she was literally attached to me through breastfeeding, years she doesn’t remember and have blurred together in my mind. Back then, I anticipated her every need, knew which cry meant she was hungry or tired or irritated. She was always so focused on making her thoughts heard. Now she is focused on a book, a screen, or on the world around her.

In the evening, she stomps into my room after her bedtime. “Go to bed!” I growl at her, annoyed that she’s interrupting my quiet time. She’s great at bedtime procrastination. Most nights she has a book in hand. “You have to read this one!” she declares tonight, placing it onto the ever-growing pile of books on my nightstand. “Why?” I ask. “What did you like about it?” I’ve read the parenting books about rephrasing questions to get answers, but this child of mine sees right through it.

“Just read it!” my daughter snaps at me.

“I just want to know what you think!” I snap back.

I feel the pressure to help my children grow into productive adults—to mold them and shape them and do all the things a parent is supposed to do—but I don’t even know what that is. I just know I’m probably not doing it right when I feel this chasm between my daughter and me; I find my words to my daughter are more commands than conversation. “Did you brush your teeth? Did you wash your hair? Is your room clean?” She argues with me, not wanting to follow my every order. I wonder if I’m being too hard on her, if I should relax and let her work out life skills with less robust instruction.

At night I browse Amazon for books on different topics—how to handle frustration, how to hold conversations with friends, how to take care of her growing body and mind. I think of questions she might have but hasn’t asked, and search for books to fill the void.

“Are you ever going to read those?” my husband asks, indicating the giant pile of juvenile novels my daughter has given me. I glare at him, masking the guilt I feel for not making an effort for her.

I pick up the latest book she left for me and flip through it. I read a few sentences here and there to get the gist of the story. The main character is a girl who knows weird facts about bugs and somehow gets turned into a superhero. Maybe those are all the details I need.

The next morning my daughter asks if I read the book. “I did!” I say cheerfully. My daughter’s demeanor changes to surprise. My usual answer is, “No, not yet.”

“What did you think of it?” she asks me.

“I liked how she knew all those cool facts,” I tell her.

“I thought it was weird she did that whole cocoon thing,” my daughter says.

“Oh yeah?” I say. I don’t recall a cocoon from my quick skim, but I’m determined to hold my own in this conversation.

“That was kinda weird,” my daughter says.

“I can imagine it would be,” I tell her.

“I think the moral of the story is that it’s okay to be different,” my wise daughter informs me.

“I think that’s a good moral,” I say back to her, beaming with pride at her insightful statement. I bid her goodbye as she walks out the door to school.

I notice the whiteboard after she’s gone. The picture of the girl on the hill is still there, and this time I see the smile drawn on her face, the way the girl’s eyes turn up in happiness. The thought bubble has been filled in with my daughter’s handwriting and spelling: “I’m beutiful and perfect!”

I glimpse an inner piece of my daughter, alone on that hill. I don’t know the minutiae of her days, can’t decipher every look and sound anymore. But despite my curiosity, I don’t need to. The intense physical bond we once had is gone, but I realize I don’t need to pester her with questions to know her thoughts and needs. She tells them to me in her own way, and I have to choose to listen.

When she gets home from school today, I’ll greet her at the door with a hug and ask her how her day was. She’ll ask me for food, and I’ll ask her if she has homework. When she says no, she’ll go play or read, and I’ll tend to household chores. But later, when she storms into my room after finishing a good book and demands I read it too, I think I’ll at least give it a good skim. Then tomorrow, we can talk about the thoughts she had.

Beth Robinson resides in Northern California with her husband and three children. A former public school teacher, she is now a mom with a minivan, driving her children from place to place. It’s okay, though, because they listen to audiobooks and pick up coffee and find out-of-state license plates and stop at random parks along the way. Beth attempts to document life through writing in hopes of remembering the too-quick days of motherhood. You can find her on Instagram.

**Unexpected Joys** Apr 23, 2020
My oldest son was born six days after we had arrived at our new home, an eight-hour drive from our friends and family, with all our belongings crammed into a Chrysler minivan and U-Haul truck.

We thought we would have two to three weeks to settle in before our new bundle would arrive, but my water broke first thing on the Monday morning after we had moved in. My hospital bag was packed and sat ready to go in my closet, right next to the other boxes of clothes that would have to wait to be opened later. Apparently, the little guy just wanted to see what all the commotion was about.

He was the kind of baby who slept so soundly in his swaddling blanket that he needed to be gently woken up to nurse. He fit so perfectly snug in the crook of my arm and simply allowed himself to be carried around like a football. He was a dream baby, and I appreciated his temperament all the more after having had twin infants less than two years prior.

His older twin sisters were honing in on their second birthday, and boy, were they a handful. They would run in polar opposite directions on the playground: one determined to climb a dangerously high structure, while the other one would giggle as she bolted for the woods in a game of chase. When my husband brought them into the hospital room to meet their new brother, I definitely acquired a few new gray hairs as they curiously tugged on monitor wires and loudly opened and shut cabinet doors.

We made the move for my husband’s new job, and thankfully, his new co-workers showed up on our new doorstep during the next few weeks with meals and helpful information about our new town. Most of the conversations included sentiments of solidarity, both nostalgic and sympathetic tones in their voice. “I remember those days,” and “if there’s anything at all that you need…” became predictable but welcome phrases. One particular comment, however, threw me off guard and puzzled me. It was from a gentleman whose children were now grown. “Ah, you’re just about to hit it. The best stage: ages 2-6. It’s my favorite.” I smiled politely and thanked him for the advice, but shook my head in disbelief after he left.

Really, ages 2-6? The years of potty training mishaps and messy crafting of picky eating and tantrums that have yet to be outgrown? And with my experience with the twins, who were as sweet and cute as much as they were exhausting to herd, I dismissed this strangers’ words as someone who had been out of the trenches long enough to forget the diaper failures, car seat wranglings, and defiant naptime battles, while still holding onto the sweet memories of snuggles at storytime.

As we settled into our new surroundings and adjusted to life with three littles, we slowly discovered daily and weekly routines that worked for us. When one woman asked in earnest how I survived each day with so many little ones, I would truthfully answer, “I only need to make it to 11 AM.” Because everything after 11:00 was ordered and predictable:

By 11:00, we started to get ready for lunch.

After lunch, we settled in for naptime (or quiet time, at least).

After nap, we would have a snack and play a little bit more.

Then it was time to get ready for dinner.

After dinner, bathtime.

After baths, bed.

The predictability and routine felt safe and comforting during a season of life that encompassed so much discovery and wonder in the big wide world.

When the girls turned three, we enrolled them in a preschool program two days a week for barely three hours a day— enough time for them to get some peer socialization, and for me to catch a breath and enjoy some time with my son. When we didn’t have preschool, I made a weekly plan of at least one park day, a library day, and a chocolate chip cookie baking day. The schedule kept me sane. It was a season of life that was exhausting and demanded superior patience. A season where I had to say no to a lot of my own projects and desires, a season where we were limited by my children’s stamina, mobility, and their ability to process it all.

But the grace in all of this was the simplicity.

Parenting two preschoolers and a baby certainly wasn’t simple in the sense of easy, but our daily activities and subsequent joys did lack a complexity that adults tend to carry in their daily living. If we passed a farm on the road, shrieks of delight exclaimed, “Tractor! Cows!” Getting stuck behind a school bus, or at a railroad crossing, kindled their fascination, and I’d cease to perceive such delays as inconveniences. I can’t say I long for those tender preschool years, but I do look back nostalgically to the time when the order of the day was playing with blocks, spending an hour on the playground, and creating an unrecognizable craft with cotton balls, glue, and construction paper.

One day after church, and after a particularly draining morning of mischief in the pews, we were chatting with a woman whose sons were in high school and college. As she observed our wiggly children she noted, “Ah, you’re almost at the sweet spot: ages 7-11. It’s the best stage.” I nodded my head, knowing there most certainly would be aspects of that stage we could look forward to, but I also knew there would inevitably be challenging moments as well. I am learning that I may one day look back and prefer a particular stage, but I can’t expect any one stage of life to be perfect.

These days I am soaking up all the treasures that come from seeing my children blossom in elementary school as we celebrate new milestones— like the ability to ride a bike, read a book, and swim without arm floaties. After so many days of being stuck in the driveway among tricycles and giant push toys, we can now go on bike rides and longer hikes together. Yet, the school-age years have brought friendship drama, homework challenges, and busier schedules. Their childhood has become just a little more complicated, and I sigh, knowing it will continue in that direction as they grow and mature.

I’m not quite ready to announce, “Ah, the preschool years. Those were the days…” because my memory still contains images of frustrating moments and seemingly never-ending neediness. However, I am beginning to understand what that gentleman so fondly remembers; I miss hearing those mispronounced words and seeing those sweet smiles full of baby teeth. I suppose the best thing for now is to absorb the precious moments, and shrug off the challenging ones. If I want to experience joy in parenting, I’ll have to keep my eyes open and my heart soft, because unexpected joys happen in every stage of this crazy ride.

Kimberly Lynch is a wife, mother, coffee junkie, and writer. She blogs regularly at passingthroughmountains.com and is a member of hope*writers. A self-proclaimed introvert with a deep interior life, Kimberly finds inspiration in God’s creation and is learning to seek Him in the day-to-day routines of life. She and her husband, two displaced New Englanders, raise their six children in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Find Kimberly on Facebook and Instagram.

**Well-Loved** Apr 21, 2020
I am standing over the kitchen counter, my glue gun in one hand and a tiny square of well-loved fabric—minky and striped with worn satin trim around the edges–in the other. Until a few minutes ago, there was a stuffed elephant head sewn to the center of that square—we call it Lovey. But as I was tucking Ruthie in for her nap, I tried to pull Lovey out from under her arm and its head got stuck. With a pop, the few remaining threads ripped and Ruthie wailed, holding a tiny square blanket in one hand and a gray elephant head in the other. I knew this would happen sooner or later–Lovey has been through a lot in Ruthie’s three years of life.

I have no sewing skills, but I’m a decent crafter, so a hot glue gun will have to do. Then, hopefully, naptime can continue as scheduled.

After naptime, I offer to hold all her stuff as we make our way down to the dining room.

“Hand me your books and your animals, Ruthie. You hold the railing.”

She pauses and looks up at me, her brow furrowed a bit as she considers my offer. She’s always negotiating between the most expedient and most independent ways to exist in the world.

“Ok,” she concedes, letting out a dramatic sigh. “But Mom? You can not have my Lovey, ok? Lovey is so special to me.”

With each step we traverse, she tells me one more thing about Lovey—how Lovey is so soft, Lovey wants to play, do I remember when Lovey was lost and we found him in the dollhouse? I’m grateful that my shoddy repair work has not registered with her or diminished her affection one bit. When we finally make it downstairs, she stops and yells, “I love my Lovey berry, berry much!” She squeezes it with all the strength and affection her toddler arms can muster.

Carters sells these types of baby toys with matching layette sets in size “NB,” a small puppy or safari animal attached to a tiny blankie. This particular elephant was actually a gift for my middle child from my mother, but he was always a muslin-blanket-loving boy and didn’t care much for stuffies. It sat decoratively on a shelf until Ruthie was a newborn. She was fussing in her swing one day when I grabbed the elephant from its perch and tucked it in next to her.

“Would you like a Lovey, sweet girl?” I offered. She stopped fussing. “She likes it,” I declared.

And that was that.

***

When I was six months old, my aunt and uncle gifted me a doll for my first Christmas. She had a stuffed body, a little different from your typical baby doll. You could squeeze her foot to play music, spin a plastic piece on her belly to make a rattling and clicking noise, or play peek-a-boo with the mirror on her chest. Her hair was made of loops of yellow yarn that peeked out from below the rim of a little bonnet. On her back were two pink straps so she could be tied to the rails of a crib. That’s just what my mom did, and I began the habit of rubbing my nose on that yellow hair.

Her name was Sally.

I lost her once, at Sea World. My parents were pushing me around in an umbrella stroller when I suddenly looked down and realized it: Sally was gone. My only additional memory from that day is of my dad, t-shirt tucked into his denim shorts, poking around in a Sea World trash can hoping for a glimpse of pink fabric or yellow hair.

We left the theme park without Sally that day, but someone found her eventually, and Sea World shipped her home to us. When she arrived, my mom snuck her off to the laundry room, because God knows where she had been. When my mom handed her to me, fresh out of the dryer, I sat right down on the laundry room floor, shoved my nose into her hair, and sobbed. In my head, I silently cried, “I missed you, Sally, I missed you!”

***

As I worked with my mom and Nanny Ruth to plan my wedding, Nanny thought it would be lovely to display Sally somewhere for all the reception guests to see–on a table with the guest book, perhaps?

This odd suggestion came from the same classy woman who insisted, “We cannot invite guests from out of town without offering them a cocktail! It’s just not done.”

Cocktails, I agreed with, but a childhood toy display I did not. I was getting married, for goodness sakes, entering womanhood and adulthood for real this time. (College was evidently just a warm-up.)

I wanted to say, somehow, I’m not that little girl anymore. I’ve grown and changed. Sally was special then, and maybe she’ll always be special, but I am no longer that girl.

Sally now lives in a box somewhere in my parents’ house, and if I’m honest, when I think about her, a sort of warmth and fondness rises in my chest. I still love her, I guess, but I don’t need her.

Some things never change, until suddenly, they do.

***

I don’t know how long Ruthie will cling to Lovey, or how long Leo will want to carry his blankies everywhere. The blankets have holes, and Lovey’s neck is surrounded by glue gun residue, the satin trim around its edges pilling and permanently stained. I have not needed to fish Lovey from a theme park trash can (knock on wood), but I should probably learn to sew while those skills would still be of use to Lovey. I know the time will come when my children will look beyond stuffies and blankies for comfort. I will stash their favorites in the attic, hoping for the day we might pull them back out again for nostalgia’s sake, or maybe even to pass them along to the next generation. They will be musty and yellowed but still loved.

In the meantime, I will wash those blankets with extra hot water. I’ll load another glue stick into the glue gun and try, yet again, to get that elephant’s head on there good this time.

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker and lover of the written word who lives in Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. In both writing and life, she explores the intersections of faith, family, creativity, and freedom from perfectionism. She’s out there providing hope and solidarity to any other women who find themselves afraid to make mistakes. She is a co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter of soulful encouragement for recovering perfectionists. If her kids aren’t demanding to be held, she’s probably carrying a pen, a book, or a coffee. Her writing has been featured at Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and (in)courage, but you can always find her on Instagram.

077 // Ages & Stages: Perceptive Parenting – Jay Jones & Lindsey Cornett Apr 20, 2020

Kindred Mom team members Jay Jones and Lindsey Cornett join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about Perceptive Parenting, or the idea of observing your kids and tailoring your parenting approach to the unique needs of individual children. This episode is part of the new Kindred Mom series, “Ages & Stages of Childhood“.

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and receive the weekly digest newsletter we send to our readers/listeners!

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Follow Kindred Mom on Facebook

About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “Notes on Nourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Lindsey Cornett
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

Jay Jones

Jay is a writer, a mama, and a podcast intern for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective.

You can find some of her musings on her blog at http://www.jayjonesmomagram.com and on Instagram @jacelya_jones.

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**Bringing Fuzzy into Focus** Apr 16, 2020
It’s a bone-chilling 14 degrees outside. Through the foggy car window, I see Seth bounding out of his house in jeans and a T-shirt to greet us, jumping up and down in the snow with the energy of a 3-year-old. I laugh and say, “He hasn’t changed a bit, has he? Still our bouncy boy!”

As soon as possible, he gives me his usual giant bear hug, and, laughing, says, “Hi, Mom!”

It’s early February, and my husband and I have come to celebrate Seth’s birthday with him and his wife.

***

Born on Valentine’s Day, our second-born stole my heart from day one. I’d gaze at my little bundle and imagine the amazing person he’d grow up to be. Confident in our parenting skills after our first, well-behaved and quiet son, I assumed child number two would follow suit.

He didn’t.

Climbing up the kitchen drawers, onto the stove, and reaching into the cabinets above the range-hood to retrieve his favorite snack, Seth had no fear of danger.

Throwing toys from every shelf and storage container into one big pile in the middle of the toy room floor, he had no sense of order.

Singing constantly and loudly, jumping and bouncing and running with more endurance than the Energizer Bunny, he had a motor that wouldn’t turn off.

At naptime, I would find him with books from which he’d ripped the spine, chewed the cardboard into a ball, and then proceeded to stick the ball up his nose. Once or twice, he came to me with panic in his little blue eyes saying, “Mommy, it stuck.” I’d get out the tweezers and cautiously remove the lodged spitball from his nasal passages.

Even reprimands, time-outs, and punishments didn’t seem to make a difference.

My frustration reached the boiling point often and losing control, I would yell. With my face red, eyes bulging, and neck muscles protruding, I must have resembled a crazy cartoon character, because rather than saying a penitent, “I’m sorry, Mommy,” in these tense moments, Seth giggled. Afraid I might hurt him if I didn’t walk away, I would escape to my bedroom, close the door, fall onto my bed, and sob.

When he was four, Seth became a big brother. It stretched me to my limits as I adjusted once again to breastfeeding, diaper changing, and sleepless nights. I wanted to bask in the initial glorious moments and soak in all it meant to have my first daughter. I wanted a little peace and quiet.

Seth would not give me what I wanted.

During that time, I hit one of my lowest points as a mom. Sitting in my rocking chair nursing my baby girl, I prayed that God would help me “like” my little boy again. I knew I’d always love him; there was no question about that. But there were so many moments I just didn’t like him. His loudness. His boisterousness. His in-your-face-at-every-moment-ness. It was all more than this too-tired, stressed-out mom could take.

***

He started kindergarten at five. At our doctor’s recommendation, we brought him to a psychologist, and test results confirmed my suspicions of ADHD.

I immediately asked the doctor, “Will he have learning problems? Will he grow out of it?”

With the calmness of a professional accustomed to dealing with worried parents, he replied: “This may seem like a huge deal right now, but imagine 15 or 20 years from now. Focus on the big picture. He’ll be fine and someday do great things.”

That future picture was very fuzzy and difficult for me to see. Much less believe.

We started Seth on a low-dose stimulant. Once he could slow down and control his impulses, the sweet boy I fell in love with at birth stole his way back into my heart.

Every morning we could count on him to wake us by jumping into bed between us. Every night he’d stop by for his goodnight hug from mom and dad (something he didn’t outgrow until he went to college).

He loved exploring God’s creation in our backyard, playing video games, and building Lego sets. Like his dad, he was drawn to technology. Like his mama, he had an ear for music and singing and learned to play my trumpet. Unlike us, he also learned guitar, banjo, mandolin, and ukulele. And boy, did he make us laugh!

He also made us cry. Despite his many abilities, living life with an attention deficit was tough. We’d pray together and have heart-to-heart talks, as he grappled with the “why me?” of having ADHD. School was a struggle, and making friends was difficult as subtle social cues often flew right past him.

Driving to his counseling session after a particularly rough week at home and school, Seth’s eyes filled with tears, and his voice cracked as he asked, “Why did I have to get ADHD? Do I have to take medicine for the rest of my life?”

I looked over from the driver’s seat at my tender-hearted, sensitive son. “You might, buddy. But that’s okay. Some kids need glasses to help them see better. You need medicine to help you focus better. Just remember: your ADHD can’t stop you from being anything you want to be. And you’ll do great things someday!”

He looked out the window, sniffed and wiped his eyes, wanting to believe me. As a mom, I realized that my job was not to protect him from the heartache and pain he’d surely encounter in his life but to give him the tools to manage them. As the tears welled up in my own eyes, I attempted to focus on the road ahead.

***

Over his birthday dinner, Seth shares new hopes for his career path, one that has been a mix of biology and technology, combining his love of nature with his knack for computers. He turns his attention to his wife as she shares stories of her job as a teacher. He beams as he talks about his church and the music ministry he is a part of there. He cracks a few corny jokes and makes us laugh.

I smile as I recall the journey we’ve been on and laugh with the boy that once made me cry. Looking back now, the memories of frustration, guilt, and struggle are just a fuzzy picture.

And I can clearly see that God had this bright young man in mind all along.

Linda Hanstra is a school Speech-Language Pathologist by day, writer/blogger by night. After 26 years of raising four children along with her husband, she’s now facing the challenges and reaping the rewards of her new role as “empty-nester.” Linda enjoys lush, peaceful bicycle trails and says, “biking is a great metaphor for life: not without struggles, but with surprises around every corner.” Linda writes about faith, family, empty-nesting, biking, and other topics at www.lindahanstra.com.

**Enough** Apr 14, 2020
My husband is out of town this week for work. With trepidation, I tuck my boys into their beds. “Good night,” I whisper, and silently I add my own prayer, Please, please, let them stay asleep until morning.

Against the silence of the house, my nightly routine sounds louder than usual. I gather the last dishes from the dinner table and turn on the faucet, the running water drowning out the need for any other background music. I plunge my hands into the sink and relish the rhythm of scrubbing. The dishes seem to take forever, though the pile is one place setting short. Afterward, I move on to the laundry and pack lunches for the next day. With my last bit of energy, I manage to write a few lines in my journal before I fall into our bed, alone.

Two hours later, I awake to the sound of crying. It’s the baby. Miles. I lie in bed, willing him to go back to sleep, but the sound only escalates. I walk across the hall to settle him down. He is still drowsy, and after I pat his back, he falls agreeably back into his deep sleep. I wait—checking the clock, waiting the requisite five minutes just to make sure he’s going to stay asleep—then tiptoe back to bed, my feet practiced in the art of avoiding creaky floorboards.

Two more hours pass. This time my three-year-old, Luke, wakes up. Unlike the whimpers of his younger brother, his cries are loud and shrill. My body feels even heavier this time when I stand. By the time I reach their room, I’m too late. He has woken Miles up, and both boys are on high alert.

I pick Miles up out of his crib and sit on Luke’s bed, offering him my other arm. He screams louder. “I want you to lay down next to me,” he yells. “I want to snuggle your neck. I don’t want you to be holding Miles.”

“You both need me right now,” I say. “I can hold you both right here. And after Miles falls back to sleep, I will keep holding you.”

I’ve made this mistake before: using logic to reason with an inherently illogical three-year-old. He continues screaming, his anger dissolving into sad sobs.

Instantly, I am transported back: one and a half years ago. I was still sore from childbirth and bleary-eyed from cluster feedings. My husband, Jordan, returned to work, and I wasn’t sure how we would pass the long stretch of the day ahead. Our activities revolved around the slow, blissful pace of a newborn: feeding, changing diapers, sleeping. Late in the morning, we went outside for a short walk; Luke rode his toy excavator down the street while I pushed the stroller behind him. All three of us, I realized, were looking at the world in an entirely new way.

Not quite two years old, Luke was smitten with his baby brother. He checked on him in his swing, commented on the color of his poop, and kept him supplied with pacifiers. I beamed with pride when he decided to lie beside Miles during tummy time to “teach him how to turn his head.”

But the day eventually turned into evening. Once Jordan arrived home and we had finished dinner, he began putting Luke to bed while I nursed Miles to sleep in our room. We had decided the best way to tackle our nightly routine was to divide and conquer.

Luke didn’t care about what made the most sense. He no longer cared about what his little brother needed; he only knew that I wasn’t available to hold him anymore. “Mama!” he howled, drawing out the word in desperation. “Maaaaa! Maaaaa!”

For the first three weeks of Miles’ life, I cried every night. It was excruciating, on some primal level, to be needed by these two small people at the same time, knowing I could not give myself fully to both of them at the same time. My postpartum soul felt as raw as my body, and each evening wounded it a little more. Here was proof, it seemed that I wasn’t quite fit for this job. My lap wasn’t big enough for two, and I feared, neither was my heart.

***

My children are no longer newborns, but I feel that same anxiety creeping back whenever we encounter each new stage of childhood. I feel like I’m not prepared enough, firm enough, consistent enough, to take on the latest curveball my children have thrown at me, whatever it might be. Beneath it all, there lurks the core fear that I lack something essential in my DNA as a mother.

At each new milestone, I have to learn, once again, that I am enough—not because of anything that I’m doing, right or wrong, but simply because of who I am and Whose image I reflect. I am made in the image of God. Brene Brown calls this mindset “wholeheartedness,” and I think Jesus once called it “abundance.” Whatever you call it, it is the antidote to scarcity: a reminder to show up with nothing more and nothing less than my whole self.

Enough doesn’t mean perfect. It doesn’t mean that I will always get it right or that everything will always go smoothly. There are still nights, like tonight, when no one sleeps, everyone screams, and I wish I could just slam the door and return to my room in peace.

But I stay.

I take a deep breath and steady myself, remembering the lessons I’ve already learned. My job isn’t to fix everything or perform a magic trick to put them back to sleep. My job is to be as present as possible and trust that the rest will work itself out.

Eventually, Miles nestles back onto my shoulder with a yawn. Luke sidles closer and wraps his arms around my neck. I listen to his sniffles and run my fingers through his hair. I am no longer worried that I’m going to run out of room. My lap is crowded, of course, but it is full.

And so is my heart.

Callie Dean is an educator, writer, and program evaluator who believes that the arts can change the world. She loves baking bread, making music, and planting tulips. Callie lives in Shreveport, LA, with her husband and two sons, where she is always on the lookout for new adventures.

076 // Ages & Stages: Navigating New Things – Jay Jones & Jenni Van Winkle Apr 13, 2020

Kindred Mom team members Jay Jones and Jenni Van Winkle join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about the new Kindred Mom series, “Ages & Stages of Childhood“. This episode introduces the series and explores 4 principles to keep in mind when navigating new things as a parent.

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and receive the weekly digest newsletter we send to our readers/listeners!

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Follow Kindred Mom on Facebook

About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “Notes on Nourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Jennifer Van Winkle

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

Jay Jones

Jay is a writer, a mama, and a podcast intern for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective.

You can find some of her musings on her blog at http://www.jayjonesmomagram.com and on Instagram @jacelya_jones.

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**On Things Remembered, Things Forgotten, and Wet Pajamas** Apr 09, 2020
My coziest pajamas are not a set. But even though the pieces do not match, they fit so comfortably on this tired mom bod.

Wholly unflattering, the mixed cotton array is sturdy and warm. The bottoms are black knit stretch pants I bought in the 90s. They’re the perfect length–long enough to protect my ankles from the cruel breath of Midwest winter and my calves and shins from cold cotton sheets at bedtime. The obedient pajama top combo (a red Star Wars t-shirt and a Stranger Things holiday sweatshirt) stays put, never creeping up or gaping at the waist.

This trio of warm jersey knits brings me more joy than an evening of popcorn, red wine, and Schitt’s Creek ever could.

Earlier this week, with gratitude for such wonderful sleepwear, I washed my perfect pajamas then diligently moved them to the dryer. I even remembered to turn the dryer on. But the dryer is old, so I typically have to run it twice, and (you see where this is going), I forgot to run it the second time.

What can I say, except that I am exhausted? And so, for a good 48 hours, my cozy pajamas sat in a heap of wet laundry, growing a musty scent in the cold, damp tomb. Imagine my pjs’ loneliness, surely despondent for our symbiotic, warm relationship.

While tidying up last night, I anticipated the congratulatory pjs. How wonderful my cold ankles and offended shins would feel at bedtime! When I opened the dryer to fetch the three necessary pieces, (continuing to ignore the rest of the clothes, because why would I ever put all that laundry away at 10:30 at night?), I assured myself that no, the clothes were not wet, only cold because they’d been sitting in that very spot for two days.

I thought, “Aha! I shall turn the dryer on to warm up the cozy jammies!”

When I returned five minutes later, after washing my face and brushing my teeth, I smelled heartbreak. I caught the mildewy-and-abandoned-once-clean-now-not aroma and recalled how I had both remembered and not remembered to run the dryer. So, I moved the load of laundry backward, right into the basin of the washing machine, for a big re-do in the morning.

Thus, I had to wear unkind pajamas—a matching blue set with short pant legs, made of too-thin jersey, not nearly warm enough. And as I shivered off to sleep, I envisioned a life where I can remember all the important things, like turning the dryer on, again.

This morning, I made a second attempt at washing my best pajamas, with all the success I had envisioned the first time around. I managed to turn the dryer on twice, even though my day was peppered with birthday fanfare. Today my youngest child turned ten years old.

Tonight, as I readied myself for bed and sat quietly in my cozy pj’s, enjoying the mountain fresh detergent scent, I reflected on the busyness of the day.

I’d prepared the foods my littlest loves; I’d packaged her gifts with a flourish of tissue paper; I’d watched the light of ten candles dance across the darkened family room, across the faces of my three children and my husband, as we’d sung Happy Birthday in the same key as our howling dog.

I thought of her gleeful puff that extinguished those candles and ushered out her first decade, the one in which parenting felt expansive and never-ending. And with the candle smoke still swirling, the second half of parenting took a seat on the sofa, set up the ticking clock that cannot be paused, and all the thoughts started up: Did I remember to hold my babies enough? Am I losing them already? Who am I if I’m not caring for little people?

Sitting and reflecting in my perfect cozy pajamas, a tide of sadness rushed over me, grief for the loss of single digits, chubby cheeks, and mispronounced words. For hands and faces glazed in stickiness, for foam lightsaber duels, for dog-pile wrestling matches, for “Let it Go” and Ninjago. Well, no, maybe not Ninjago.

I wept the hot, stored up tears that had been waiting for just this day. They jumped and tumbled out of my puffing eyes, and spilled down all over my cozy pj’s, now wet once again.

And bless that nightwear; it wrapped itself around me in just the right kind of hug and tucked me into bed, where I fantasized about a baby, growing to an adolescent, to an adult, to a mother herself.

I remembered one of the things I’d forgotten in the decade that just departed: I am a mom, and also a thousand different things: a writer, a chef, a dreamer, a motivator, a traveler, an explorer. Things that over time I’d willingly or unknowingly pressed the pause button on, in favor of love-seat cuddles, sleepless nights, and reading the same board book 13,268 times.

While I plan to walk to the tempo of the ticking clock, in step with the astounding humans developing under my roof, I’m going to invite more and more versions of me to come along. I may hit resume on forgotten editions of myself that have been left on the shelf. I expect to meet new pieces of my own developing personhood, as I savor the next several chapters of being a tired mom.

The tapestry of those knit together selves will be sturdy enough when the time comes to launch into the world my most important project to date: my children. I might be a bit faded, worn down, and threadbare in spots, but aren’t those the truest markings of hard-working, well-loved garments—or in my case, the ultimate broken-in wear pattern of parenting and partnership?

I’d love to talk about this more, but I just remembered that I need to start the dryer again.

Andrea Lee Dunn is from Indianapolis, Indiana, by way of the Texas-Mexico border and North Carolina. She enjoys working at home, raising her three children. For decades, she wrote for her own enjoyment and growth but recently began sharing her work, which can now be found in Entropy Magazine, the Same, New Mexico Review, Southwestern American Literature, and Flying Island Literary Journal, for which she received a Pushcart Prize Nomination. Andrea studied creative writing at Texas Tech University. You can connect with Andrea on Facebook.

**Grief and Gratitude** Apr 08, 2020
“Hey Finn,” my five-year-old called to his three year-old brother, “Don’t forget to look for treasure!” Standing in the middle of an undeveloped field near our neighborhood, my three carefree boys searched for treasure in the field as they have done many times before. On occasion, they bring me spring wildflowers, roly polies or sticks bent like snakes. Often, they bring me rocks and tell me they’ve found a treasure for their collection.

Today my oldest found a rock and ran to me excitedly, “Look Mama, you have to see this one!” Before I could get out my standard “Mmmhmmm, that’s awesome buddy,” I realized this rock really was special because it was shaped like a key and appeared to be some kind of fossil.

“What do you think the key opens?” My boys’ exuberant chatter filled the sidewalk as we made our quarantine loop around the neighborhood. As the boys imagined treasure chests or secret passageways the fossil key might lead them too, I realized I am trying to unlock the secrets to thriving in the tension of this unusual and difficult time.

Just this week I cried at a video from my son’s teacher. I cried because I am tired from full time homeschool days, an exhausting pregnancy with our fourth son, and I miss the routine and structure my family thrives on. Her familiar face and comforting presence brought a moment of calm to our chaos, but also touched a deep longing for human contact and normalcy. I wondered how I could break the news to my kids that Easter traditions, my three-year-old’s Tiger birthday, and my five-year-old’s first big boy soccer team season are now cancelled?

The grief of my personal loss and of the collective wave of human suffering was unlocked inside me: beloved friends who are on the front lines at ERs and hospitals, friends’ wedding plans now uncertain, families’ income dried up with the shelter in place order, and the sorrow pricked by loved ones lost to Covid-19.

We are all experiencing grief for a million different reasons. None less important than the others.

The boys rode on, searching for treasure in the adjacent field.

They have declared this field their “off-roading trail,” and I laugh because it is only a small slope with lumpy dirt leading to the field. Still, they’ve fueled their dreams of monster bike racing with a creative outlook on the landscape before them. Their treasure hunts and off-roadin’ adventures in the middle of quarantined suburbia have shown me the treasures available no matter where we are. My heart whispers, Thank you, Lord, for warm Texas springs, $12 kiddie pools, and finding a bag of water balloons stuffed in a forgotten box that have entertained my quarantine crew for hours.

Tears filled my eyes again but this time it was because I am grateful, grateful for the provision and peace available to me even in the unknowns.

I’ve noticed the life of following Jesus is filled with dichotomies: death bringing life, weakness transformed into strength, mourning turned to dancing.

Grief and Gratitude: if we hold them together, we’ll find the grace needed for this unprecedented moment in history. The grace comes not in spite of grief and suffering, but because of it.

We can hold space for both.

We must look for treasure in the unexpected, unpredictable, and even undesirable parts of this season. The gratitude this treasure hunt awakens will propel us toward the hope necessary to thrive.

It is imperative to also allow ourselves to name and feel grief, so that pain is not left unresolved in our hearts.

We can experience them both and become healthier in our souls when our best friend and Savior is Jesus. He is described as “a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). As such, we’re safe to share our burdens with Him.

We’re able to boldly ask for grace and can expect to receive exactly what we need in these difficult days because we have access to God through Jesus Christ. “Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrews 4:16)

Grief and Gratitude: if we hold them together maybe we’ll find the wholeness we were created for and the world around us desperately needs.

Charity Rios is a Boy Momma to 3 of the wildest, and squishiest sets of dimpled cheeks plus 1 in her belly! Most days you can find her top knottin’ it, totin’ potties and rollin’ in the mini, The power of the gospel is her melody and unleashing women from captives into warriors is her passion. She would love to send you a free truth declaration to overcome the enemies’ lies with the truth. Find it here! You can also follow along on Instagram @claritywithcharity, or at claritywithcharity.com

**Raw Milk** Apr 07, 2020
I sit in my 17-month-old daughter’s toddler bed, my arms wrapped around her tiny body. It is the middle of the night, and I have lost track of how many times I have found myself in this position. She sits on my lap and wails, hits me while I try to comfort her. I hug her tight and try to suppress my own tears threatening to escape as heavy sobs.

I don’t want to be doing this. I know what she wants, what she needs, what will make all of this end.

But I can’t give it to her.

I can, but I don’t want to. I’ve endured 17 months of non-stop nursing, day and night. She only sleeps when she is suckling away, attached to my breast. I haven’t slept through the night, had my arms free, or a moment to myself in over a year. I am trying to heal from postpartum depression while mothering two children.

It is all too much.

The tears I want to cry are not just because I am spending these dark hours in a toddler bed or ending a nursing relationship with my daughter, they fall for all of the hardships I have faced in the last year and a half raising her.

***

“It’s hard when they only want you,” I tell my future sister-in-law. She is sitting on the couch across from me, nursing her six-month-old son. She tells me he still isn’t sleeping through the night, that he is happiest when he is next to her. There are similarities between their relationship and the one I share with my daughter. I offer her solidarity; I have no advice.

“When Zo was a baby, she never took a bottle. She would wait for me. I’d walk into the house, and she would be screaming her head off because she was hungry. We tried every type of bottle–that’s why you have so many different kinds from us,” I laugh. “We even tried formula. She didn’t take a sippy cup until she was 18 months old.” Three years of distance and I can finally think about those exhausting and trying days, and the emotional and physical toll they took on me.

I was chained to my baby, afraid to leave her for even a little while. Every attempt I made to go to a mom’s group and leave her in the nursery or find a few minutes to myself at home or on a date with my husband failed. She nursed to fall asleep for every nap and bedtime, then slept in my arms or next to me on my bed. I knew how dangerous this was, but it was the only place she would sleep. I would lay next to her, my breast in her mouth all night long. Every attempt I made to release her grasp on me ended with her waking up and crying. The only comfort she wanted was me. I would roll over to the other side, offer myself to her, and watch her drift off to sleep.

***

I felt it the moment she was placed on my chest. The dark cloud of depression rolled through and settled right above me. I looked down at my perfect, newborn daughter, this girl I had prayed and hoped for. I cried, not tears of joy, but disappointment.

I don’t want her; someone needs to take her away.

Maybe she heard those terrible thoughts on the day of her birth, the moment we met face to face. Maybe she knew how desperately I wanted to be far from that hospital bed, still a mother to one and happy. Maybe she attached herself to me so quickly and held on so tight because she didn’t want me to let her go. She held on to me for dear life. For her life. And mine.

I didn’t think I would survive those months of her wanting only me. She needed me so intensely in those moments, and her needs wore me out.

The week it took to wean her at night was one of the hardest weeks of my life. Night after night, I held her and fell asleep next to her in her toddler bed. The moments I was awake, I whispered apologies into her ears and rubbed her curly brown hair. “I just can’t do it anymore, baby girl. I need you to learn to sleep without me. I need you to stop needing me,” I’d whisper into her ear. “Please, let’s just figure this out together.”

Once she was able to fall asleep and stay asleep on her own, I weaned her completely. I poured whole milk into sippy cup after sippy cup, into baby bottles and water bottles, in a desperate attempt to get her to drink. I poured warm and cold breast milk into these cups. Added warm milk to my milk, cold milk to my milk. I watered it down and threw banana slices and strawberries into the milk. On more than one occasion, I added chocolate syrup. I did everything I could think of to make her want regular milk or anything other than me.

Nothing worked.

I watched her refuse milk all day long, reaching for me and crying. It may have only been a few days, a week at the most, but at the time it felt like years. I didn’t know if we were going to make it or if she was going to become dehydrated. I clearly wasn’t thinking straight, my mind numbed by postpartum depression, scrambled from life with two kids. Every refusal led both of us to tears.

***

My daughter tested me daily during that year and a half. She still does, even at age four. She is still attached to me, happiest when she is on my lap or cradled into my arm. It is rough for her, the middle child, to share me with her brother and sister. I am still learning how to be present with her without giving her every ounce of me, ensuring there is enough left for everyone else, including myself.

She still finds her way into my room almost every night, telling me she is scared or had a bad dream. “I need to tell you something,” she’ll whisper to me.

“What do you need to tell me?” I ask, masking the irritation with what I hope she perceives as love.

“I just love you,” she smiles, takes a drink of water, and walks away.

I wonder why she is the one who wants to be near me 24/7, why she is the one who tells me she loves me a hundred times a day or needs the most affection and attention. Why did she grasp onto me in those early, dark days of depression that intersected with her first days? Did she know something?

It’s only in these years since I finally see how much I needed her, too. I thought I was going to drown in the early days of mothering her. I didn’t know how to take care of myself when I gave every last drop to her.

There were so many times I wanted to give up, to let go of everything I felt chained me to my depression- if she would just stop needing me so much, then I could heal. She was always there telling me in her own ways how desperately she needed me. I knew I loved her, despite my fragile psyche telling me otherwise. I knew I needed her, too. She pushed me to the edge consistently. But it was her consistency that brought me back.

Jacey is a wife to her husband of seven years and together, they have three children. She finds solace in words and between the pages of a good book. Her writing has been featured on Coffee + Crumbs, among others. You can find her on Instagram or her blog.

075 // Wholehearted Mom – Lynne Patti, Jay Jones, & Mary Kate Brown Apr 06, 2020

Kindred Mom team members Lynne Patti, Mary Kate Brown, and new member Jay Jones join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about becoming a whole hearted mom and how “wholeness” contributes peace to a home and family. This episode is part of the Peaceful Home series on KindredMom.com.

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and receive the weekly digest newsletter we send to our readers/listeners!

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

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About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “Notes on Nourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram(@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Mary Kate Brown

Mary Kate Brown is a homeschooling stay-at-home mama living in the suburbs of Chicago. She is married to her high-school sweetheart Brian, and together they have three daughters. She decorates cakes, is a hobby gardener, enjoys reading, and she writes about faith and motherhood at www.choosinggraceblog.com. Catch up with her on Facebookand Instagram.

Read some of Mary Kate’s writing:
Dare to Dance / New Baby, New Mom

Lynne Patti

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Grief Experienced / Learning How To Breathe As A New Mom / Prevailing Strength

Jay Jones

Jay is a writer, a mama, and a podcast intern for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective.

You can find some of her musings on her blog at http://www.jayjonesmomagram.com and on Instagram @jacelya_jones.

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**Just Caitlin** Apr 02, 2020
On the way home from preschool, my middle daughter usually keeps up a steady stream of inane chatter. She talks about the art projects she did that morning and conversations we had yesterday. I give myself permission to listen with only one ear, rotating through several noncommittal exclamations. “Really? Hm. That sounds interesting.”

But this afternoon, as she gazes out the window toward the scruffy, green pines lining the far side of the highway, she is quiet. I appreciate the relative silence of our drive, the ample room it provides for my wandering mind, until she suddenly announces, “I never want to be a mom.”

I’m glad she can’t see my face directly as I process this statement. Never? I struggle briefly with feeling judged, hurt that my life as a stay-at-home mom already feels like an inadequate aspiration to her. What does she see in me that makes her want the opposite?

“Why not?” I ask, searching for her face in the rearview mirror. I keep my voice light and even, in the small, (probably) vain hope that she will forget all about this if I don’t make it a big deal. Like all preschoolers, she has a fickle way of disregarding things I’d like her to remember, but grabbing the horns of ideas I wish would run away.

“Because I want to be a ballerina. And a real artist!” she exclaims. In the edge of the mirror, I can see her wide, earnest eyes as she turns toward me.

“Oh,” I say lamely. After a pause, “You know, mommies can do all kinds of things! You could be a dancer and a mommy if you want to.”

“I know!” she replies gamely, tilting her head forward and raising her palms for emphasis. She pastes on her biggest squinty-eyed smile. “But…” she trails off for a moment. Then her voice takes on a squeaky cheerfulness, rising in pitch as if she is opening door number 3 to reveal my prize. “I just don’t want to be a mom.”

I want to tell her that I found myself after becoming a mother. Not in that cheesy, motherhood-made-me-whole kind of way. No. Being a mother pushed me to the absolute end of myself. When I was hanging on by a thread, that’s when I finally started wondering what I wanted from my life. That’s when I finally remembered my childhood dream of being a writer.

Ta-daaa! I want to shout. I’m doing it! I’m doing now what I didn’t have the courage to fail at before motherhood.

I want to tell Caitlin about this recently rediscovered joy. I want to tell her that being a mom won’t stop her from doing the things she loves. Moms can be artists and coaches and entrepreneurs and engineers. If you want to make something amazing happen, just ask a mom.

But I button my lips. I know that trying to force this issue, trying to convince Caitlin that God may call her into motherhood, or that motherhood is worthwhile, will only make her dig in her heels.

***

I always hoped that having a daughter would feel a bit like looking in a mirror. This hope was born of reading too many novels whose authors imagined too few original characters. Fictional daughters are so often the spitting image of their mothers, waving their hands in the same way, sharing similar habits and pet peeves, speaking in the same dulcet tones.

My life as an avid reader built me up to be shocked when I became the mother of girls.

My mirror turned out to be the one from Mary Poppins. While I calmly smooth my hair, thinking I see and hear echoes of myself, my daughter Caitlin is just preparing for her glorious solo. She sings and dances when she wants to, and her choices have little to do with me. I am left staring through the glass in astonishment as a completely separate, cheeky person lives her own life in her own way.

I should probably be grateful she makes her own music and follows it. I once googled “strong-willed children” and learned that someday, my daughter will be less likely to succumb to peer pressure. All her practice at saying no to me may grow her into a young woman who can lead others confidently.

This doesn’t help me right now.

At age 4, my “middlest daughter” takes pure joy in discovering the ways she is different from me. It started with bananas, which she would happily eat all day long while I gag from the smell. It grew to encompass pictures of bugs and so much more. Sometimes, learning that I like something will send her scuttling into the enemy camp, just for the fun of being contrary.

Yet, she desperately wants the fellowship of being seen and known. She likes to tell me what she’s thinking by assuming I already know. “You know I never want to go to Egypt, because they have scorpions,” or “You know applesauce is my favorite snack, Mommy.”

Yes. I do know. You told me this yesterday. And the day before that.

One day, I suppose, she may assume the opposite. She may assume I don’t know anything about her. That I couldn’t possibly understand. She just doesn’t realize that it’s already true. I catch glimpses that I recognize—her love of books, her silly laugh, her interest in singing and dance—but mostly, she is a mystery to me.

Why, for example, does she prefer to sleep on her floor instead of in her bed? Night after night, I tuck her in and say goodnight, only to find her scrunched on the floor an hour later, snoozing next to a line of books I swear we put away before bedtime.

Why does she reject adjectives? When she turned 3, Caitlin informed me that being called “little one” hurt her feelings. Within days, a parade of other adjectives met a stubborn end. Caitlin does not want to be called beautiful or brave or strong or creative or happy.

She isn’t any of those things, she tells me.

She is just Caitlin.

***

It turns out, the advice I want to give her in the car is the same advice I need to hear myself: Be open to how God may write the twists and turns in Caitlin’s story.

It’s certainly possible that one day, her (not little) heart-shaped face will resemble my oval one. She may turn out to share common interests with me. Maybe she will call herself a mother and homemaker.

Or maybe she will become a photographer for National Geographic and live the kind of itinerant life that would terrify me.

My job as her mom is not to walk her through the exact same joy I found. No matter what God calls her to, she will never become a mirror image of me—and I’m glad. I would much rather see her reflecting the image of Christ. My job is simply to point her face toward Jesus, and hold her hand until she is ready to walk in joy of her own.

Melissa Hogarty lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children. She believes deeply in the power of reading and the love of Christ. She loves to bake, sing loudly, and make her own home décor. She blogs about food, faith, and family over at Savored Grace, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**All Aboard** Mar 31, 2020
I am standing on a train platform. It feels good to be here in this familiar place. People are chatting excitedly around me. The arrival and departure board glows above me. I’ve done this seven other times, and I feel pretty confident if I’m being honest. I’ve prepared for this trip, I’ve arranged for this trip, and I’m ready. My little suitcase is loyally sitting next to my leg, meticulously packed and gone over. My purse is filled with my ticket, my book, gum, chapstick. I have everything I need.

Waiting for the usual rumble of my arriving train, I casually glance at my watch to check the time, then grab my phone from my back pocket to check my unread texts. Admittedly, I’ve had to pump myself up a bit this time around because, being the seventh time I’ve made this trip, I need a little motivation to feel excited. I’m a little tired, a little overwhelmed. I had some hesitation a few weeks ago–should I even still be doing this? A twinge of doubt had crept in, but I shoved it out of my mind in favor of the familiar tracks I’ve been on over again and again.

Sure it might be hard–but it’s the hard I know.

The train chugs in, right on time. I step on, lugging my suitcase behind me. I take a deep breath and find my seat. As I settle in, the ticketing agent comes by. I shuffle in my purse for my prepaid ticket. I hand it over as the train pulls out of the station. Here we go!

He hands me back my ticket, and bluntly says, “You’re on the wrong train.”

I’m sorry, what?

The wrong train? After all this preparation? No, that can’t be right. You’re on the wrong train, buddy. I barely stifle an eye roll as I look at my ticket to figure out what’s going on. My eyes widen as I make the shocking leap of understanding: I am, indeed, on the wrong train.

Get me out of here and onto the right train! Quick! There’s no time to lose! Where is this train headed? How much work will it take to make it right? I don’t have time for this. How did I get on the wrong train? I know how to do this, I’ve done it so many times before! How in the world did I get on the wrong train?

I stand and yell at the ticketing agent without even thinking. “STOP!”

“Ma’am, please. The conductor knows exactly where we are headed, and I’m sure he’ll get us there safe and sound. If I were you, I’d sit down and enjoy the scenery.”

Sit down? Enjoy the scenery? He seems so nonchalant about this. I need to get on the right train NOW. Confusion and fear have quickly replaced the calm and confidence I had experienced mere moments before when I stood on the platform.

I consider all options–pounding on the door, screaming to anyone who would listen, scrambling to find, and yell at the conductor. But in the end, feeling helpless and powerless, I decide to follow the advice given. Slowly, I sit back down. I guess there’s not a whole lot to be done now that the train is chugging along. It may be headed toward an unknown location, but wherever we’re going is my new destination. I look out of the window at the blur of scenery whizzing by, the grip on my ticket is shaky, and my breaths come shallow and fast. I weep at the realization: I won’t be on a known journey anymore. I don’t know where I am going, and all the bravado I previously had in my ability to navigate familiar terrain is gone. The course has changed, and at this point, I’m not in any position to resist it. My only option is to trust the conductor will help me get where I need to be. It feels like a death, and I don’t like it.

***

I had seven years of homeschooling under my belt. Some years I taught my children with a tiny infant on my lap or with a toddler asking for snacks every few seconds. Some years I taught with nausea as my companion, another baby growing in my belly. Some years included field trips and playdates. Some years involved tears and throwing books across the schoolroom. Some years were marked by scintillating world travel and learning on the go. All of it was ours. All of it had been my master class in allowing God to lead and guide, and for me to get out of the way. I had become confident I could teach my kids at home, regardless of all the extenuating circumstances of any particular year.

We started this year like normal, new books on the shelves, new routines penciled into my planner. Except it wasn’t going normally. This year was different.

I was breaking down. My confidence was failing. The demands of the last seven years of homeschooling and twelve years of mothering had brought me to a low place. My body was physically weak and unhealthy. My mind was hyper-focused on managing our home, meal plans, school plans, laundry plans, cleaning plans. My doctor told me I had to lower my stress and focus on my health because my blood work had come back with heightened levels of cortisol and inflammatory markers.

Our days were a mess of five kids going in five different directions. My husband, usually supportive and helpful, seemed resigned that he would “lose his wife” to homeschooling yet another year. I had so much underlying anger and frustration. Maybe it was the three years of interrupted sleep? Too much coffee? Too much sugar? No, it was deeper. I couldn’t handle loud noises or bright lights or even too much touch. I was at burnout level, and I felt like there was no recourse.

I knew to continue in this way was not healthy, but I couldn’t stop it. I got on the train anyway, following what I knew. I began year eight, homeschooling my kids in 7th, 4th, and 2nd grades with our 3 and 1-year-old little tagalongs following behind. Here we go.

I started year eight, day six of home school with every intention of keeping everyone on task and learning. Instead, by noon, all my kids were completely discouraged, hadn’t learned a thing, and were running to the backyard to escape from me. Meanwhile, I was crying, yelling, and panicking because somewhere in my soul, I knew I could not muscle together 166 more days of school like this. I felt like I had made the completely wrong decision to begin homeschooling this year. I didn’t know what to do except cry and yell and fight and resist.

I am a homeschool mom. That is who I am. Stop changing everything.

Then, I sensed a gentle urging from God:

Do you trust me? Do you really trust me? Are you just giving me lip service when you say ‘I am thine, O Lord,’ or will you actually let go of it all and know that I will never leave you or forsake you? When I tell you that my plans are for your good, do you just nod along, but secretly know you will try to rely on your own strength and cleverness to keep going? You cannot any longer. Trust ME. Rely on ME. I will bring you into a place that you can’t even imagine right now. This territory I am about to conquer for you will blow your mind.

My resistance to this gentle urging was epic. I was very strong and very clever, after all.

**********

I knew God was more than capable of caring for me. Fully. I recognized His call to pursue greater wholeness and health. Going back to the familiar and comfortable path I’d been on wasn’t possible anymore, because I was on empty. We had to find a new way forward.

Logistically, this looked like sending our three older kids to school. Like, a real school full-time. My husband and I researched schools on the afternoon of year eight, day six of homeschooling, and settled on one quickly. In the next few weeks, we did a family interview, paid the fees, and bought the kids new clothes (the homeschool pajama uniform wouldn’t fly in this new setting). The kids started their classes at the end of September.

With the older kids at school, I spent the first month recovering from the breakdown. I held my little ones, read to them, and took them for walks. When the older three came home each day, I held them and made them snacks and listened to them. Many mornings, after the older kids were gone, I caught up with my husband, who works from home. I listened to him as he processed deep things, and he listened to me while I did the same. The little ones played with toys together, knowing mama and daddy were close by. I cried a lot, dug into my Bible whenever I had the chance, and napped almost every day.

The second month, I began to feel a little better. I began a 100-day workout plan right in my living room. It felt good to move and strengthen my wearied body. My little ones did the workouts too (my three-year-old does burpees better than me!). I had my blood work re-done during that second month, and all my levels were back to normal—my doctor said it was the best she’s seen my levels in three years. Besides that, I realized my three-year-old daughter needed more discipline, so I created boundaries for her and stuck to them because I had the time, space, and ability to follow through. My one-year-old son’s language blossomed, and we found success with meaningful communication rather than barely enduring his wordless screaming as we had for the previous 18 months. I cried a little less often. I still napped many days and went to bed early. My early morning Bible reading became an absolute necessity. I began to feel less like I was about to break, and more like I was being built up gently, from the inside out.

Month three revealed moments of actual joy for our family. There were successes for my kids at school, as they grew to understand their classroom systems, formed new friendships, discovered new passions. I started laughing again, actual belly laughing-with the kids, with my husband, and with my friends. The breakdown of year eight, day six, was a faded memory now, and I relished the new normal we were all experiencing.

We just finished month four. I begin each day in the Bible. I literally open my hands when I begin reading to signal that I’m ready for whatever God has for me. My husband and I are more emotionally connected and prioritize each other more than we’ve been able to manage in years. The life of our family is ever moving and changing, of course. We still have to deal with sibling squabbles, kids sneaking snacks, and our near teenager viewing too much YouTube. But despite the ups and downs, I know I’m on the right train. In this season, I have complete assurance that the new journey we find ourselves on is exactly where we need to be. I am confident, not in my own strength or ability, but in God and His care for my family, and perhaps even more profoundly, His care for me. He is trustworthy.

Our family is all aboard.

Lynne lives just northeast of Los Angeles in a little suburb called Canyon Country, CA. Her five children challenge her sock-matching skills, her culinary prowess (especially when it comes to boxed mac and cheese), and her ability to conjure the best bedtime stories possible. She and her composer husband of 15 years enjoy date nights about twice a month where they get to finish a thought and eat the food when it’s still hot.

074 // Quieting Self Criticism – Robin Chapman & Lindsey Cornett Mar 30, 2020

Kindred Mom team members Lindsey Cornett and Robin Chapman join host Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about quieting self-criticism, dealing with negative self-talk, and finding personal peace by tending your thought-life. This episode is part of the Peaceful Home series on KindredMom.com.

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and receive the weekly digest newsletter we send to our readers/listeners!

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Follow Kindred Mom on Facebook

About Host Emily Sue Allen:

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and host of the Kindred Mom podcast. She also is an ongoing devotional contributor to Joyful Life Magazine, a member of Hope*Writers, and has contributed writing in a variety of online spaces. Living a deeply nourished life, and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of humble things and deeply values the grace and truth of Jesus Christ and the riches found in the word of God. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and blogs at emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her monthly newsletter, “Notes on Nourishing,” for personal stories about intentionally nourishing your spirit, mind, and body. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram (@kindred_mom) and Facebook, and say hello to Emily personally on Instagram (@emily_sue_allen).

Guests on this Episode

Lindsey Cornett
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

Robin Chapman

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

—————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**Throw Pillows** Mar 26, 2020
“Stop jumping on the throw pillows!” I turn and yell from the kitchen, hands pruny and sudsy from doing dishes, splattering drops of water on the floor. The two children in the living room ignore me, quickly piling pillows in a beige and orange and turquoise tower between the couch and coffee table. The youngest crouches on his toes. He is a coiled ball of four-year-old boy-limbs, quivering with energy. He leaps, and his gleeful hollers reverberate in my head as he becomes a panther and pounces onto the pile. I cringe, watching as he topples the mountain of pillows.

“My turn!” shouts the six-year-old, long brown hair falling in her face as she scoops the pile back together. The younger scrambles out of her way, and I scowl as she takes her turn.

“What have I told you about jumping on the pillows?” I shout with teeth clenched.

“But, it’s fun!” They grin at me with wide, hopeful smiles, hair askew, and cheeks pink from exertion.

“No!” I wipe my still dripping hands with a towel and march over to yank the back door open. “If you want to be crazy, go outside,” I command. Smiles fading, the children trudge out the back door.

Grumbling, I dismantle the tower of pillows and place them in their assigned spots. I notice a tear in one and set it strategically in a corner. The permanent marker on another faces the back of the couch. I place the unblemished ones in front, breathing an orderly sigh of relief. Now I can do the dishes in peace. I know I might be unreasonable, but I can’t seem to help myself. Motherhood is unpredictable, the children throwing tantrums one day and behaving perfectly the next. They keep me on my toes, constantly guessing what the day will bring. Putting things in order has been my preferred method to anchor myself in the chaos.

As an adult, decorative pillows are the way I bring peace to this chapter of motherhood. Without order, I am anxious and irritated and unable to focus. I feel my skin crawl, and my head spins at the entropy around me. I might not be able to convince my children to eat healthy at every meal or pick up all their toys, but I can coordinate turquoise and orange throw pillows in the living room to match the stripes in the curtains. They are something tangible that I can see and control. Right now, there are throw pillows in the sitting room, soft and fluffy, on the couches. I have them on my bed, perfectly placed on either side. They are in the children’s rooms, resting neatly on comforters, drawing my eye away from the toys scattered on the floor, and up to the order I try to maintain for my own sanity. Seeing them in their place, exactly where they should be, anchors me.

The dishes are done, and I’m wiping the countertops when my daughter opens the back door, shaking off leaves and dirt from the yard. My son follows on her heels.

“Mommy, we were swinging and jumping off to see how far we could go!” My son tells me. “I jumped this far!” He says, holding his arms wide.

“That sounds fun!” I smile. I place the sponge on the sink where it goes and survey my work, thinking of what I want to organize next.

“Can we build a fort?” my daughter asks, interrupting my train of thought.

“Yeah, we want to build a fort!” my son chimes in, jumping up and down.

“Go for it,” I say. “But don’t touch my pillows,” I give them a half-hearted glare, pointing at the living room I just reclaimed, my haven from the disorder of the children. The throw pillows beam at me from their places on the couch, and I smile back at the order I have maintained.

“Okay!” they respond.

I watch as they move the chairs out from the dining table and into a row. My daughter slides the piano bench out while my son grunts and scoots the heavy coffee table across the floor. I cringe as my nicely arranged room is disassembled, but I control my impulse to push the furniture back into place. A glance at my throw pillows tells me I can put it all back when they are done. Right now, I stand off to the side and observe their progress.

They run upstairs to grab blankets, throwing them over the stair railing to land in a heap on the floor. The chairs and bench and table are soon covered in Frozen and Batman blankets–the room transformed into a series of tunnels. Little heads poke in and out, giggling and playing. Dolls and stuffed animals come downstairs, and a card game is set up underneath the fort.

My heart swells as I watch the two of them play together, creating their own imaginary world and organizing it how they like. They arrange and negotiate and set things in their places, putting order to chaos, creating harmony, doing exactly what I do, in their own way.

With young children, I realize peace isn’t something I can display and put perfectly in its place. Sometimes peace is messy, with furniture all over the place and my sitting room covered in blankets. The smiles and giggles of my children remind me that I can let go of order and move things around. I have learned that my heart is still happy even when everything is not where I think it should be. But, lest you think I’ve become a new person, let me remind you that my throw pillows are still off-limits, a compromise of sorts between my old life of control and order, and this new, chaotic one of motherhood.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Beth Robinson resides in Northern California with her husband and children. A former schoolteacher, she spends her days homeschooling, reading, writing, or gardening. She lives by Benjamin Franklin’s motto, “A place for everything, everything in its place,” and happily makes her bed every morning. You can find her on Instagram.

**Uncertain Times** Mar 25, 2020
One week before the first case of COVID-19 was confirmed in our school district, I made a list of all the pantry- and freezer-friendly foods I could think of and dragged my family to the grocery store. That day, we filled two grocery carts to the brim and spent more money than I’d like to recall on dried beans and canned tomatoes, sacks of flour and boxes of cereal.

At first, I was relieved and satisfied. I’m not usually the kind of girl who stocks up; I refuse to join Costco, and I have a special happy dance for using up all the food in my fridge, save condiments. But this time I had gone out on a limb. I had prepared my family for the possibility of being quarantined in our homes. It wouldn’t be pretty, but we wouldn’t starve.

The next day, I remembered that our laundry detergent was half used up, and I decided we couldn’t live without extra frozen vegetables and ground turkey (I am a vegetarian), and I dragged my daughters back to the store.

I repeated that pattern every single day for the whole week. I developed two faces, one that laughed with her friends over the phone about how I had gone off the deep end, and another much more fearful one who was still shoving more and more pantry “staples” into her laundry room. I was now the proud owner of enough peanut butter to choke a horse. (But in my defense, I only bought one pack of toilet paper.)

I’m not prescient. I hardly ever even read the news—and given my reaction to learning a highly contagious virus is circling ever closer, you can probably guess why: I tend to panic. I find myself filled with absolute dread every time I learn about a new, horrible thing one of my fellow humans has said or done. My fragile heart can’t see a way toward holiness and joy when I am aware of all the hurt and destruction that cycles through, day in and day out. So I pretend to be a turtle and hide myself away.

I am grateful to the friends who make this possible by pointedly sharing the things I absolutely have to know. Like the fact that a deadly virus is sweeping the globe.

Now that it’s here, I can’t look away. Now, closing my eyes feels just as scary as keeping them open.

***

I had to slam my freezer shut and lean on it hard to keep it closed. I couldn’t stop looking up listicles about vegetables with long shelf lives. But I didn’t want anyone else to know I had turned into a closet doomsday prepper, so I cautiously kept sending my son to school. He started going to a very small private school a few months ago, and I didn’t want to interrupt his new routine unless I had to.

But I wish I had prepared him for the way fear spreads—just like a virus. One kid fills up, and before you know it, the entire playground is full of small children who are worried about becoming orphans.

“Mom?” my son began calmly as we drove away from school.

“Yes, buddy,” I called to the back seat, navigating around a narrow turn on the two-lane road toward home.

“I’m kind of worried about the coronavirus.”

“Oh! Why’s that?” My mind immediately began racing. How can I reassure him? How can I calm his heart?

I’m ashamed to admit it, but Scripture never once entered my mind. I employed a strategy of deny, deny, deny. I got so wrapped up in taking care of this virus situation myself, I forgot I have a Father in Heaven who loves me and my son and every single other human literally more than life. Literally. As in, He died rather than leave us in a broken and wretched state. And then He’s so powerful that He didn’t even stay dead. If He loves me that much and has that much power…He’s a secure place to let go of my fears.

But I wasn’t thinking about God when my son said, “I’m not so much worried for me, because I heard that kids aren’t getting sick. But I heard old people are, so what if you and Daddy get sick and die?”

Oof. Also, ouch. Did he just lump me in with the elderly and infirm?

I proceeded to refute his fears, telling him we were going to be just fine, and we are strong, and he has nothing to worry about. He realized he would probably go live with cousins if we die, and decided he would get to play all the Mario Odyssey he wants at their house, and by then he was too busy talking about Mario to worry about anything else.

***

Confirmed cases of COVID-19 in our county: 3.

The governor decided all schools in our state should close for two weeks.

We ran out of fresh fruit.

My husband started talking about buying a decibel meter to measure the thunderous noise our children produce constantly.

***

Earlier this year, I resolved to memorize 52 new Bible verses—one for each week in 2020. Here we are, halfway through March, and I’ve memorized only one.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:26, NIV)

I need this verse on repeat. I also have a few other pertinent verses drifting through my mind. Like the one where Jesus proclaims, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33b, NIV, emphasis added.)

I love the encouragement to have a heart for God at all times—a heart that trusts. I want to tuck myself under the shadow of God’s wings and refuse to be anxious. God is not surprised by this virus nor any other kind of pandemic, from violence to greed to apathy. He is not surprised and He is not defeated.

I want to fill my children up with more than food. I want to fill them with the knowledge that the God of the universe knows our needs. He may not provide in the ways we expect, we of little faith and fragile bodies, but He is not absent.

I don’t know whether my family will get sick, or if we are already on the clock, incubating an illness that will bounce around inside our walls for weeks. But I do know what I want my kids to remember from this outbreak: I want them to remember that we trusted God in uncertain times, that we talked about Him diligently when we sat in our house and when we lay down and when we rose, that we believed He is our Redeemer forever.

Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com

Melissa Hogarty lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children. She believes deeply in the power of reading and the love of Christ. She loves to bake, sing loudly, and make her own home décor. She blogs about food, faith, and family over at Savored Grace, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**Ugly Mother: The Reality of PPD** Mar 24, 2020
I remember the moment vividly when I changed into someone that I did not recognize. Someone I hated. Someone ugly.

I was attempting to change my daughter’s diaper, and she was in a wiggly, somewhat defiant stage of toddler life that resulted in a battle of wills. With my frustration mounting and my strong-willed daughter dishing out opposition like a baby anarchist, I LOST it. I mean like a crazy person. I did not just yell at my child; I screamed with more fury than any other living soul had ever provoked in me. “JUST LET ME CHANGE YOUR DIAPER!!!!!!” I had never yelled at another human being like that before, but there I was with the dearest little soul in my possession, screaming.

I hated myself. Lily was fine—she met my crazy display with laughter, but the whole scene was very traumatic for me. I did not recognize myself. I felt ashamed, confused, guilty, and horrid. I had never lost control like that in my life. Hoping it was a one-time occurrence, I pushed it to the recesses of my mind and continued to live my mom-life the best I could. But this dark monster that hid in the cave of my subconscious was not content to take control but one lone time. It was a sneaky devil, hibernating in the shadows, making me believe it had left. Then it would re-emerge without warning or predictability, and rear its ugly, furious head. Just when I was feeling in control, having some mom wins, it would emerge. Its attacks were few and far between, but each time it happened, I felt powerless to its control. Powerless to become a good mother. It didn’t matter that I never physically lashed out or verbally degraded my children. It didn’t matter that my words were far less harmful than the terrifying tone with which I communicated them. Each outburst would leave crying children in its wake, and that broke my heart. I sank further into hopelessness.

As shame often does, it beckoned me to silence. I didn’t dare share my struggle or the ugliest parts of my mother-soul with anyone. I was certain that this was just the new me. Motherhood had ruined me and morphed me into an angry, bitter, terrible person. I had gambled and lost. The Mother Hustler had duped me into thinking I could do this. Instead, it had stolen my joy and sentenced me to a life of bitter anger, stewing continuously and erupting sporadically to ruin the lives of my children. There was no better word to describe who I was than ugly.

There was no defense I could muster against it. I would make plans using my knowledge of anger management and coping skills: tools I had often suggested to hurting souls from the other side of the counseling room. Every time they failed. There was no time to use tools. The dark creature took control before I knew what hit me. If I, a trained counselor, could not get myself out of this dark place, there must be something wrong with me. Hopelessness grew.

I was driving home from work one day, turning this problem over in my mind for the thousandth time. By now, it had been years since that watershed moment when I was changing Lily’s diaper, and I now had three beautiful souls in my shakey charge. Following the familiar path back home, my mind was free to analyze and pick apart my plaguing enigma. I began to differentiate between times when the episodes occurred and longer spans of time when they seemed dormant. Like puzzle pieces slowly notching together, I began to recognize that the monster was largely dormant when I was pregnant. Perhaps this was hormonal to some degree? Perhaps having to do with postpartum?

I was, of course, aware of postpartum depression. I had done the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale numerous times as it is standard on postpartum units in the hospital and sometimes in postnatal OB appointments. There were pamphlets handed out during the fog of those first 72 hours after giving birth, but those pamphlets painted a picture of a mother with PPD crying continuously, staying in bed because she couldn’t face the day, having thoughts of harming herself or her baby, and experiencing loss of interest in activities she had previously loved. This was not me. I was not depressed. Angry? Yes. Prone to irrational outbursts of irritability? Definitely. Depressed? No. But that day in the car, I resolved to look up the actual diagnostic symptoms of PPD. Not the Edinburgh questions or the little summation in the pamphlets, but the actual clinical symptoms. I sorted through the Mayo Clinic site detailing PPD symptoms and read them.

I wept.

In an instant, the mystique of the terrible monster that had been haunting me for years shattered. I glanced past the typical symptoms of sadness, crying, loss of interest, and then I saw it. “Intense irritability and anger.” THAT was me. That described perfectly what had been plaguing me for these many months. Like a door swinging wide and flooding my dark confusion with marvelous light, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was not a terrible person. Maybe motherhood had not ruined me. Maybe what I was feeling was a thing, an actual medical condition with causes and treatments – something others experienced too. Maybe I wasn’t so ugly after all.

The next day I called my OB’s office and talked to the phone triage nurse. I explained to her that I thought I might have PPD. That I was not depressed per se, but that my anger had become unmanageable. And to this day, I am thankful to this dear nurse who said to me, “Actually, that is how we see most women exhibiting symptoms of PPD.” Why hadn’t the pamphlets told me that little tidbit? Armed with this confirmation, I saw my doctor and got a prescription for Lexapro. My OB recommended counseling as well, and I began my healing journey.

My life changed. The transformation was dramatic. As the medication took effect, I found that though I still became angry (I had three small children, remember? Anger is par for the course!), the emotion was no longer an attacking monster blindsiding me, but more like an elderly dog on a leash. I was able to take a breath and give a calm, measured response—Stern, straightforward, but without the shrieking and broiling lava of anger. I was in control once again, and it felt so good. I was able to be more like the mom I wanted to be. No more eruptions. No more crying children withdrawing from the verbal outburst. The occasional snappy comment or frustrated yell, but nothing like the attacks of old. It was freedom. I wasn’t an ugly mother; I was a hurting mother that had finally found healing.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Theresa is a mother, author, nurse, and mom-encourager. She runs a crazy household of 4 young kids and moonlights as a labor and delivery nurse, where she has the privilege of inaugurating women into this amazing society of motherhood. Before nursing, she was a therapist specializing in marriage and family therapy and had the honor of helping those in crisis. Now she marries all three areas of experience into a powerhouse of encouragement for moms. She’s like your midwife, best friend, and therapist all rolled into one! For regular encouragement in this crazy mom life, follow her on **Facebook** or **Instagram.**

**Home and Back** Mar 19, 2020
Pushing hard, I open the heavy white gate leading into the backyard of the historic Houston house. An expanse of white gravel covers the backyard. Several giant live oak trees arch over the gravel with style. Their branches wrap around the little two-story guest house in the back corner of the property. At the door, I punch in the way-too-easy-to-guess code (1234!) and enter with the curiosity inherent in coming alone into anyone else’s home for the first time.

Gladly dropping my heavy luggage, I tour the little house slowly. Pink, teal, and orange bohemian touches are everywhere. Tassels dangle from pillows, throws, placemats, and door handles. Realistic faux succulents of all sizes adorn the living room. A giant fiber art piece hangs on the wall, and I find shelves of books and games tucked under the stairwell.

The U-shaped kitchen is anchored by a battered wooden table, lovingly marred by traces of children’s art activities. Smears of tempera paint and faint glitter remind me of my son’s preschool years. How I miss that time of messy creativity. Pink Eames-style chairs encircle the table. The countertops are made of poured concrete; the cupboards are made of sturdy white wood.

What I really want to see, though, are the sleeping quarters and bathroom. Will they really be as lush and comfy as they looked online? Will they offer the quiet, peaceful atmosphere I know I will need this week after excursions in the noisy city? Hopes high, I carefully climb the steep stairway. Entering the room, my English-major heart swoons at the ivy vines climbing across the second-story window, just like something from a story. The book titles on the shelves hint that someone similar to me owns this place. A fluffy white duvet covers the king-sized bed; pink and orange woven throws drape off the edge.

And the heart of it all? The giant jetted bathtub nestled into a sunny corner, surrounded by windows. Exuberant green houseplants perch nearby and dangle their leaves into it as if waiting for their own chance to bathe.

I once had a tub like this, thirty minutes down the road in the Houston suburb where I lived for seven years. It was the best comfort I knew during the years of early motherhood. After long days of nursing and soothing my baby, I often retreated to my tub when his dad came home from work. That bathroom was large and quiet; the water was so warm I wished I could sleep there all night. The house I now rent back in South Dakota has a small tub that doesn’t comfortably fit my wide hips. Showers just aren’t the same. I yearn deeply for the relief offered in a deep, long tub.

**

I haven’t been back to Houston in six years, not since moving to California for my former husband’s career and then again to South Dakota after our divorce. It feels like coming home. But this homecoming is colored with confused anticipation. I feel a strange mix of eagerness to see favorite places and sadness over what happened in the years after we left.

Really, I am here to see my son, my beloved boy, who is eight.

It is the halfway point of his annual 10-week summer stay with his dad. When I last lived in this town, we were an intact family of three. My son was born here. I miss my brick house in the leafy suburb, my church, but what I really miss is my boy. Saying goodbye to him every summer is the hardest part of my year. Opening myself to his departure feels like pushing open a heavy, sticky gate that resists my pressure.

**

Our week together in Houston is filled with ethnic food, trips to Trader Joe’s for necessities like chocolate, museums of all kinds, church services, and a few evenings with friends.

After spending the days with me, my son wants to sleep back at his dad’s place, which is fine because I know how much he needs that time. He misses his dad like crazy, and I wish there was a way for them to see each other more often throughout the year.

While he is with his dad in the evenings, I retreat to the soaking tub, just as I did when he was a newborn. I feel guilty relaxing at home, so leaving home with its many overdue responsibilities is the only real way I can relax before the ultra-marathon of single mom life starts up again in the fall.

Every night this week, I have filled that giant tub with hot water, turned off most of the lights, and placed a bowl of peanut butter cups and a sparkling drink on the tub ledge. I let the tub jets massage my feet and glide my hands over the water’s smoothness. Every night I relax like I haven’t in ages. The fact that this opportunity is rare indeed makes it even harder to drain the tub and step out of it when it’s time for bed.

**

As we sit together in the cozy living room near the end of my visit, reading and watching funny videos, my son and I wonder what the guest house had been before its tasteful renovation. I think it had been a garage, given its proximity to the alley and its concrete floor. Any traces of its old life—oil spots, thick dust, cobwebbed windows, piles of old paint cans—are completely gone. It stands transformed, full of beauty and comfort and lush hospitality, ready to embrace tired moms as they work their own messy, dusty journeys toward transformation.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Kristina Roth is a writer, editor, and creator in South Dakota. She is a solo parent to a spirited boy and two scruffy dogs. Kristina seeks to find God in the beautiful mess of life and share that through her writing. Her essays, creative nonfiction, articles, poetry, photography, and art have appeared in a wide range of print and digital publications, from literary journals to anthologies, national magazines, blogs, and more. She would love to meet you on her **blog**.

**Truth and Anxiety: Finding Comfort in the Word** Mar 18, 2020
The road winds organically through the land with gentle curves around geological formations and no cross-traffic to speak of—just two lonely lanes, one traveling each way. Lush green is the dominant color in every direction except the silver of the road and intermittent glimpses of the sky. Stalwart trees spread their branches overhead, casting pleasant shadows on the road, with splashes of sunlight whenever there is a break in the clouds. I’m not driving, and find myself mesmerized by the moss on the trees, the tender undergrowth on the forest floor, and the gripping beauty of our morning mountain journey. It’s vibrant with life—both inside and outside our 12-passenger van. We round the curves, my husband holds my hand, and we try to tune out the sounds of our seven energetic children in the seats behind us. Despite the chaos, I am able to breathe out some of the stress I’ve been carrying around for months—even if only for the moment—while the forest beauty whizzes by.

I want to flourish like this magical mountain escape of a thousand shades of green.

The past year has been one for the books, as they say—a few beautiful highs, and more than a few burdensome lows. I feel a bit like a soccer ball being kicked around a field—disoriented, bruised, longing for this game to end so I can find my bearings and gather up all the parts of me that have been busted up and rearranged into a person I barely recognize. My husband, patient and tender, has gotten a crash course in keeping our household on the rails on the days I haven’t been able to rise to it. Through months of layered health challenges, the arrival of a new baby, and a shifty postpartum recovery season, he has been a critical stabilizing force while I have quite literally crumbled into a heap. ‘In sickness and in health’ has taken on new meaning for us both.

Looking out over the lush green mountainside, I pine for a new season of strength—a fast-forward through these struggles and reassurance that all this hardship will at some point produce a harvest. I hold on to the hope that brokenness is preparing the soil of my heart for seeds of righteousness to find their roots deep in my life, springing forth into a legacy that will last beyond my years here on earth. I hope for my labor to not be in vain.

“Sow for yourselves righteousness, reap steadfast love; break up your fallow ground for it is time to seek the Lord that He may come and rain righteousness upon you” (Hosea 10:12).

By the faint glow of the bathroom light down the hall, I can see the shadowed outline of piled laundry to the side of my bed. Even more disconcerting, I sense shadows closing in on my soul, shooting pangs of anxiety throughout my body. I’ve had anxious thoughts all my life—ones that hang around in the back of my mind to fuel my worst-case-scenario imagination. However, the anxiety I have been experiencing lately is far beyond angsty thoughts. It is a heightened, hyper-sensitive physiological sensation that comes on without warning, and once arrived, knocks my legs out from under me.

I can never put my finger on just exactly what is wrong, but anxiety thumps through my chest and fatalist thoughts take over my mind. Do I need to go to the ER? Are my kidneys failing? Do I have a blood clot? Am I going to die? What will happen to my children? I race through all the possible things that could be gravely wrong, gulp in desperate breaths, frantically searching for a quick way out of the terror I feel.

My brain, facing this onslaught with some resistance, attempts to talk sensibly to the rest of me. You’re fine. You’re not dying. You don’t need to go to the ER. But my body doesn’t listen, and it’s all-hands-on-deck panic time.

To regain homeostasis, I try breathing deeply and slowly the way I’ve been taught. I try changing the flow of my thoughts. I land on the Bible verses I’ve committed to memory.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11).

A future. Hope for something beyond this gut-wrenching, chaotic anxiety that has been ruling my life in recent weeks.

“Blessed is the man whose delight is in the law of the Lord. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither” (Psalm 1:1-3, ESV Paraphrased/Shortened).

This image of a leaf that does not wither profoundly comforts me, probably because in the midst of an anxiety attack, I have felt just like that—a fragile, withering leaf at the mercy of torrential winds.

I have always been able to trust my body, more or less—many uncomplicated pregnancies and cherished children later, I assumed I’d be afforded at least 10-15 years before I really had to worry about any health issues of consequence. That is, until our surprise baby number seven set off a chain of events, plunging me into the hardest and most humbling year of my life. Now a full year into this monumental struggle, even my mind feels a little untrustworthy at times.

I had never experienced this level of anxiety until a few months ago. Honestly, I had really only ever thought of anxiety as an issue of one’s thoughts, having no direct experience with trauma or significant anxiety before. I have always been able to put my nervous thoughts in check, but something about this sideways year of complicated health issues has brought about this troublesome experience. I have a new, profound compassion for those who struggle with conditions beyond my understanding. It’s certainly been humbling to try and explain these developments to people who have no frame of reference for the kind of fear I’ve been feeling. I’ve sought out help in several directions. Primary care doctor. Counselor. Pastor. My local community. I’ve searched high and low for a discernible reason or a quick fix.

I’m like anyone else who prefers to avoid unnecessary pain and struggle. If there is an easy way out of it, sign me up. A pill? A procedure? A straight answer to my most pressing questions? But there hasn’t been an easy way out—only a tumultuous and uncertain journey through.

With my confidence shaken, I realize I have treasured comfort, insulation from pain, and the erroneous belief I would get through these years of motherhood with only a limited amount of garden-variety struggle.

Instead, my perspective has been radically changed. I am convinced no matter what empty platitudes have claimed about “God not giving us more than we can handle,” sometimes He does in fact, give us more than we can handle precisely so we can learn how to let Him handle it, while we cling with every fiber of our being to the truth of His goodness, His faithfulness, His mercy, and plunge our broken selves into His Word.

Repeating the memorized, living words of Scripture steadies my trembling heart and slowly, over several hours, helps me find my way out of my anxiety prison. Grace for today. Strength for today. Truth for today. A manna, of sorts, that must be collected and consumed in the present.

***

In the shade of a maple tree, I sit with my friend, Michelle, catching her up on all the details of my recent experience with debilitating anxiety. We haven’t seen each other for a few months, so I roll out the long version of the story while our kids play together on the playground. They are close enough to be supervised, but distant enough we have space enough to talk about the gritty stuff without little ears tuning in. I relay my harrowing bouts of overwhelm, and how I struggle to breathe through swells of fear and panic when they come on. I tell her about how my life has gotten very simple out of necessity.

She leans in a little and asks me, “What does simplicity look like right now?”

I tell her I’m on a straight and narrow road that looks like a consistently early bedtime, reduced social media input, canceled commitments, a weekly counseling appointment, and as much time as I can possibly spend with an open bible in my hands. I tell her how I recognize God is with me, even in the terrible moments when anxiety takes over. He whispers His love for me in verse after verse, and reminds me I can do all things—including navigate anxiety—through Christ who strengthens me (Phil 4:13, paraphrase).

“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Isaiah 26:3 ESV

I’m in a battle for peace, for joy, for health. I grieve the ways our family has been forever changed by my health trauma. It has been painful to come face to face with my weakness and drink the cup of total surrender to God and His plans for me. I’ve been weary and discouraged at times, wishing I could ‘pass this cup’ as they say. I’m also deeply grateful for how these struggles have brought me near to Jesus and to the straight and narrow path—the most direct route—to His comfort, His rest, and His deep, abiding peace.

*This piece originally appeared in a print issue of Joyful Life Magazine.*

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

**The Year of the “Do Some of It Mom”** Mar 17, 2020
I went to the office supply store for printer ink and also a few things one would think a normal family would have on hand, but apparently we do not. (Sharpies, tape, a stapler, and paper clips. How did we not have those things?)

In the center of the main aisle, right by a tower of on-sale, store-brand copy paper, was a display of 2020 calendars. The first to catch my eye was a unicorn-and-kitty calendar. I stopped to have a closer look in case it might be time for my daughter, the Queen of Kindergarten, to have her first calendar.

Right next to the unicorns and kitties was a calendar for the “Do It All Mom.” On the front was a cartoon rendering of this Diva of Domesticity, a Figurehead of Femininity, the pinnacle of what society and the media, social and otherwise, shout at us that we should be. Just look at her standing there, looking so serene and also a trifle smug. She is clothed in strength, dignity, and an outfit that is not sweats. She is crowned by accomplishment and a coiffure that is not a messy bun. She’s wearing blush, mascara, and earrings for crying out loud. Her infant is asleep in her arms despite the fact that the dog on her leg is most likely making a racket. Her mini-me is similarly dressed and coiffed, neat and tidy, and looking just as smug as her mama.

In past years, I would have looked at this calendar with longing and been tempted to snatch it up. “I need to be her,” I would have thought to myself. “I need to get it together. My family would be so much happier if I were this ‘Do It All Mom.'”

Not this year. This year, I took one look at that calendar and one word popped into my head:

“No.”

Just, “No.”

2020 will most assuredly not be the year of the “Do It All Mom” in my house. No, in our family, 2020 shall be the year of the “Do Some of It Mom.” That’s me, the loud and proud “Do Some of It Mom.”

The truth is I’ve spent most of the past eight years of motherhood chasing the dream of being the “Do It All Mom.” Sometimes I’ve succeeded, and sometimes I’ve failed–and to be honest, neither result felt all that great.

When I failed, the outcomes were exactly as you might expect. The house was chaos, other people had to handle “my stuff,” and I was left chiding myself over my failure while gazing longingly at others’ Instagram feeds, thinking how happy their families must be with their totally organized and efficient selves.

When I succeeded, however? That’s where I found the unexpected. When I somehow managed to do it all, when I remembered everything, and when nobody else had to lift a finger around the house, I was just as unhappy as when I failed–sometimes even more so. You see, the more I did, the more my work became invisible to others. The more I did, the more others expected me to do. The more I did, the more those around me checked out of family life and started to consider other things more worthy of their time and attention. The more I prioritized the well-being and happiness of others over myself, the more they let me.

Like most moms, my own happiness was not my main goal, so my own feelings of satisfaction were a barometer I could have ignored. The weird part, though, was my family seemed happier as a whole when I was failing at being the “Do It All Mom” than when I was succeeding. Still, I convinced myself that was a fluke, and kept pushing on toward The Goal.

Last summer, however, I pushed myself so hard that a little cold turned into a lingering cough, which turned into bronchitis. After a stern talking-to from both my mother and my aunt (never make The Sisters worry about you, if you know what’s good for you), I forced myself to slow down and stop trying to DO IT ALL.

I let my husband handle the dishes for an entire weekend. I let my kids struggle to clean their rooms all by themselves, with no motherly matching of their efforts. I said “no” to friends and (gasp!) grandparents who asked to see us during our few free moments. My children’s random stuff languished on the floor of the living room until someone other than me tended to the tidying. (I’m still not entirely sure who.)

I’m not going to lie; it was terrifying. I am a raging and rampant Enneagram 2, which means my gift and passion for serving others is matched only by the depth of fear that if I stop serving them, they will stop loving me.

But guess what? We all ended the summer and rolled into fall happier and in better shape as a family than we had ever been. My kids started to assume more ownership for the running of the house. My husband was tuned-in to the daily routines and chores, which allowed us to function more as a team and be better-connected. And what’s more, they seemed to appreciate me more than when I was doing everything. Not only is that important to my heart, it’s also healthy for them to learn to build an appreciation for those who serve them and make their lives work.

So, in 2020, I will be the “Do Some of It Mom.”

I’ll be the “Pick and Choose Mom,” who chooses activities and commitments for the family-based not only on the husband’s and kids’ levels of fatigue and enjoyment but mine as well.

I’ll be the “Let Others Do It Mom,” who doesn’t feel guilty if the household members do some (if not most) of the housework some days.

I’ll be the “Speak Up For Myself Mom,” who doesn’t sigh and move on when my requests and stated expectations go forgotten and ignored.

I’ll be the “Remember It Yourself Mom,” who encourages (and expects) family members to make their own lists, mark their own calendars, and set their own alarms and reminders in their own phones, watches, clocks, or whatever tools they have at their disposal.

I’ll be the “We’re All In This Together Mom,” the “Shared Responsibility Mom,” and the “My People Love Me For Me Mom.”

Check back with me in 2021, and I’ll let you know how it went. In the meantime, I will not be buying that calendar. I think maybe I’ll go with unicorns and kitties this year.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Tori Rask is a writer, wife, and mom living in the Pacific Northwest. She loves Jesus, music, reading, watching sports (but not playing them), drinking Jasmine tea, and connecting with other moms any chance she gets. Tori writes about life, faith, family, and friendship on her **blog**, Grace for the Real Stuff.

**Have It All** Mar 12, 2020
I throw open the shower door, and a blast of cold air shocks my skin. Instantly covered in goosebumps, I grab my towel and step out.

Was a hot shower the best way to spend these minutes of free time? I wonder. While the water was running, my mind wandered in a way that seemed productive. Each drop felt like an idea seeping down into my brain. But as soon as I turned the nozzle off, the chaotic swirl of real life slammed into me as fast as the frigid air outside the shower. I could have been actually writing instead of just thinking about it. I could have been reading or, heck, even painting my nails.

Taking a shower just feels so…mundane. I never regret it exactly, but I have a hard time appreciating the minutes I must carve out to take care of my physical body. I often wonder if those minutes could have been better spent on something more glamorous.

I quickly slide into jeans and a sweater, trying to hang on to the words floating around in my head, knowing that once I step outside my bedroom, I will not have time to type them out fully.

Before I open the door, I unlock my phone and urgently mutter, “Limits! Have it all! Yes and no!” into my notes app, hoping I will remember what I meant by these phrases when I re-read them later.

***

The first time I walked into a MOPS group, I was eight months pregnant with my first child.

As an icebreaker, we drew a handful of m&ms and then shared information about ourselves based on the colors in our pile. If you drew a yellow m&m, you said where you grew up. A green m&m was for your favorite place to go on a date. A blue m&m was for hobbies.

Literally every other mom at my table declared her children were her hobby. I could not fathom this.

I was excited to become a mother, but surely hobbies were things like…crocheting. And reading. And pilates. Humans are their own thing. People aren’t hobbies.

When it was my turn, I said my hobbies were cooking and reading, and I got a lot of knowing glances from the more experienced moms. Just you wait, they seemed to say. And it was true: I had no concept yet of how my life was about to change.

My own mom tried to warn me. She told me that when my little brother came along, she accepted that she would not have personal time anymore. Her life had become about taking care of two kids, and little room was left for self-care or hobbies.

I knew right away this was a cautionary tale, that I could never survive without time to myself. More than I ever wanted to fit in or to be invited, I’ve longed for wide-open spaces when I don’t have to be anywhere or do what someone else wants. I crave quality alone time most of all—miles and miles of it.

I heard what my mom said, and distantly I comprehended I would have to make sacrifices when I became a mother. But I figured it would be different for me. After all, my mom worked a demanding full-time job. Of course, it was hard for her to dig into her own projects or sit down and relax—her whole day was already spoken for. My story would not be hers. I was staying home with my kids.

(A decision which, I’m amused to admit now, I thought of as “the easy way out.”)

***

“Are there going to be any friends today?” my son asks in a hopeful voice as soon as I get downstairs.

My eyes almost pop out of my head—I can’t believe he is asking me this again. Last night and this morning, we discussed today being a “boring boring.” We call it this because once, in a fit of glee about having no urgent needs to herd my children out of the house, I made my baby daughter dance around while chanting “boring boring” for several minutes.

Mommy needs boring days sometimes.

I am an introvert and a homebody. If we have playdates three days in a row, like we did this week, I feel an incredible eagerness not to leave my house for a fortnight. You know. To recover. Today I am looking forward to working on a craft, to cleaning up the kitchen, to being unburdened by expectations (as much as that’s possible with three kids).

But this morning, he cannot contain his extrovert desire to see friends. The more fun he has, the more fun he wants to have. His tank is never full.

Did he learn that from me?

My husband has accused me of playing a zero-sum game, meaning that everything I do to fill up my heart only takes me as far as neutral ground. I have a hard time feeling truly joyful. There is rarely any extra juice in my battery (no matter what I do or for how long).

Since having kids, I often feel like there is no neutral. Saying yes to them means saying no to my own needs. Because I constantly feel I have very little personal space (Mom was right!), I have become more and more possessive of it. It no longer counts as true “time to myself” if I spend it shaving my legs or washing my face or putting away laundry. It no longer counts if anyone speaks to me or shows their little face. My “margin” is slowly growing to overtake the whole page. I want to have it all. I am getting…greedy.

***

As a mom, I know God calls me to cherish the people He’s given me—and yes, to sacrifice for them. He may have given me an insatiable desire to entertain myself, but He also gave me some lovely limitations: three kids who need to be kept safe, taught, and shown their worth.

Loving my children isn’t something I can schedule in. It’s not a hobby or an activity; it’s a constant state.

When I struggle because me-time never feels long enough, I wonder if I have the wrong focus. What if the purpose of self-care isn’t entertainment, but preparing to do my job wholeheartedly?

I’ve been asking myself hard questions about how I use my alone time—do I emerge feeling refreshed? Or do I become irritable when it ends, resentful of my family’s pressing desires?

Maybe self-care means letting go of my own expectations to have it all.

Maybe when I get comfortable with good enough, my soul will be filled with joy.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Melissa Hogarty lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children. She believes deeply in the power of reading and the love of Christ. She loves to bake, sing loudly, and make her own home décor. She blogs about food, faith, and family over at Savored Grace, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**Shattering Scarcity** Mar 10, 2020
Miraculously, our morning was going according to plan. We were up on time, the kids were already wearing their Christmas pajamas, our gifts were ready at the door, and the only thing left to do was load the car and go. It was still dark outside, and we wanted to get on the road as soon as possible so we could join family for breakfast. I began ushering my sleepy-eyed, yet excited, daughters through the dimly lit kitchen to make sure they used the bathroom before we left, while Brian loaded our things into the van. Suddenly, I heard a muffled BOOM and CRASH. I paused for a short moment, not assuming the worst, and continued with the task of making sure every kid had a turn on the potty.

My husband came in breathless, red in the face, and said, “The window just shattered.” Visibly shaken, he explained that the struts on the rear lift-gate of our minivan gave out, and the door slammed down (thankfully missing his head), shattering our rear window. So much for being on time.

Inside I fumed. Why this? Why now? I calmly redirected my kids to watch a cartoon so I could escape to the shower. I reassured them that Christmas was not canceled, but selfishly I wished it had been. Beneath the hot running water, I felt too upset even to cry. Family dynamics alone were enough to make holiday plans stressful, and our broken window was the final straw after a month of similar mishaps that added to a burden we felt might actually crush us.

Our car wouldn’t start. The indoor furnace fan went out. The outdoor wood-boiler furnace fan went out at the very same time, making the task of heating our home very complicated in the middle of a Michigan December. A drain pipe in the basement kept freezing and flooding our utility room. The sum of these and several other unexpected expenses meant once again, Brian and I could not afford gifts for each other this year. For the first time, we couldn’t afford them for our kids, either. With each unexpected repair or mishap, we saw more dollar signs in the negative. We felt awesome.

***

Ten years prior, as hopeful and naive 20-year-old newlyweds, we survived on weekly paychecks from our respective part-time work. I was still in school, and Brian was a substitute teacher. We only had ourselves to worry about then, but I could still remember the sinking feeling I’d have when we’d go to buy groceries. We didn’t have any bills that were negotiable–no cable, no subscriptions, no fancy smartphones. Just the boring essentials like water, rent, and electric. We didn’t go out on dates very regularly, and we both took any opportunity offered to make some extra cash. Nannying, dog-sitting, wrapping Christmas gifts for a family I worked for or shampooing carpets in professor’s offices on our college campus. We hustled and barely made ends meet.

Returning from one of our shopping trips, I was near to tears as I walked from my car to our back door. Sure we had groceries for this week, but what about next? I happened to glance down at the garden planted by one of the tenants in the basement apartment and noticed a small sculpture of two cupped hands with a bird helping itself to seeds nestled inside of them. A stone inscription below read: “By His hands we are fed.” I felt encouraged by that tiny inscription and would acknowledge it with a smile each time I brought my groceries home from that day forward. Little did I know how much I’d learn this truth over the years.

Even after that newlywed season, it seldom felt like we had any financial margin. The same year our first child was born, Brian moved from a management position with a small company to an art teaching position at a small private school; with it came an even smaller salary. I struggled with this job change because it felt like we were taking a step in the wrong direction. We had no doubt he was called to this job in this season, and even if we wanted to ignore that call, all other job leads ran cold. During the six years he worked as a teacher, I had some serious re-learning to do. The fear related to finances I carried with me only pointed to a deeper heart issue I’d not yet dealt with: I was afraid God wouldn’t provide for our family’s needs.

When we found ourselves in the position of having to trust God instead of the numbers in our bank account, we became receivers of His unique provision time and time again. “God, we trust you,” became our continual declaration. We grew to understand that no matter how much income we had, if our hearts did not know our Father as our provider, then we’d always feel like it wasn’t enough. We asked God to help us live generously, despite what our bank account looked like. For a good number of years, our budget was so tight it legitimately made no sense on paper, but we never went without. Even with little, we learned what it meant to give joyfully.

One day, Brian told me he felt the Lord prompting us to double how much money we gave away each month. I felt fear start to rise up inside of me, but I simply said, “Ok, let’s do it.” I resolved that God’s kingdom didn’t operate the way ours does. And even if we stopped giving altogether, I still wouldn’t feel like we had enough, so why not just give more? For every month we doubled our giving that year, God somehow returned to us what we’d given and then some. It was a unique season where God showed us the beauty in keeping our hands open; ready to give and receive. We learned we didn’t want to be like a vault made to store and protect our resources, but like a funnel through which they could flow.

***

I finished showering, took a nap, and had a cup of coffee. Our parents picked us up, and we shared a late breakfast with them that morning. Christmas wasn’t canceled. My burning anger over all of the situations from December that tempted me to fear we wouldn’t have enough money to fix all the things and pay our bills ultimately subsided. The fruit of the spirit is joy, and it is peace.

Our current season is unlike any we’ve experienced before. We actually have a budget that makes sense on paper, and we live in a home of our own. We’ve learned to place our trust in His faithfulness, and not solely in our own capabilities. We’re learning to steward well the blessings we’ve been entrusted with. By His hands we are fed. I have walked too far with God to doubt Him now. He’s proven His faithfulness to me too many times for me to think a shattered car window would be our financial undoing. His provision had covered our needs in the past; surely, our window, our furnaces, and drain pipe weren’t beyond His ability to provide.

My kids opened their presents. It was just a week prior when my mother-in-law had asked what Brian and I wanted for Christmas. “Honestly,” I started, “we would like to buy the girls each a gift.” It was totally unconventional, but thanks to PayPal and Amazon Prime, three packages arrived just days before Christmas. Each of our girls opened their gifts from us Christmas morning: a doll, a telescope, and another doll. They were as overjoyed and as ecstatic as they’d have been if we surprised them with a trip to Disney. My heart swelled with gratefulness as my kids squealed with delight over their presents. I realized that, once again, I was the recipient of God’s unique provision.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Mary Kate and her husband Brian are high-school sweethearts who recently left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs for a rural property in Western Michigan. Together they homeschool their three daughters and are making plans for turning their new property into a small-scale homestead. After overcoming numerous health challenges due to autoimmunity, Mary Kate is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She leads an online group teaching the basics of an anti-inflammatory diet and inspires others to incorporate simple, nourishing, real-food recipes in their own homes. She also writes online at www.choosinggraceblog.com, and you can catch up with her on Instagram.

**Learning to Love Peaceful Silence** Mar 05, 2020
Delicious campfire smoke filled the air and covered my clothes. The air was cool for a summer night, and the inky black country sky stretched as far as I could see. Stars like pinpricks of bright lights winked above. I sat perched on a log surrounding the orange glow, with legs stretched out before me. The flames warmed the cool summer night. I stared into the blaze, listened to the quiet strum of a guitar and the youth leader’s words.

“You are your truest self when it is quiet—in the night before you go to sleep or in the morning as you wake. That is where God will meet you. The place where you are still and quiet.”

I soaked in the words and wondered how that would be possible when I didn’t like the quiet—or the alone.

Years later, I sat curled up in the corner of our living room — legs folded under me in our green paisley chair and warm coffee mug in my hand. In the predawn darkness, a single reading lamp lit the room. The dog snoring, and the pages of my Bible crinkling as I turned them broke the silence.

This peaceful start to my days has become a treasure, a balm to my busy life. The quiet is a welcome reprieve. I have learned to love the stillness.

The change had been gradual. I’d returned home from the thoughtful moment at the campfire and surrounded myself with the noise of teenage life. I fought against being alone by filling my calendar with social events and school and later work. When quiet times tried to settle in, I would turn up the music, turn on the television, or get out of the house.

As a young mom, I worked full time. Peace and quiet were rare. Saturday mornings, when my beloved was out of the house, and my growing boy was napping; I’d craft. I noticed something about those moments. Instead of wanting to fill them, I relished in them. My mind relaxed in the peaceful silence and drifted into quiet worship.

Now, my growing boy is taller than me. Our weekly schedule is still full. There are no more nighttime feedings or naptimes or toddler playdates. Now, there are sports and school and friends. I no longer fight the idea of being alone in the quiet. Instead, I look for ways to fit it in.

Peace. Margins. This idea of “un-rushing”—purposefully slowing down, so I’m not barreling through life at break-neck-speed—beckons my heart. Over and over, it calls me to still my body, so in turn, I can allow God’s mercies to still my soul. I want, as the Psalmist did, to “seek peace and pursue it.”

***

When I notice my calendar is too full, feel my shoulders begin to rise, my breath begin to shallow and my mind to race, I consider one of these ways to turn toward the quiet:

I take a quiet walk outside. I leave the earbuds out and focus on just my steps and my thoughts. My mind and heart revel in the quiet time, my body in the activity.

I visit with a friend. Eye contact, proximity, and voices impact how close we feel to someone. Instead of scrolling social media, I try to set up a time to meet up with a friend—in person.

I consciously slow my body. I focus on my senses, noticing the things I see, hear, smell. Inhale. Exhale. I pull my shoulders down, straighten my back, and lift my head. I smile. By taking control of my body in this way, I can reverse my stress response.

I pause before moving to the next thing. I take a moment, during errands or before I get out of my car at work or home, to take a deep breath. For just a moment, I relish the quiet and add breathing space to the rush of life.

I praise God for the things He’s done. In Luke 17, Jesus tells the story of ten men suffering from leprosy. When they asked for mercy, Jesus sent them to the temple, and along the way, they were healed. But when one of the men saw he was healed, he doubled back, fell facedown, and thanked Jesus for the healing. I want to be that one—the one who thanks the Lord for what He’s done and what He’s doing.

***

The memory of that night at the campfire still rises often as I fall asleep or as I wake. Now, I smile at the recollection of the young girl who turned up the volume to drown out the silence. I’ve since learned to love the quiet, and I welcome its stillness. I treasure the time to meet God here.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Bethany McMillon is a coffee, football, and ice cream lover from the Dallas, TX area. She adores her number-loving accountant husband and her growing too fast, obsessed with science and history boy. She daily strives to notice God’s mercy and grace in the small moments of life. Bethany loves her work as a school librarian for tiny and medium-size learners, which aligns perfectly with the joy she finds in reading and writing. Perhaps most importantly, Bethany is passionate about building deeper relationships with both Jesus and those that she loves. Her spirit is most settled after she has connected with a friend over coffee or sweet tea on the patio, or even enjoyed a side by sidewalk through a local neighborhood. She hopes to encourage women to find and hold onto that kind of feeling within busy and quick-paced lives. Bethany is a member of the Hope*Writers community and writes weekly on her website. She can be found on Instagram and Facebook.

**Light a Candle** Mar 03, 2020
I wear tracks into the floors of our home. I move from upstairs to down, into the bathroom and out, from changing table to trash can, from sink to stove to fridge to table, repeat ad nauseum. Once dinner time rolls around, I realize I’ve barely sat down all day. I’m not really a pedometer or fitness tracker person, so I can’t say how many steps I get each day, but without a doubt, it’s like, three million.

Meanwhile, my middle child never stops talking. He repeats every question an average of 4.2 times and begins every sentence with, “Mom? Mom!” If it’s true that men only speak 7,000 words a day (compared to a woman’s 20,000), Leo is stealing the personal allotment of at least a dozen grown men.

And when I say things like, “I’m exhausted! Can’t I have a moment of peace?” my own overthinking brain looks around the room and says, “Hold my beer.”

I long to count myself among the contemplatives, those in a constant state of meditative bliss with rich inner prayer lives. I long to be the Ann Voskamp of Central Indiana, quiet and calm, my speech rhythmic and considered; peppered with far fewer likes, umms, and ya knows. I want to draw profound connections between the Scripture I read and the literature on my bookshelf and the latest pop culture headlines, but most days I’m too busy trying to remember what I meant to add to my grocery list and searching under furniture for someone’s misplaced Lovey.

**

As a child, I loved to watch Return to Me with my mom, sisters, and Nanny Ruth. We rented it from Blockbuster at least once a month, and eventually just purchased our own copy. In the movie, Minnie Driver’s character is receiving a heart transplant when her grandfather visits the hospital chapel. Slowly and silently, he lights a candle before kneeling to pray. His is not the only flame; they flicker all around in tiny red votives, bouncing light across the dim room.

**

The first time I attended an Ash Wednesday church service, my mom asked, “So…are you a Catholic now, or something?” The church I grew up in eschewed anything remotely “traditional.” Nary a hymn ever sung, casual was the name of the game. On any given Sunday, who knew what might happen?

I was in college when I encountered Lent for the first time, and a married adult when I attended a church that—while still of the “nondenominational Protestant” variety—made space for some more “high church” traditions: hymns, call and response prayers and liturgy, Advent, and Lent. I discovered that a little predictability was helpful for my scattered brain. I found meaning in repetition. I could focus more on God’s presence because I didn’t spend any mental energy wondering, “What will happen next?” In his welcome each week, our pastor would say, “Thanks for bringing the church with you into this building today.” I was so happy to be there.

Back at home, my attention is governed by the whims and needs of the toddlers in my care—diaper changes and spills, snacks and pretend play, tantrums, and impossible questions. I zip back and forth, less like the graceful butterfly I’d like to be and more like a drunken housefly.

I want my prayers to be more than just “Please, Jesus, help me not scream at this child.”

But if it’s true what the pastor said–that I bring the church into a building with me–isn’t there more for me here? Isn’t there presence and communion and sacrament, hope and joy, and peace?

I have learned that my prayers need not start with “Dear God” and end with “Amen.” After all, it was Paul who admonished us to “pray without ceasing.” But how? When my children demand my attention, my words, my brain power all day long, how then, can I pray?

I have learned to light a candle.

**

The first time I stepped into a Catholic Church was as a high schooler. I was on a senior trip through Europe. In six different countries, I stepped into ancient and ornate cathedrals, and my eye always went to the people holding long matches waiting for the flame to catch their votive candle of choice.

Years later, I sat in a church service while my three children contentedly played in the children’s ministry rooms down the hall, and our pastor invited us to visit a table in the back of the room to light a candle. “I’m sure we all have someone or something on our minds today,” he said. “Whether it is Syrian refugees or a cancer diagnosis in your family or a stressful situation at work, I invite you to light a candle.”

Lighting a candle, he said, was a way of wordlessly acknowledging the worries and needs of those in our lives who needed God to show up somehow. A family we knew had just lost their days-old baby, born prematurely after his mom developed preeclampsia. And I knew what I wanted to do: I wanted to light a candle.

I stood at the table for a moment, my wordless prayer sending a small trail of smoke up to the ceiling, somehow articulating my worry and heartbreak and sadness better than I could manage with words. My eyes scanned the table, dozens of other small flames carrying our needs to Jesus.

**

I spend many of my days at home.

Sure, we venture to the park when the weather is nice, and I try to get our money’s worth out of our museum and zoo memberships. We go to a church playgroup on Monday mornings and volunteer at my first grader’s school on Fridays, but much of each week is spent within the walls of our house. I love it there, but the loud children, piling laundry, and sprawling toys seem to rule the roost most of the time.

My heart is torn between these small but significant needs in front of me and the enormous and overwhelming realities of the world out there. So on my kitchen counter, I keep a candle ready and waiting.

I see a headline about a school shooting, and I light a candle.

My husband texts to say a coworker is in the hospital. I light a candle.

I hear talk of tension between our local government and our city’s community. I light a candle.

A friend has applied for a new job, and so I light a candle.

My children will not stop fighting all dang morning—light a candle.

I wear those tracks in the floor, but each time I walk into the kitchen, I see it flicker from the corner of my eye: orange and gold and glowing, bringing my attention back to the reality that God is present, God is at work, God is listening. I am asked to be a part of God’s work, here in my home and outside in the world, and, of course, by prayer.

Any ordinary day is a good time to light a candle.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker and lover of the written word who lives in downtown Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. In both writing and life, she explores the intersections of faith, family, creativity, and freedom from perfectionism. She’s out there providing hope and solidarity to any other women who find themselves afraid to make mistakes. She is a co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter for recovering perfectionists. If her kids aren’t demanding to be held, she’s probably carrying a pen, a book, or a coffee. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett.

**In the Soup** Feb 27, 2020
“Is something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

I can perceive with pretty good accuracy when my husband is upset with me. I feel unspoken emotions radiating from his eyes, burning into my skin like a laser beam meant to connect with my heart.

He is quiet. That never bodes well.

The kids are anything but quiet. They’ve started a sing-song whine about being hungry, and my belly growls as I sit cross-legged in the warm spot on our leather sofa. It is closing in on 6 pm, and I don’t want to pry myself from my comfortable cocoon of apathy. I don’t want to make dinner, but I’d prefer it over a tough conversation with my husband. I predict he will ask me to engage in household operations, of which I want the hefty break I feel I deserve. I maintain eye contact, bracing for what he might say.

“Yeah, I guess I am frustrated.”

“Why? Is it because I am sitting here on this couch with my notebook, and it is a beautiful day outside? I am designing some journal pages so I can organize my thoughts.”

Already I feel defensive tension building an armor in my shoulders and loading the cannon in my mouth. Fog begins to roll in over the beaches of my mind.

He glances at the notebook on my lap. The page is covered with freshly drawn grid lines to mark off blocks of time each day–the product of many precious moments that might have been put to better (more practical) use.

“Are you going to copy that whole thing down, every day for the rest of your life?”

Snark. That’s it. His lack of tact is a red alert that his intentions are more hostile than loving. My shield goes up, and my emotions start flying. I am not capable of hearing anything besides the narrative I am spinning in my brain.

Why is he so hostile?

I never allow myself to fully consider the potential root of his frustration. I am playing defense and looking out for number one.

Surely I am not in the wrong here.

I do what I always do in those situations: I stay silent. I trust my armor a whole lot more than my ability to deal with the fallout caused by the words I might hurl from my loose cannon.

He doesn’t understand.

I can’t remember anything. I need a type of memorization-free organization for my thoughts.

It feels like the essential details of everything I am responsible for are falling through the cracks.

Someone told me that motherhood is the equivalent of 2.5 jobs.

But I can’t use this “multi-tasking mom” excuse anymore…I probably use it too much.

I have no idea how to communicate this in a way he will understand.

I’m just going to be quiet.

I am in the soup.

I remember the last time we made soup together. It was an entirely different climate than the one I stand in with him today. The air was warm and amicable between us. We were together. I stood at the counter chopping onions, carrots, celery, and broccoli and scraped them into the flame-colored cast iron pot. The hot oil instantly made the vegetables roar like a stadium filled with fans. My husband washed the dirt from the beets he pulled fresh from our garden.

“Smells good already,” he said with a contented smile.

I agree.

“Yes it does, I have a feeling this soup will be delicious.”

The satisfaction, camaraderie, and unity between us were palpable. We continued to add ingredients to the pot, and the delightful smell of our collective effort in the kitchen wafted down the hall, enchanting the noses of our kids. They came charging in.

“Whatcha makin’, Mom?”

“Soup.”

“That’s great!”

“I love soup. It smells so good.”

“I’m hungry.”

Warm kitchen. Warm soup. Warm feelings.

But here I am in a different kind of soup––a pot of emotions dissolving together the way ingredients in the edible kind no longer resemble themselves after being on the heat for hours and hours. I hate it here. Self-doubt runs rampant because nothing is what it seems anymore. I can’t tell if I am feeling is anger, injustice, embarrassment, or contrition. It is probably all of those things. I need to process them one at a time, but that seems impossible to do in the soup.

**

He maintains eye contact and stands his ground. I try to think of how to respond to his baited snarky comment, but I can’t nail anything down. The fog in my mind is chowder-thick, and I am lost without a tether or a beacon, unable to find any emotional landmarks to get my bearings. My mind retreats, and every thought avoids the conversational standoff between my husband and me.

What should I make for dinner tonight?

Soup.

That makes sense.

I fight the impulse to shut down completely, but being silent and paralyzed feels like the safest thing I can do. I don’t know what is heads or tails in the soup. Thoughts and feelings mutate in a chaotic mix. I stand in the middle of the soup, unsure where to step without being hit by a swirling thought (irrational or honest) or emotion (exaggerated or pure). If one of the crazy feelings or thoughts ram into me, I fear it will permanently lodge itself inside. It feels impossible to get out of the soup with the truth attached to me instead of some hyped-up near-truth (lie), so I am silent and still.

I take a breath. Calmly, I find words to articulate the truth behind the reason I am holed up here on the couch, painstakingly drawing new lines over the printed ones, my brain lit up like a Christmas tree with ideas of how these new journaling pages could provide a way to keep my thoughts–my life–organized.

“My mind is foggy. I am working on these pages to try and make sense of what’s in my brain.”

“You say your brain is foggy. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think writing makes your brain foggy. You get stuck in your mind. I guess that is why I’m not always very excited about your choice to write.”

My writing habit feels like it might as well be a smoking habit in my home. It’s offensive. I hate that.

“I like writing. It is a way for me to get things out of my brain and onto the page.”

“But you spend so much time in your head trying to say just the right thing. You don’t talk to me…I miss having someone to share my life with. You used to tell me about your dreams, but you don’t anymore. I need a partner.”

I need a partner.

Those words kill me, because “partner” is exactly what I signed up to be. Years ago, I stood upon an altar, his hands in mine, and promised to be his partner. I meant every single word from the bottom of my heart. But here I am twelve and a half years later, and he is telling me I am not showing up for him in a meaningful way. I thought I was doing alright in the Partner Department. Still, as he spoke, I realized he wanted more…more conversation, more connection.

Part of me knows his observations are not meant as a criticism, but it feels painful to hear them anyway. I know he has a genuine concern about how I emotionally disappear from conversations and sometimes life in general. Down deep past all of the hurt, I sincerely appreciate his feedback, but I drown myself in guilt and shame as penance for him having to bring it to my attention in the first place. I want him to be proud of me always.

My husband’s courage to share the ways that he needs me to be present in our relationship has opened my eyes. I realize that I do find it easier to write than to verbalize my thoughts, and in so doing, I retreat further into the soup. I understand his frustration. Writing steals me away from him because I confide in the page, who gives no reciprocity or argument. He wants me to dump the contents of my heart upon him–soup free. He wants to know me. Writing isn’t the problem, retreating into my own private world, and never coming out again is the problem.

He breaks the silence again.

“Time is our most important resource. I think if you just chose to get out of your head and take action, then you wouldn’t be as foggy.”

He may have something here.

The truth is, he is articulating how I felt as I drew page after page of identical grid lines into my notebook.

The time I am spending with this project would be better used if I just did one of the things I am planning to write down to remember in the future.

There is no time like the present.

He shifts, balancing his weight equally on his legs in one confident yet subtle movement.

“Besides, you are a really capable person. You have a lot to juggle, and I know I don’t know exactly what it is like for you. But, I do know that being a parent is hard. I really appreciate all you do here. Just talk to me about what you are thinking, I miss feeling like I really know you.”

I nod and close my notebook. I admire his tenacity to keep crossing the bridge to my heart, even when I am defensive.

“You are right.”

As the notebook closes, silently, I feel the fog begin to lift. Love seeps into the space recently filled with animosity and fear. His heart for me, is love. Even behind the words that come out a bit snarky, he bravely looses an arrow of love, meant not to harm but as an invitation to take a step out of apathy, fear, and self-doubt and into the light.

I realize all I might need to do to get out of the bowl is to simply act, and more importantly, to communicate. Verbalizing my ideas gives them an identity and helps me to better understand and deal with them. Additionally, sharing my thoughts and feelings is actively participating in a partnership with my husband.

I slide the notebook vertically between two books on the bookshelf and walk away.

“Thank you for talking with me. I appreciate everything you’ve said…I appreciate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay. Time to make dinner. How about soup?”

There is a lot of nourishment in soup, especially if the central ingredient is love.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Jenni Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a girl). She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom. She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out. She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram.

**Brave & Sad: Growing Family Through Foster Care** Feb 25, 2020
Last week, I took my preschooler to the clinic for a flu shot. I promised him we’d get yellow popsicles from the grocery store after it was all over.

In the exam room, I held him on my lap as the nurse swabbed his thigh with alcohol and then reached for the syringe. I held his arm tight, and in a moment, it was over and he buried his face in my chest. I rubbed his back.

“All done, buddy. Time for a sticker.”

In the car, I buckled his seat while he processed the experience. “When the nurse poked my leg, I cried,” he said.

“Yes, you did, and you were very brave.” I patted his clipped chest buckle.

He frowned, “No, Mom, I wasn’t brave. I was sad.”

I paused.

“You can be both brave and sad at the same time, little buddy.”

He looked out the window, thinking it over. Or thinking about popsicles.

***

Last week I watched my friend’s two sons, ages three and four, overnight while she was out of town for a doctor’s appointment. I thought, No problem. It’ll just be a little more madness than the usual madness, which already borders on maximum madness, so how much worse can it be?

The boys raced around the house like a three-toddler tornado, dunking basketballs into our plastic basketball hoop and pulling cushions off the couch. My one-year-old daughter chased them, laughing. During nap time, while they were supposed to be resting, I overheard giggles from my son’s room and someone shrieking, “Goodnight poop!”

At bedtime, the boys asked when their mom was coming home. I knelt down and pointed to the darkening sky. “Hopefully, tomorrow, but we have to watch the weather.” I know better than to make a weather-dependent promise to toddlers in rural Alaska, where travel is dependent on calm skies and water.

The oldest boy looked out the window at the night sky. His stoic silence filled the room more than the rowdiness of the afternoon. I couldn’t make our bedtime routine fun for him because I didn’t know what his normal was. I’d never been his mom, and no amount of cartoons or chicken nuggets could make me feel like home to him.

I had done my best to prepare the kids for bed with baths and PJs and stories, while my husband, my partner in life, glanced up from the TV long enough to say, “You’re doing a great job, baby.” He’d been gone all day at work, staying later than he needed, telling me he “Didn’t want to be around the madness.” The madness was our family.

I stared at his back, his eyes on the screen. My silence lingered like a fog as I moved to our bedroom to fold laundry in our room. I carried towels and flannel napkins to the kitchen drawers, ducked into the kids’ room once more to comfort and hug and went to our bedroom alone. In my journal, I wrote one short line: I can’t do this alone.

The next day, I dropped my friend’s boys off at their house just as her truck pulled in from the airport. I helped her unload a bag and hopped back in my car, feeling like I should have helped more. I should have stayed long enough to ask how her doctor’s appointment went or offered to keep the kids a little longer so she could settle in. But I had nothing left to give.

***

While I floundered caring for two extra kids for only one night, our foster care paperwork moved closer to completion in the regional Child Services office. I’d mailed our thick application in an envelope covered in stickers and optimism back in the spring, taken online classes in the summer, and marked our home study on the calendar. Foster care and adoption have been my lifelong dream, but after one night babysitting two sweet boys, I wondered, should it be this hard?

When my husband and I were first dating, eight years ago, I shared with him my wish to adopt. He said he was open to it. I thought this was all I needed: His heart wasn’t locked, so surely it was open. We’d do it together.

***

In the living room after I dropped off my friends’ kids, I confront my husband about the night before.

“You didn’t help me with the kids at all yesterday. You weren’t even home. How can we be a foster family if you don’t want to be here with me?”

Unspoken, I feel the words from my journal: I can’t do it alone. He moves his eyes from the game on TV to me and sighs.

“Baby, I just don’t like little kids.”

I open my eyes wider but try not to make my face do anything else, to hold the space for him. Tears fall anyway, and my breath catches.

“What does that mean, Babe? Do we never get to foster? Do you even like our kids?”

“Of course. I love our kids. I just can’t add anything extra right now. I’m tired.”

I know what it means to be tired. I was exhausted after just one day with four kids under five. He’s been putting in fourteen-hour days at work, building the business we bought together. We’re on year three of a five-year plan we made together that involved (him) working (a lot) to pay off debt. We chose our life, but I’m impatient. I want a big family, and I want it now.

I tell him I understand saying “not right now” to foster care doesn’t have to mean never. But still, I’m sad. What if “not right now” becomes forever?

He can’t answer this.

I wonder if I should call our licensing social worker and tell her not to bother taking the plane trip to our small town for our home study. Will she read it on my face that I’m not capable? Will she be able to tell my husband isn’t on board? What a fraud we make together.

The words I told my son in the car after his flu shot come back to me: you can be both brave and sad.

I feel deeply, irreversibly unprepared to be a foster parent. But God put this dream on my heart as firmly as he gave my heart to my husband. Why not a different dream or a different husband?

My husband is still looking at the floor. I sense he truly wants to be on board with me, but he can’t get there right now.

One of us is sad, and one of us is brave. I’m worried I have to be the brave one.

I wipe my eyes and reached for my husband’s hand across the couch without saying anything.

In the morning, I don’t cancel our home study.

Maybe that’s as brave as I can be today.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Genny Rietze lives in rural Alaska with her husband, two young kids, and a dozen chickens. She writes in the early hours of the morning, runs a community compost program by day, and knits during bath time. She loves rainy days and coconut coffee creamer. She and her husband recently became licensed foster parents and are waiting, with open hearts and honest conversations, for their first call. You can find her work on her website.

**Peaceful Bedtimes: The Quick Trick That Saved Us** Feb 20, 2020
“Goodnight, Buddy! I love you,” I whisper to my seven-year-old son as I quietly slip out of his room and into the hallway, leaving his door a few inches ajar like he prefers.

“‘Night, Mom! See you tomorrow!” He calls sweetly in return as he rolls over, clutching his favorite stuffed shark, ready for sleep to claim him.

I pause to breathe in the moment, remembering a time not so long ago when most bedtimes ended up with me sitting outside this very same door, locked from the outside, watching a baby monitor image of him pounding on that door relentlessly while both of us cried.

Our little dude has a stubborn streak a mile wide, and it was on full display at bedtime. It started when he learned to pull to stand at eight months old, and it triggered a sleep regression that didn’t let up until after his first birthday. I aged five years in those four months. Things settled down a little until he learned to crawl out of his crib just after his second birthday, necessitating the switch to a toddler bed. We tried to set expectations and create a routine he could count on, but night after night, week after week, he kept pushing and fighting for one more book, one more song, five more minutes of snuggles. We tried keeping things exactly the same for weeks, hoping he would learn what to expect, but he never accepted the routine and kept crying and pushing for more at every bedtime. We tried giving him more of the things he asked for to see if he would self-regulate and determine for himself what would be enough for him, but there seemed to be no such thing as “enough.”

At some point, probably after a hefty session of prayer, it dawned on me that my little dude might be having a bit of separation anxiety at bedtime. Maybe this is obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to either my husband or me, because it was never something he seemed to struggle with at other times. When we dropped him off at church, preschool, or even childcare at the gym, separation was never a problem. In those cases, the allure of different toys to explore and new friends to play with was stronger in our curious little extrovert than his reservations about being parted from us.

When it came to bedtime, however, I wondered if separating from us might be part of the problem. From infancy, Cam would fight sleep as long as he was with Mommy, keeping himself awake as long as I rocked or sat with him, but he also couldn’t bear to be parted from me and would go to pieces when I would leave. During his epic sleep regression, we discovered that he would fall asleep for Daddy, but not for Mommy. I wondered if the root of his struggles was the idea that Mommy and Daddy leaving his room was the end of his contact time with us for the day. I also wondered what might change if he realized that wasn’t entirely true.

The next night, at bedtime, I decided to test my theory with a quick question.

“Cam,” I asked, “Did you know that Daddy and I come into your room and check on you after you’re asleep.”

“You do?” He asked, incredulously.

“Yes, sweetie,” I explained, “We come in after you’re asleep and make sure you’re covered up and give you kisses before we go to bed.”

“Oh,” He exclaimed, his little face registering a modicum of relief, “That’s gweat!” (I miss when he said his “r’s” like that)

In a moment of what can only be attributed to divine inspiration, I followed a whim that changed the game for us from that day forward.

“Tell you what, Buddy,” I said, “Why don’t you choose a stuffed animal. I’ll take it with me when I leave, and then I’ll bring it back when I come to check on you tonight. That way, when you wake up and see it, you’ll know that we came in to see you after you were asleep.”

“That’s a gweat idea, Mom!” He said, handing me a stuffed bear. I picked up the stuffy, gave him a kiss, walked out of the room, and held my breath.

There was no crying. No fussing. No sound of footsteps out of his bed. No pounding on the door. I peeked in his room five minutes later, and he was asleep already. An hour later, I came back and he was still sleeping peacefully. I deposited the stuffy on his bed and tiptoed out of his room.

In the morning, he came into our room with the stuffed bear in his hand and his face beaming. “You weally did check on me!” He exclaimed.

Thus we began a nightly routine that carried us through the next several months and has come back into rotation on and off over the ensuing years. He eventually figured out his preferred method of execution was to leave the stuffy on my side of The Big Bed before retiring to his room, and to this day, I will occasionally find his favorite stuffed shark sitting there waiting for me when I head to bed.

When it was our daughter’s turn to struggle with bedtimes, it was soothing to her as well. (It helped that her big brother explained it to her—she took his word for it even when she was slightly skeptical about ours.) She uses it frequently still, usually on the occasions she naps and has a hard time settling down. Her preferred stuffy to leave for us is Diamond, the sequined unicorn.

It’s such a simple thing; I would never have thought it would have the impact it did on our kids. I’ve passed the tip on to other families, many of whom have said it helped them as well. It hasn’t fixed all the bedtime problems—we will still hit the occasional speed bump that a stuffy on the bed won’t fix. And to be sure, there are some bedtime struggles that a late-night stuffed animal delivery won’t even touch.

But it’s simple, easy, gentle, and might just be worth a try. May your bedtimes be peaceful and your evenings be your own.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Tori Rask is a writer, wife, and mom living in the Pacific Northwest. She loves Jesus, music, reading, watching sports (but not playing them), drinking Jasmine tea, and connecting with other moms any chance she gets. Tori writes about life, faith, family, and friendship on her blog, Grace for the Real Stuff. You can also connect with Tori on Instagram.

**Going Public** Feb 18, 2020
“What do we do with Jenna?” I asked my husband on a spontaneous evening walk.

I’ve been homeschooling the oldest since 2016 when she entered kindergarten and her sister was in pre-k. That year went poorly (I started it with a 6-week-old, a 1-year-old, and some Very Intense Curriculum), but we’ve found our rhythm in the years since.

Lately, she and I are butting heads. While she’s definitely an introvert, she’s the most extroverted of the introverts in our house: she has social needs that I’m simply not cut out to meet. Also, there’s conflict with her 17-months-younger sister Katherine, who has long been my big, physical reactor. At small provocations, she yells, hits, kicks, and throws things. When she gets wound up, I often hold her to protect her, me, and her siblings for half an hour or more. (I refer to this as “disciplinary cuddle time.” She is not amused.) Jenna doesn’t only want my attention; she wants her siblings’ as well, and she frequently gets it by needling Katherine, resulting in a full disruption of everybody’s day.

We’ve been kicking around the idea of sending her to public school for a little while—we have to change something, and this may help. We live two blocks from the elementary school she would attend, but I hesitate—quitting homeschool feels like defeat. Maybe I’m not good at this and should just give up? Maybe I should stay the course and keep trying? I know this is a privileged choice—keep my kid home or send her to the great public school down the road. These are two decent options. So why does this all feel so heavy?

“I can’t make this decision,” I tell Andrew as we mosey toward home. “It’s too personal and too fraught for me to have any objectivity. I need you to just decide.”
“Okay,” he responds, having listened to me obsess for months, thus being well aware of the pros and cons of each option. “Let’s try public school.”

***

We start the school year in August with much fear and trepidation. I worry she won’t be ready for the sheer amount of stimulation a classroom entails. I worry her teacher won’t approve of my choice to homeschool her until now and will judge her behavior as she adjusts to a new environment. I worry kids will be mean, or she’ll fall into some soul-deadening pursuit of “cool.” I worry her relationships with me and her siblings will drift apart as she spends hours away from us each day. I worry that I am worrying too much and she’ll pick it up and worry more than she already does.

It works. My worry effectively prevents each of those things from happening. Her teacher is kind and encouraging and very chill. Jenna regularly jabbers on when she gets home about all her friends (an improbable number of whom are named Noah) and the fun she’s had.

Actually, the biggest struggle comes after the second day. Mrs. Friedrich pulls me aside at pick-up: “Jenna’s having a hard time being quiet when she needs to be listening. I keep reminding her, but she’s still a chatterbox.” She is making friends too enthusiastically. We address the whole “no, really, you have to listen to the teacher and talk to your classmates at appropriate times and volume” and now she’s thriving, both personally and academically.

***

The biggest wins haven’t been solely Jenna’s, though. She comes home worn out from a day of interacting and needs reconnection and alone time. I spend some time connecting with her heart and then she finds something solitary to do. (Let’s just be honest here: she zones out on her tablet. It’s fine.) Just as stunningly, Katherine has blossomed. Where there was great frustration and often violence, a kind, thoughtful second-grader has emerged. Without her big sister calling constantly for my attention and poking at her for reactions, the need for “disciplinary cuddles” has subsided more than I imagined it would. She’s kinder to her younger siblings, she and I communicate better, and even the rivalry between her and Jenna has cooled as they’ve had space to develop as themselves, rather than functioning as one clump of kids, Jennaandkatherine.

Back in June when I was agonizing over the kind of school Jenna would attend, I didn’t know a change would bring so much calm to our home. Now, as we head toward the end of the school year, we’re thinking through options for the next one. Jenna seems straightforward enough: it’s been delightful to watch her thrive in a class full of peers and a few not-Mom grownups. But this coming year, we will have three school-aged kids and, again, decisions must be made.

One night at dinner, Andrew brings this up. “Is kindergarten at Jenna’s school full-day or half-day?”

“Full, I think. Why?”

“I think Brian might do really well with the structure.”

I agree, and tell him so. Up to this point in the conversation, we’ve been talking above the children, as parents do, and they’re involved in their own conversations [squabbles]. None of them is paying attention. But then Katherine pipes up: “Mom, I think I should stay home this year.”

“I’m kind of leaning that way, but why do you think you should stay home?”

“Well,” she says, sipping her milk to buy a moment’s pause, “It’s a lot of people. And I don’t know if some of them will be mean. And usually, when there’s a bully, you know… I become a bully. NOT that it’s my choice. I’m not telling you what to do.”

She’s right: this is her struggle. The honest, shame-free self-reflection coupled with her clear awareness that she’s not the one in charge (but expects, still, to be heard) show me just how much she’s grown the last several months. I imagine she’ll face this particular challenge before long with grace and maturity, but this coming year may not be the time to try. She’s flourishing at home for now.

The school choices don’t feel nearly as heavy now as they did a year ago, but each decision has a shelf life. I don’t know how long they’ll each work for my various children, for my family, or for me. I don’t need to know, either. For now, we’ll continue to choose year by year, child by child what school is going to be.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Robin Chapman captures both the gritty experience of motherhood and the grace of God as it carries her despite her many imperfections. She writes with humor and vulnerability, sure to make you laugh and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing you are not alone. As an editor and writer for KindredMom.com, Robin is a cheerleader for moms in the trenches. She educates her four children at home (well, except for that one) in Alaska, where she lives with her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

A Comfort Friend for All Feb 13, 2020

The demanding beeping sound of the washing machine catches my attention, indicating its time to switch to the dryer. I rush to the task, knowing evening is quickly approaching, and we can not safely enter bedtime without their friends dried and ready for snuggling.

Today we had the great pleasure of being indoctrinated into a new category of parents—those who can tell you about the time their family battled lice. It is amazing it has taken us this long. Our three children ages seven and under have all attended childcare at some point, a place that encourages the life-long lesson of sharing, including the myriad of diseases that go along with that.

So here we are, in the midst of the sanitization process for what will always be referred to as the Delousing Saga of 2019. We’ve treated the children, vacuumed the furniture, stripped the beds, and now we are down to the most cherished of items, the lovies, the stuffies, the bedtime friends.

He sleeps with Puppy and Beary. There are other rotating guest appearances in his bed, but these are the regulars. When we go to check on him at night, we find them still tucked under his chin, one in each arm like a headlock from your great aunt.

For her, it’s the Daniel Tiger she received when the pacifiers went away to her younger cousin. It was a quid pro quo that I didn’t expect to be as successful as it was. There is also the Tigey Santa spent late-night hours crafting with love and insecurity of how it might be received. It was all for nothing because there has not been a time since that Christmas he wasn’t by her side. Daniel and Tigey might be celebrities on your TV, but in our house, we are friends IRL.

The baby has yet to take to the stuffed animal we placed in his crib when the internet told me it was safe to do so. It’s a lion we forced upon him, a fluffy one Nana and Papa gave him at their first meeting when he was only four weeks old, a nod to his name, Leo. We’re not at all sure if he will live into that name, if he is a King-of-the-Jungle type, although he does do a mean roaring sound. While the youngest isn’t showing any signs of lice yet, we chose to take all precautions and throw Lion into the wash. High heat, they said. It’s the only way to kill them. But apparently high heat also turns a fluffy mane into a 1970s afro. I’m worried the baby won’t take well to the change in hairdo. Lion may be evicted from the crib soon. I make a note to hunt for a new friend. Sorry, Lion.

These are their dearest friends—the ones that lull them to sleep. They get proper noun status in our home, referred to by their given names. It seems our children could be a little more creative with their naming strategies, but we know better than ever to question the name one gives to their beloved. And they are beloved members of our family. They provide company when the dark looms over their small beds at night. They comfort when traveling to a strange place. For when with their friends, they never feel alone.

I have that comfort friend too. For me, it’s my husband. It’s in his arms that I find rest.

I fight it, though. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t need a comfort item to get me to sleep. That’s what my peppermint tea and skincare routine are for. That’s why I use a sound machine and a heavy down comforter and keep the thermostat at a temperature comfortable only to penguins. I’m a grown woman that can care for herself, thank you very much. I don’t need a comfort object to rest well.

Physical touch is a struggle for me these days, too. I live in an introverted body surrounded by boundary-less children who, when not asleep and surrounded by their comfort animals, seek refuge in me. It is one of those “other duties as assigned” in motherhood—the constant touch, pull, press, weight against my body. I give in to them, as long as I can, until I pass the role over to their stuffed friends, offer one last physical presence with a kiss, and wish them goodnight. It is only in these next precious hours of freedom that I can finally just be me in my body.

But sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes the self-care routines I label as grownup and independent don’t feel adequate for rest. On the really hard days, my soul requires more than facial serums and cozy pajamas. It needs a hug.

Tonight, after a long and unwelcome journey of cleaning and scrubbing and brushing and cleaning, again, I am beaten down. My heart rate still races from the anxiety of infestation, my mind distracted by the guilt of my children’s pain, my body weary from the irritation of duties I did not plan. The exhaustion weighs heavy on me from the outside in.

And then there he is, my delousing partner, my comforter, my husband. He sits on our bed, in its freshly washed, infestation-free sheets. When he smiles at me, he looks as tired as I feel. I collapse into his body as his arms wrap tightly around my back. My breathing matches his, slow and deep, as the anxiety and guilt and irritation leave me with every exhale.

“There is no one I would rather tackle lice with than you,” he whispers. It is the sexiest thing he can say to me in this moment.

And also the most comforting. I may be capable of caring well for both my children and my self, but it sure brings me solace to know I don’t have to do it alone.

The physical contact is welcoming tonight. The struggles of the day do not linger. Sleep finds me quickly in the comfort of his arms.

Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com

Rachel Nevergall, mom of three and wife to a man who is WAY better at cleaning the kitchen, is a Minnesotan newbie, curator of family adventures, builder of epic train tracks, lover of all of the library books, and writer in the in-between. She shares about the confluence of her child development background and the realities of parenting on her blog and Instagram.

**A Best Friend You Can’t Get Rid Of** Feb 11, 2020
“But she likes it,” my middle daughter insists, a pleading expression on her face. I scoop the baby into my arms, rescuing her from her big sister, who is having a hard time grasping my firm no-banging-toys-on-Violet’s-head rule.

I sigh. It is at least the third time we’ve had this exact conversation, and I know how it is going to go.

“Just because she isn’t crying doesn’t mean you should hit her on the head with the ball. It’s not a good game. Would you like it if I hit your head over and over with the ball?” I am seriously tempted to do this. Even though these beautiful girls are both mine to cherish, I feel a very strong urge right now to put my older daughter in her place, to defend the baby with my body.

Yet for months, I have been trying very hard not to give Caitlin reason to resent her little sister. She had a hard time accepting her role as the middle child, and she can see that Violet absorbs a lot of my attention—attention that used to belong to her. Somehow I know coming down too hard on Caitlin will not help matters. With difficulty, I swallow the feeling that she is old enough to know better.

Caitlin huffs and rotates her body away from me. She is annoyed I caught her, annoyed that she lost access to her living doll baby.

Sweet Violet does not protest being snatched away from the truck she was playing with, just like she did not protest being used as a human anvil. She has already moved on to smacking me in the chest and attempting to scratch the freckles right off.

I stand there for another minute, studying the back of Caitlin’s head, her rumpled hair. She is ignoring me and has begun to play with a few stray trains that happen to be nearby. I am left feeling superfluous as I watch her, shifting my weight back and forth and trying to decide whether this is a battle worth pursuing or whether I have already said enough.

One of the great struggles of my overly wordy life is learning to just be quiet after delivering my message. Letting it simmer. Not beating the dead horse. (See what I mean?)

I sigh again and move off, smushing my nose into Violet’s cheek and nuzzling until she giggles and twists to grab my glasses. I like to try to press my love right through her skin.

Maybe that’s where Caitlin gets it from.

***

Caitlin has an unflappable belief that she is Violet’s favorite person. In the mornings, when I am waking everyone up, Caitlin bounds into her sister’s room and dances wildly next to the crib. Violet is happy when she catches sight of me; she is often already peeking over the wooden rail and smiling when I open the door. But when Violet sees Caitlin, she seems to spark to life. She bobs up and down, stamping her feet against the mattress. Her eyes follow the frantic flailing of Caitlin’s limbs, and she squeals to mirror her sister’s enthusiasm.

“She’s happy because she sees me!” Caitlin informs me, grabbing my hand. “She loves me.”

It’s never I love her. Always the other way.

It took Caitlin almost a year to realize that “taking care” of Violet might be fun. She started small, as a self-appointed watchdog—Mommy, Violet’s taking all the books off the shelf! Mommy, Violet’s crawling to the stairs!—and escalated cautiously to scolding other family members when they dare to offer Violet a handful of Cheerios because she has claimed that job as her own.

She takes her responsibility as big sister seriously (most of the time). She considers herself an authority on why Violet is crying and what Violet wants. Mommy, Violet is tired. Mommy, Violet wants to play with my Legos. She believes she is the only one who can comfort Violet, and she won’t turn a blind eye on her sister’s distress. “It’s all riiiiiiiiight, it’s alllllll riiiiiiiiiiight,” she croons when Violet bucks against the car seat straps, wanting to break free. “I’m right heeeere,” she assures her baby sister on long drives. I can see her in my rearview mirror, reaching her hands up and waving to catch Violet’s attention.

I wonder: does she know this is love? This instinct to meet needs, to create peace in the midst of a storm?

Sure, she’s imperfect at it. (So am I.) Sometimes she shows her love by chasing Violet—which starts as a game and ends, usually, with a crash. Sometimes she tries to lay on top of her, or even bang her on the head with a ball.

She might not say the words, but her love is a verb.

***

I make it halfway to the kitchen before I reconsider.

I don’t want to give up on encouraging my two girls to become friends. I know it’s my job to lay the building blocks in these young years. I’ve never had a sister, so maybe this is naïve, but I want my daughters to grow up and trust each other and share with each other and go on vacations together and…well, anything else sisters do when they love each other beyond reason.

A sister should be a best friend you can’t get rid of.

I walk back to the front of the house, where Caitlin studiously fits together a train track.

I crouch down beside her and stand the baby in front of me. Violet is grabbing, reaching for the tracks at her feet. She has no idea that anything went wrong.

“Caitlin,” I say gently. She looks up, her long hair falling in front of her eyes. “Do you know that Violet is God’s special gift to you? She is your best friend. No matter what, she will always be your sister. God gave Violet to you and you to Violet because He loves you!”

Caitlin stares at me impassively. She has barely started making friends of her own. She likes to tell me that she has 20 friends, a crew made of preschoolers she met at church and the playground, whose names she hasn’t bothered to remember (except Peter). She thinks she has enough. She thinks that asking someone to be her friend is all a friendship needs. She doesn’t yet realize that friendships—and sisters—require ongoing care, even when it’s inconvenient.

“Caitlin, will you please apologize to Violet for hitting her on the head?” I ask after a minute.

She scoots over and looks down at Violet, who has wrenched free from my grasp and is sitting on top of two train tracks, trying to pull them out from underneath her. “I’m sorry for hitting you, Violet,” she mumbles. Then she extends her arms and carefully wraps them around Violet’s head in what could pass for a hug if I interpret generously.

“Tell her you love her,” I prompt. This is part of our standard apology procedure. Sorry-hug-love-forgiveness. I hope someday this will become second nature. I hope my children will be willing to admit when they are wrong and quick to extend grace to others. I hope they will treat each other kindly for years to come.

Caitlin takes a deep breath.

“I love you, Violet.”

Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com

Melissa Hogarty lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children. She believes deeply in the power of reading and the love of Christ. She loves to bake, sing loudly, and make her own home décor. She blogs about food, faith, and family over at Savored Grace, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**A Rescue Boat for Two** Feb 04, 2020
The first time I saw him, he was strutting down a makeshift catwalk in the dorm we both lived in with a giant heart shaved into his chest hair. The guys on his floor dared him to do it as part of a floor-sponsored “fashion show” to initiate the freshmen to campus life, and one-by-one each of the new guys made their entrance. These initiation activities were conducted in a spirit of fun, but as someone who has always taken myself way too seriously, the whole extravaganza seemed a little over the line. I rolled my eyes to hide my discomfort amidst the roars and cheers of the crowd that had gathered, but I was intrigued enough to hang around as the event unfolded. I laughed nervously along with the girls around me from my floor, trying to refrain from appearing too obviously entertained by the weirdness on display.

The next several encounters I had with the man I would one day marry and have seven children with were similarly silly. One involved gallons of chocolate poured head-to-toe over all the guys on his dorm floor (outside) while they jogged around campus chanting various things about their newly forged brotherhood, boot-camp style. One involved him planting a lipstick kiss to mark the the acrylic room number sign outside my door as he came through with several other guys dressed up in thrift-store drag costumes. I hadn’t spoken to him by that point—and can’t say I was impressed at the time—but the kiss mark he left behind remained on that sign for the duration of the year as our love story blossomed.

At the beginning of our relationship, I didn’t know he would become my very best friend, and that his sense of humor would buoy us through the ever-changing, turbulent tides of parenting.

***

We woke to the California sun peeking around the edges of the not-so-blackout window shade in our room. Even though the temperatures outside were often warm-to-sweltering, we slept with a puffy comforter on our bed due to the frigid AC in our apartment building. Still curled up under the comforter, but somewhat propped up by pillows, we could both see the top rim of the bassinet at the foot of our bed and knew the baby had woken up by her gurgles and coos. We somehow started our day with a serious conversation, the details of which are fuzzy for me now, 14 years later. I just remember we each had a bit to say, and we each took turns sharing our perspectives until the moment we both saw a little hand shoot up over the edge of the bassinet. It held steady there for a few seconds. My husband paused mid-thought and said straight to the baby, “Do you have a question?”

We both laughed.

We’d only been married a little over a year, but my husband was already learning the art of diffusing my seriousness with well-timed humor. He’s only gotten better at it with time. He is the perfect opposite to my all-too-seriousness.

***

These days, he’ll do pretty much anything to get me to crack a smile. Once he folded his long beard up over his face and used a stretchy headband from one of our daughters to hold it up around his forehead, making him look like a faceless beard-head. He got himself all situated before drawing my attention, and I looked over, unsuspectingly, to such absurdity I couldn’t help but cackle out loud.

It’s like he can sense when the pressure inside me is rising, and he knows he needs to release the valve a bit. Sometimes its absurdity, sometimes corny dad jokes, memes, sarcasm, or an expertly dropped “That’s what she said” comment in response to something our 3 year old said.

***

He calls me from work to check in as he drives home, and he gets my tired-mama voice with lots of kid noise in the background. I’ve been on duty all day, responsible to steward the energy of seven kids for many hours. One child is at the dining room table, not doing their math lesson and offering excuses as to why it is my fault it isn’t done yet. Three kids are on different corners of our sectional listening to their headphones while reading their kindles. The baby is hopping up and down in the doorway jumper that keeps him busy, but out of trouble while I’ve got the phone to my ear, and two of the little kids are tearing around the house playing some kind of toss-football game with a package of baby wipes. They’re blurting out gibberish quips at each other, tossing the wipes while running through the rooms, laughing and chasing. I can’t make sense of what they’re even doing. At one moment, there is a shrill, deafening shriek that rings my ears and nerves together, announcing through the phone what my husband can expect upon arrival.

“Well that sounds nice,” he says with a measured amount of sarcasm.

My flat reply, “Yep. It’s my favorite sound in the whole world.”

We both know I’m suppressing my instinct to yell at the kids to settle down and be quiet. It’s the time of day when my words will not be heard anyway.

If it were not for the daily injection of humor and sarcasm, I’m fairly certain I would have already aged myself an extra twenty years by this point with worry and over-reaction.

Humor is a lifeline, a rescue boat for two, when we’re drowning in a sea of children: fourteen arms that need hugs, fourteen shoes that must be found in order to leave the house, seventy fingers that are rifling through the pantry for a snack between mealtimes, forty-two combinations of immature sibling relationships to manage.

He highlights the joy for me so I don’t lose it in the overwhelm.

I am grateful for the life we have, for the kids we have. The days are full of good things, but my patience is still tested, my mental fortitude and emotional stamina still challenged, and my decision-making bank is routinely overdrawn. I don’t need anyone to give me an award or a gold star for my work as a mom, but the humor my husband brings to this wild adventure reminds me to laugh (even while I’m crying), and reminds me that we’re in this together.

By late-evening, I collapse in bed. He cracks a playful joke, and seeing my eyes well up with tears, switches gears to bring the tenderness and encouragement I need as I wind down from the day. Sarcasm and memes will have to wait for the morning when I’m refreshed. Under the blanket, he holds my hand, my pinky tucked between his pointer and middle fingers, the way we always do, and always have since the beginning. I fall asleep, grateful we get to continue this adventure tomorrow.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

**You Can Stop Competing—You’re Both Hard-Core** Feb 04, 2020
Remember that handsome man who seduced you about a year ago, acting all suave and sexy? Now he’s asleep on the couch, drooling, with a scratchy five o’clock shadow and a level of hygiene that harkens back to his middle school days. The baby screaming, he is obliviously snoring as the rage sneaks in and sets up camp in the deep recesses of your sleep-deprived, half-working brain. The next morning, as you walk in a zombie-trance into the kitchen wearing a dirty pair of leggings and an unclipped nursing tank revealing a less appealing version of a wardrobe malfunction, he complains about how tired he is. There is no memory of that suave, seductive man left in your mind: only the blackness of rage as the mom-cano erupts words of caustic lava on his unsuspecting head. This is not possibly the man you loved and married and let into your pants. This is someone completely different: your baby daddy.

Babies change a marriage. It is a statistical fact that marital satisfaction tanks in the child-rearing years. And for good reason. You committed to the romantic notion of “starting a family” only to discover that this beautiful stroller-walk in the park is actually an effort to scale Mount Everest. Without training. Or oxygen. Your life has changed more drastically than you ever imagined it could, and while you think you are in this together, your experience of these changes is drastically different. And the disparity with which you experience the chaos of parenthood can result in division and conflict.

This was one of the biggest struggles I went through as a new mom until I finally decided to stop competing with my better half.

My husband does this trail race every year called the Dirty Duel. It’s run in the late fall, so it’s a cold and muddy endeavor. The unique thing about the race is that there are two paths you can run. One is called “long and difficult,” and the other is called “short and brutal.” Pick your poison. Either path you take, it’s going to be rough, but either route will bring you to the finish line.

That’s how it is with co-parenting. You are both on the same mission to raise a reasonable human being and responsible member of society, but you and your baby daddy are on very different, but equally grueling paths. It took me many years, four children, and several arguments to realize that my experience of parenthood is fundamentally different from my husband’s.

It started after our oldest, Lily, was born. I realized my whole world changed an incomprehensible amount, while his life looked much the same on the outside. He took a few days off, and then he returned to work. I was a jumble of hormones, fat and unshowered in perpetual lounge pants, struggling to find a routine with this terrifyingly powerful 7-pound being. He got up and went to work just like he had every other day of his adult life. When he got home, he would snuggle the baby, play a few rounds of peek-a-boo, and kiss her good-night. All the fun stuff minus the engorged breasts and cabin fever.

This did not feel like a joint venture. We were not equals on this journey. My life resembled nothing close to what it was before. Even when I did get away to work part-time as a therapist while my mom watched Lily, it was a totally different routine than when I worked before becoming a parent. Not only did I have to pack her up with blankets, diapers, toys, clothes, breast milk, etc. and drop her off before I even started my day, but I did it all with an ache in my heart. I couldn’t just go to work and do the magic of healing lives; I had to tear my mind and heart away from this tiny being who occupied such huge amounts of space in both. And then there was the pumping. No matter what anyone may say, you can try to preserve your previous way of life and make it look the same as it was before, but it is counterfeit. Your very being is changed when you created that life, and even going through the same motions is fundamentally different than it was before. There is no going back.

Thus began the ultimate case of “the grass is greener.” I would covet my husband’s apparent freedom while he would envy my abundant time with the children. I would think, “At least you get out of the house for more than a haggard grocery store run with a screaming baby. You can dress like an adult and go to work where you feel successful. Must be nice.” And he would think, “At least you get to be home all day, wearing comfy clothes and cuddling our baby. You see every one of her firsts and nap while she naps. Must be nice.”

The reason raising kids can be such a divisive time in marriage is because we expect to do it together. To share the same struggles, to commiserate together, problem-solve together, cry together, and celebrate together. But that is very hard to do when our struggles are so very different. I may be overwhelmed being knee-deep in baby all day, while his heart aches from being away from his children. It’s difficult to support someone who has the problems you wish you had and doesn’t appreciate them as the blessings you wish you had. We’ve had numerous conversations like this, trying to get support and acknowledgment for our sacrifices. But they just end up in a verbal competition over who has the hardest job and who is a bigger martyr for the family. Ergo, division.

It took me a long time to get it, but I finally learned that I have to stop competing with him. We are both hard-core, awesome parents working towards the same goal. Long and difficult or short and brutal, we are both struggling and persevering to the finish line. I need to honor his work and sacrifice instead of just wanting credit for my own. And sometimes, our struggles with our own position are best shared with other moms or other dads to gather the support and commiseration we seek.

Joe is still my best friend, and when it comes to talking about our kids, nobody else can appreciate so deeply the silly little stories about what one kid did or said that day. No one else celebrates as fully the successes of our children or mourns as deeply their struggles. In that way, he is my partner without substitute. And I know that one day the kids will grow up and move away, and we will once again be able to look at each other’s faces for more than 35 seconds without interruption. I know that marital satisfaction curve will swing its way back up. For now, we just have to realize that we are in the trenches, and we need to give each other a healthy dose of grace, love, and understanding. Supporting when we can, finding support from other moms or dads when we can’t, and trying to remember why we married each other in the first place. Hang in there, mama, and every once in a while, take a glance to your right and remember he’s fighting in the trenches with you.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Theresa Phillips is a mother, author, nurse, and mom-encourager. She runs a crazy household of 4 young kids and moonlights as a labor and delivery nurse, where she has the privilege of inaugurating women into this amazing society of motherhood. Before nursing, she was a therapist specializing in marriage and family therapy and had the honor of helping those in crisis. Now she marries all three areas of experience into a powerhouse of encouragement for moms. She’s like your midwife, best friend, and therapist all rolled into one! For regular encouragement in this crazy mom-life, follow The Gritty Mama on Facebook or Instagram.

The Putting Away of the Day Jan 30, 2020

I shut their bedroom door and sigh deeply, pausing, hesitating to move, as I question the whining behind the thin walls. It is the lingering cries of children insisting they are absolutely and completely not at all tired. I know better; they are indeed tired. I need to ignore the sounds. But they weigh heavy like a cloud, adding to the accumulating precipitation of a long day spent parenting young children and the storm of emotions that comes along with that. Putting distance between me and their needs motivates me to move down the stairs.

The remains of the day greet me at the bottom. Perhaps “greet me” is too kind a phrase. In this moment, the remains more or less taunt me, reflecting the self-portrait of my soul, the one who feels the content of her brain and body have been upturned onto the living room floor like a toddler who just found my purse.

Thus begins the nightly ritual—the putting away of the day. As I roam from the bookshelf to the toy box to the pantry to the bedroom, depositing items, finding their homes, restoring a picture of order and control, of peace and harmony, my mind wanders. The thinking begins with frustration, at the children, at my home, at me, for letting it get this chaotic. I move onto reflection, pondering what I can do differently, how I can make tomorrow better.

With each step, that knot in my heart begins to unravel. The twisted bunch of anxieties and doubts and negative emotions from the day follow me around the house, straightening itself bit by bit, item by item, breath by breath. It is the yoga class I didn’t make it to today. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The savasana of my day. That’s my favorite part of yoga—the nap.

As the breathing in and out moves me closer to restored order, I start to notice more of my surroundings. I pick up the picture my eldest drew me during her nap—the little stick figures holding hands. “It’s us!” I remember her saying with pride, causing me to immediately forgive her for interrupting my quiet time. I pin it to the clipboard on my desk. I collect the various vehicles strewn about the rug, replaying his sweet toddler voice when he learned to say, “GO!” I take down the pillow fort they created, recalling their silly laughter as they wrestled under blankets, signs they are learning to play with each other, the making of a sibling relationship we dreamed up two years ago.

Breathing in. Breathing out. Finding a place for each and every item—a place on the shelf and a place in my heart.

There is just one thing left, a small plastic dinosaur, a brontosaurus. I spot it sitting on the edge of the coffee table, next to that book of art and basket of coasters that some style magazine insisted makes the perfect vignette to demonstrate a “quirky yet sophisticated vibe in today’s modern home.” I’m not sure the dinosaur was what they had in mind when they said quirky and sophisticated. But here it lies, confidently, like it belongs. And I leave it there.

While this ritual is about clearing away the remains of the day, it is also about finding the right place for the things in my life. That dinosaur belongs here. It looks good sitting there amongst our things. The children belong here too. And they need an invitation to come back, an invitation to breathe in a new day.

It wasn’t always like this, leaving things on the coffee table or the bookshelf. Early on in this parenting journey, when it was just the baby, burp cloths and teething toys and board books were put away, out of sight. I didn’t want them in my space. This used to be a safe place just for me–the grownup who wanted to clear away the reminders of a day spent doing nothing like the life before baby. But I realize tonight, as I willingly leave that dinosaur next to the book and the coasters, I have made more room for them, my children. As they get bigger, and the messes along with them, we continue to practice this ritual of returning the day back to zen. We make more room for them on our shelf, at our table, in our hearts. Today it’s a dinosaur. Tomorrow maybe a matchbox car, or a lego tower, or a tiny fuzzy animal. Whatever it is, I am leaving room, opening up, forgiving faults, inviting play — breathing in, breathing out, restoring order, accepting change.

Breathing in, I glance upstairs at the bedroom door. It’s quiet. I breathe out, and I smile—at the dinosaur and the day and tomorrow, ready to breathe in again.

Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com

Rachel Nevergall, mom of three and wife to a man who is WAY better at cleaning the kitchen, is a Minnesotan newbie, curator of family adventures, builder of epic train tracks, lover of all of the library books, and writer in the in-between. She shares about the confluence of her child development background and the realities of parenting on her blog and Instagram.

**Away in a Bathroom** Jan 28, 2020
I struggled to get the down comforter draped over the glass shower doors. I knew it would dampen the sound in the echoey bathroom, but I hadn’t anticipated how bulky and awkward the weight of the blanket would actually be. Finally satisfied with its position, I moved on to nailing a dark blue blanket over the window. If my firstborn was going to get a good night’s sleep in this bathroom, it would need to be both quiet and dark. I dragged in her bassinet and a fan for white noise, turned off the lights, and joyfully observed the bathroom-turned-sensory-deprivation-chamber.

Perhaps now we could all sleep.

Sleep. What was that? My three-month-old firstborn was giving me a run for my money. I had once been an unstoppable force—a music teacher who could teach 1,000 kids in a week, put on epic performances for the school principal and district superintendent, and handle the third-grade recorder unit with calm and ease. Having birthed one tiny baby girl, I was reduced to a haggard, exhausted, hopeless new mama whose only hope lay in making the baby sleep in our bathroom.

With her sleeping next to me or with me or on top of me for the past three months, both my husband and I looked the picture of new parent fatigue. I heard every gurgle and every sigh, and at one point, I could have sworn I actually heard her eyelids open. My husband had already found the living room couch a safe retreat at night, so he wouldn’t hear us getting up each hour. I needed to sleep and couldn’t do it with her sleeping in the crib right next to my bed.

The quandary spread out in front of me. We only had two bedrooms in our first apartment, each with an en-suite bathroom. My husband’s studio was in the second bedroom, and with his rigorous work schedule, I couldn’t see how we could put the baby in there. The living room was tiny and bright and attached to the galley kitchen, so that was not an option. The master bathroom was the place for her. We would use the studio bathroom as our main bathroom and upgrade the master bath to a baby nursery. With a door between her and me, perhaps we would finally get more than an hour of sleep at a time.

It was so unconventional. It was so…weird. I mean, who does this? Who sleeps their precious newborn baby in a BATHROOM? I heard the funny old story of putting babies in dresser drawers to sleep, or using a Moses basket to allow the baby to sleep anywhere, but a bathroom seemed like such a juxtaposition to newborn softness and innocence.

My new-mama heart and mind raced with what-ifs and scenarios about my daughter’s would-be adult therapy bills, but after a few days of her snoozing next to the toilet, she slept for a five-hour stretch. I felt like I was harboring a dirty secret, but I didn’t dare change a thing because it was working. My husband felt total freedom with the decision, and I was jealous of his nonchalant attitude. He was totally at peace with it.

I followed his lead and reasoned that perhaps running our home the way that worked for us would give us peace.

The freedom to put a door between my daughter and I, whether it was a proper nursery door or a bathroom door, created peace at nap time and night; a peace which I would not be willing to forego because it wasn’t the “right way” or “how things are usually done.”

I wouldn’t say the peace came right away, but I knew that it was there, in the back of my heart and mind. This understanding that we are allowed to make decisions for our family to make our home function for us.

A week later, I breathed a sigh of contentment as I nursed my little girl to sleep before gingerly transferring her to the bathroom bassinet. Maybe tonight, she’d sleep through even longer.

***

Fast-forward twelve years and four more kids, and I still search for peace through freedom in my parenting decisions. My littlest sleeps in a pack-and-play in a closet while the beautiful wooden crib sits empty just a few feet away in the bedroom. For a two-year period, while I nursed babies, my husband and I rarely slept in the same room because everyone was happier when one adult in the house was sleeping well. My older kids watch cartoons on Saturday mornings because it allows me some quiet time to read and write and finish a cup of coffee. I quit homeschooling because my own personal well-being was more important than adhering to a seven-year-old, outdated vision of home education, made when my oldest was four, and I only had three kids.

This parenting life and motherhood journey begs me to stay open to the possibilities, to the options, to the many ideas and hacks that allow abiding peace in my home. Even now, I am actively searching for the next opportunity to change up a system, move a trash can, lock a cabinet, or rearrange some furniture in my house. Perhaps I’ll even try sleeping in a home-made sensory deprivation chamber in the master bath. After all, it worked for my baby.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Lynne lives just northeast of Los Angeles in a little suburb called Canyon Country, CA. Her five children challenge her sock-matching skills, her culinary prowess (especially when it comes to boxed mac and cheese), and her ability to conjure the best bedtime stories possible. She and her composer husband of 15 years enjoy date nights about twice a month where they get to finish a thought and eat the food when it’s still hot.

**Simply Green: Cleaning Solutions** Jan 23, 2020
My seven month old kicked excitedly as she grasped the tiny pieces of food I’d served for lunch and shoved them in her mouth. I could barely keep up with her demand for more as she sloppily handled her meal, dropping half of it on the floor in the midst of her enthusiasm to feed herself. Her sticky hair, bright eyes, and grabby hands made me smile as I tossed a few rice puffs on her tray. Her enthusiasm to feed herself made our mealtimes enjoyable. Watching her discover new flavors and textures proved to be entertaining, and messy, for both of us.

I wiped down her slimy baby hands, brushed off the collection of food pieces that collected in her lap, and plopped her down on the floor so she could go after the puffs she dropped during lunchtime. This is what all moms do, right? It’s good for her immune system, I thought. Not only was Olivia eager to feed herself these days, she was also quite eager to put her crawling skills to use and find anything she could as she meandered around the floor. I had to become extra diligent about keeping things clean and picked up. Our apartment was only 850 square feet, and if I didn’t keep it clean, Olivia would surely find the sticky spot, the crumbs, or the rogue blueberry that was dropped at breakfast time.

My curious girl stayed occupied long enough for me to clean up her high-chair. I reached for the spray bottle of the multi-purpose cleaner I regularly used to wipe down our kitchen surfaces, and turned it around to do something I had literally never done before. I read the label. In fine print, the last step of the cleaning instructions read: “Wipe surfaces that come into contact with food with a clean water rinse after using product.” Cool. I thought, I have definitely been doing this ALL wrong. My bad for not cleaning my counters, my table, and my kid’s high chair TWICE. I thought that bottle of cleaner was a great choice for a home with young children. It had the word “green” in it, it had cute pictures of daisies on the label, and the fluid itself was green for crying out loud! The last thing I wanted to do was to use a product all over my home that apparently left behind a residue that wasn’t safe for food to come into contact with—let alone my baby’s hands that constantly went into her mouth. Since I wasn’t about to start double cleaning my kitchen anytime soon, I pitched that bottle and promptly bought a new brand of kitchen cleaner made with lavender oils and did not require “clean water rinses.”

Realizing I had unintentionally used a product in my home that did not serve our family well, I decided to switch out a few other cleaning products. I became Mary Kate, Resident Research and Development Specialist. I was thrilled to discover I wasn’t the only mom to jump on the “green cleaning” bandwagon. I enthusiastically read through blog posts from women who appeared to have achieved a level of domestic authority I was nowhere near myself. I needed to learn their ways, and one of their ways was homemade laundry detergent. What could be cleaner and more pure than washing my baby’s clothes in a non-commercially produced, dye- and fragrance-free laundry soap? I bought all of the ingredients—the soap bars, the powders, and a large tub to store it in. About twenty dollars, a couple of hours, and a cheese grater that had seen better days later (the bars of soap had to be grated into flakes), our family had made another step in our journey toward becoming green cleaning people.

I pursued this journey with zeal, and it wasn’t long before Facebook started recommending cleaning groups to me. Yes, groups dedicated to cleaning your home, with tens of thousands of members in them. Surely these people were domestic authorities too. I joined with no hesitation and became a dedicated group lurker. To my horror, these people did not at all agree with the other mommy bloggers who made their own laundry detergent. Nope. In fact, they had files crammed with facts, science, photos, and personal testimonies as to why homemade laundry detergent could not and would never clean clothing. Eww. Apparently, actual laundry detergent requires ingredients like enzymes and surfactants to break up dirt, stains, oils, and other filth from clothing fiber. Homemade laundry detergent contained none of those things, and after prolonged use would actually start to build up in fabrics and cause clothing to smell putrid. Cool, I thought, yet another thing I got wrong. I’m a mom, not a chemist, why does this have to be so difficult? Before my husband, myself, and our daughter started to have smelly, perpetually unclean clothing, I pitched my tub of homemade “detergent,” along with my cheese grater.

Three kids and seven years later, I am still learning the best ways our family can cut down on our everyday exposure to potentially harmful substances, without falling prey to clever “greenwashing” marketing tactics. I don’t buy a product simply because it has the word “green,” “pure,” or “eco” in the name. I later learned that my lavender oil kitchen cleaner still contained ingredients that probably weren’t great for any of us to be breathing in. With as many hiccups as I encountered in this process to implement eco and health-friendly cleaning practices in our home, the mistakes and effort have been worth it. Did you know that it’s not necessary or healthy to feel like you’re choking on air when you clean the tub or shower? I remember many occasions running out of the bathroom to take a deep breath of fresh air before going back in to scrub the shower walls for another 30 seconds before I ran out of breath. Finding safe and effective products for our home has simplified our cleaning routines, and it allows me to involve my children in housework. We’re not perfect, but not choking while cleaning the tub, or pulling loads of soft laundry from our dryer without using capfuls of fabric softener is not only friendly to our bodies, but our wallet too.

If you find yourself befuddled by the greenwashing marketing tactics used by many companies or if you simply want to be able to get your toddler involved in the process of cleaning house, then read on for our family’s room by room cleaning tips and product recommendations.

Laundry: Once I said no to my homemade detergent, I consulted with people who knew better than me over on the Facebook group Laundry Love & Cleaning Science for their eco-friendly laundry detergent recommendations. Over the years, these have changed, and we’ve tried a few. Currently, we use an environmentally friendly brand we can pick up at Costco because three kids = lots of laundry. We have forgone fabric softener in favor of wool dryer balls. When possible, we take advantage of nice weather, and line dry our laundry. Sunshine helps fade stains and freshens fabrics; particularly sheets, blankets, and towels. (A 20 minute toss in the dryer with wool dryer balls after helps break up any stiffness.)

TIP: make sure you use the recommended water temperature for the detergent you use to get the max cleaning power. Find a detergent with enzymes to help break up tough stains.

Kitchen: No more “rinse after cleaning” products are in our home. I still don’t have time for double cleaning. My favorite all-around cleaning spray is Force of Nature (referral link: get $40 off + free shipping on starter kits.)This product is a rockstar in our kitchen. It’s made from water + vinegar + salt, and cleans just as effectively as bleach without noxious fumes, harmful chemicals, or a vinegar smell. It picks up grease, disinfects cutting boards and sinks, eliminates stubborn odors, and is safe to use on all surfaces- including high chairs and sippy cups. If you’re looking for something a bit simpler, but still effective for typical everyday germs, I learned from Dr. Annie’s Experiments online that hydrogen peroxide is a great option too.

TIP: Microfiber rags are a good choice for picking up dust, absorbing spills, and scrubbing up sticky and greasy messes (like the ones on the stovetop). Cotton, lint-free cleaning rags are great for surface cleaning all around the house, particularly on mirrors and glass.

Bathroom: I will be honest and say that the Force of Nature spray is also my favorite all-purpose bathroom cleaner. I use it to wipe down all surfaces and spray down the shower/tub after scrubbing. I will also frequently give our toothbrushes a quick spray to disinfect them. When the bathtub needs a scrub, I use a green scrubby pad with a soft cleanser like Bar Keepers Friend, and for stubborn stains around the drain, I keep magic erasers on hand. When it comes to the toilet, I don’t particularly care to be gentle, so we use plain old Clorox toilet bowl cleaner.

TIP: A soft cleanser not only performs beautifully on sinks and tubs but will also get stainless steel appliances looking new again.

Floors: When it comes to surfaces that require rag + bucket cleaning, like floors, my go-to is Amway Home L.O.C Multi-Purpose Cleaner. It’s a coconut-based cleaner with no fragrances, no dyes, and no weird or sticky films left behind. No product I’ve tried holds a candle to this multi-purpose cleaner. If you’re wanting to go really minimal, this could be the only cleaning product you use because it is so versatile. It can be diluted with water in a spray bottle for quick surface wiping or dusting. It can be used not only on floors, but for washing cars, home exteriors, outdoor toys, and tools, and it is gentle on skin. The 1L bottle is extremely concentrated and lasts forever, so you definitely get a bang for your buck.

TIP: For a convenient + effective mopping system, look into a Sh-Mop. The terry cloth pads get up stuck-on dirt and come out clean and dry in the wash, so you don’t get that mildew smell.

Disinfecting: While we appreciate clean, we try to avoid antibacterial everything since this level of sterility is largely unnecessary and can actually be detrimental to our health. However, there are few times when we need a heavy-duty disinfectant in our home. If we happen to get hit with a really nasty illness and need to soak items or clean large surface areas, we choose Pursue Disinfectant Cleaner Concentrate (Also from Amway.) We prefer this product to bleach because it does not have noxious fumes, but is extremely effective in killing bacteria, viruses, & fungi (it is a hospital-grade disinfectant). When we really need it, we have a bottle of this on hand, and since we need it so infrequently, our 1L bottle has been with us for years. I feel comfortable using this on a strictly as-needed basis only because sometimes we encounter illness we don’t want to mess with.

TIP: If you live on a septic system, limit your regular use of heavy disinfectants. Too much down the drains can disrupt the necessary microbial activity needed to break down septic waste.

Air: I used to have a love for those big three-wick candles, and seasonal scents were my favorite. Not only did having open flames in my home become impractical with young children, but often the ingredients used in scented candles can cause respiratory and hormonal disruptions. We decided to say goodbye to our candle collection, and learned how to safely use essential oils in our home. In addition to creating an ambiance, essential oils have the added benefit of aromatherapeutic properties and can help purify the air. We often diffuse for enjoyment, but sometimes for immune support, or to get rid of funky odors. Every now and then, I will put one drop directly onto the vacuum cleaner filter to lightly scent the air as I vacuum. Or I will put a drop of a deodorizing blend on a cotton ball hidden inside the toilet paper roll to keep the bathroom smelling fresh. We also open our windows as often as possible. There’s no substitute for fresh air, so both in fair weather and on those unseasonably warm winter days, we open our windows. Finally, we try to be diligent in replacing our furnace air filter regularly.

TIP: When choosing essential oils, buy from a company that releases GC/MS reports. While most of us aren’t certified aromatherapists and won’t be interpreting this information, this level of transparency in a company is an easy way to ensure the purity of their oils. Our family uses Plant Therapy (referral link: get $10 off your first $25 order) because of their transparency, purity, convenient kid-safe labeling, and affordability.

My home is not the picture of spotless perfection—having three little ones home all of the time will do that—but it is a safe place for us. All along, my goal hasn’t necessarily been to have a pristine home, but to have a home that serves our overall wellness. How we clean is a small part of that, but it makes a big difference in the quality of our everyday life. Each member of our family assumes some level of responsibility for cleaning the home because very few of our products are unsafe for little hands and noses. I love getting the kids involved in cleaning tasks, and the extra hands do lighten the load. We enjoy the simple pleasure of curling up between sheets that were line-dried in the fresh air and summer sun. I find peace in knowing that I have the resources available to get rid of unsafe germs without sacrificing our family’s well-being. It is also a huge relief (and time saver) to know that I don’t have to hand grate my own soap just to wash our clothes. My new cheese grater thanks me for it.

Mary Kate’s Anti-Inflammatory Diet FB Group

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Mary Kate and her husband Brian are high-school sweethearts who recently left their lifelong home in the Chicago suburbs for a rural property in Western Michigan. Together they homeschool their three daughters, and are making plans for turning their new property into a small-scale homestead. After overcoming numerous health challenges due to autoimmunity, Mary Kate is passionate about helping others find healing and wholeness. She leads an online group teaching the basics of an anti-inflammatory diet, and inspires others to incorporate simple, nourishing, real-food recipes in their own homes. She also writes online at www.choosinggraceblog.com, and you can catch up with her on Instagram @choosinggraceblog

**The Sock Solution** Jan 21, 2020
When children enter a family, a good many things begin to multiply: Cheerios, bodily fluids, tempers, under-eye circles, and socks. Not just any socks, but tiny socks. Not just tiny socks, but tiny socks bent on disappearing and, if not disappearing, at least wreaking havoc on every morning’s routine and every week’s laundry.

I walk around my house and see the evidence: one solitary black sock sticking halfway out from under the couch, a ruffly pink pair on top of the changing table, one muddy pair discarded four inches to the left of the dirty laundry hamper, and upstairs, a basket of clean clothes almost entirely put away except for a smattering of socks that belong in five different drawers in two different bedrooms, and returning them to their respective locations seemed an insurmountable feat after the many shirts and jeans and work pants and school uniforms that already made it back to their homes but sapped every ounce of laundry-related energy I had available.

Frankly, I’d do away with socks entirely if I could. But I live in a place where temperatures sometimes drop to single digits. My children have wide and chubby little feet, which resist shoes entirely without smooth socks to help them slide in. Not to mention, they do carry their father’s genetic material, which means their feet will begin sweating and stinking to high heaven any day now.

So I am resigned to my situation. (Please join me in a moment of silence for the moms of, say, four or five or seven children.)

***

I have run through my morning to-do list: one potty trip and two diaper changes, one bowl of cheerios and two bowls of oatmeal, three cups of white milk, one school uniform, two sets of play clothes, one backpack, one lunchbox. Check, check, check.

“Ok, time to go!” I shout. “Everybody to the stairs, please.” I pull three coats from the closet and dole them out, and then three pairs of Velcro wide-width sneakers.

Crap. Socks. “Everybody stay put,” I “suggest.”

I squeeze past their bodies, still tiny enough to cram in together on the bottom step, my peas in a pod. I clomp up the stairs, convinced I am actually slower when in a hurry. I open up the top dresser drawers in the boys’ room and root around; the only matches to be found are the socks they don’t like. (“That is bumping my toes. It is squeezing my leg. I don’t like that color.” Et cetera, et cetera.)

Ian can wear one gray and one navy. Does Leo need socks today? It’s not too cold.

Then to Ruthie’s room. She’ll have to do with one ruffly sock and one plain.

I head back downstairs where, if my children are still seated on the steps, I will promptly call the Pope because it would deserve a miracle designation, but no, no phone calls will be placed to Rome today. I contemplate making a lasso with the elastic from all the stretched out pairs of tiny child socks I just sorted through, but resign myself to shouting instead.

“Hey! Where’d you go? Come sit down; it’s time to go. Guys! We are going to be late!”

Yet another morning derailed by tiny socks.

***

I had a sock epiphany awhile back, during a podcast recording of all things. Emily, Lynne, and I were chatting about our homes and our children; they both have several more children at home than I, and I learn so much from them about logistics and streamlining and keeping my sanity intact. On this particular day, it was socks.

“That’s it!” I declared. “When we’re done recording, I’m moving all the socks downstairs to the coat closet.” Had this been a video conference call, I’m confident Emily and Lynne would have seen a little illuminated lightbulb floating above my head. Who says socks must be kept in the underwear drawer?

Alas, I never moved the socks. Life and its to-dos continued to crash over me like waves onto the shore, and who has time to organize, sort, or make room when you are desperately trying to keep up?

Around the house, “should” and “always” combine to create a cocktail of inefficiency and frustrating sticky points. I keep socks in the underwear drawer because it seems they should belong there; in fact, I’ve always kept them there. I’ve always kept chip clips with the Ziploc baggies, coffee in the pantry, vitamins in the bathroom, Sharpies in the junk drawer. But at some point, I’ve just grown weary of walking back and forth across my house in search of things, like an anxious pacer wearing tracks into the floors.

So much of my day is often derailed, slowed down, or hung up—courtesy of toddler tantrums, misplaced keys, or the needs of the people I’m eager to serve. I can’t help that, but if I can streamline my stuff, I’ll have more energy for the relationships that matter most.

So when we moved this summer, I arrived to our new house bound and determined that no child’s sock would ever darken the doorway of a bedroom unless attached to a foot.

We enter and exit our house most days through the back door, and we have a tiny IKEA bench and shoe rack there. Right across the hall is the pantry, and below the rice and pasta shelf, next to the toilet paper and craft supplies, I designated a spot for children’s socks.

Even better, it’s less than ten feet from the washer and dryer. As I dump the freshly dried clothes into a basket for folding, I set socks aside as I go. They move straight from the dryer to their bin in the pantry, and straight from there onto my children’s feet. This new routine saves less than five minutes, probably, but it also saves some shouting, some frantic running around, and some sanity.

Sometimes, my “shoulds” are tied to an internal expectation I can’t meet, an area of life in which I feel inferior to someone else, or times when I’m trying to take responsibility for something out of my control. But other times, the word “should” just keeps me doing things the way I’ve always done them; strategy and efficiency are not my personal strengths, and I tend to choose the path of least resistance. As time goes by, I’ve realized how these little things can derail my day and complicate my routines and so are worth reevaluating.

I’m learning not to care where household items “should” go and instead, pay attention to a couple particular things: At what points in my day do I feel stressed or frustrated, and what am I doing when I need a particular item?

So chip clips in the pantry, coffee beans with the mugs, vitamins in the kitchen, Sharpies with the Ziploc bags.

And socks in a basket in the pantry, across the hall from the shoes.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Lindsey is a writer, reader, and mom who is slowly learning to trade perfectionism for freedom. A Florida-to-Michigan transplant, her faith and sense of purpose are shifting as she experiences seasons in the world and in her own life. Lindsey is also the co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a newsletter for anyone trying to pursue grace instead of perfection. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett.

**Passed Down** Jan 16, 2020
I flip on the bathroom light. Everything looks fine if I just stand here in the doorway, but a closer look tells a different story. A faint brown ring encircles the bathtub, flecks of toothpaste cover the sink faucet, streaks of soap smear the burgundy tile countertop, and there is a funky smell coming from the toilet. I enter with a bucket full of cleaning supplies in one hand, a mop in the other, and cloths and sponges stashed in both pockets of my trusty yellow apron.

I’m here to tackle the grime of everyday living.

I twist the dial next to the light switch and the overhead fan whirrs above me. Experience tells me to take on the toilet first because the cleanser will need time to do its work.

I spray pine and vinegar scented bubbles into every crevice on the entire toilet, even the knobby plastic bolt covers that anchor the device to the floor. Anxious to get away from the filth, I spin around to the tub. The plastic bath toys have been sitting here for a while–long enough for stagnant water to fester into bits of creepy black goo. I kneel to remove the remaining water from squirting sea creatures before I erase the brown crud from the tub. I can’t escape filth. After squeezing three crabs and an octopus, a piece of sludge dislodges and shoots from a plastic dolphin mouth splattering across my apron, narrowly missing my white t-shirt. I am simultaneously disgusted and relieved. Keeping white laundry white is harder than rocket science. I can never know for sure what will come out of the creatures that frequent my bathtub. The apron is non-negotiable.

Next, I turn to the sink, looking forward to doing the satisfying work of restoring the gleam to surfaces made of materials meant to shine. As I pass the blue scouring pad around the basin, I can feel the rough, caked-on scum disappear into smooth cleanliness. Euphoria ends as my sponge skids over the ragged edges of a giant rusting gash in the white enamel. I hate this sink. It always reminds me of the things I can’t have. No matter how hard I scrub, it will never be completely smooth and clean. I wish we could replace it, but it’s not on the landlord’s priority list. Amid the despair over my inability to make the stupid sink shine, I catch a glimpse of my cheerful yellow apron again and remember my grandmother and great-grandmother who wore it before me. A twinge of shame pierces my heart as I consider that my parents, grandparents, and great-grands were homeowners long before they reached my current age. My lack of homeownership must mean I am doing something wrong.

I rummage through the bucket of supplies for a stronger cleaning agent, and the shame I feel gives way to apathy. I realize that every single place I’ve lived my entire life has belonged to someone else. Landlords, parents, and my mother’s womb have all provided one of my most basic needs, but with it came the requirement to adhere to another person’s rules and wishes.

“You can’t have pets because they will scratch the floors and stain the carpets.”

“You must keep the landscaping neat and tidy, or pay extra rent for a lawn service.”

“You are not allowed to paint or hang anything heavy on the walls.”

“You have to clean your room before you can have friends over.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t kick me there.”

Even though it is nice not to be responsible for replacing the furnace when it fails or to repair a window shattered by a burglar’s bat, I wonder if caring for a home belonging to someone else is a lost cause.

This sink doesn’t belong to me, so why should I care to make it shine?

I fiddle with the strawberry-red apron strings coming loose from my waist. A daydream fills my mind.

What is it like to have freedom to make decisions without first gaining the approval of another party?

I stand up and reach for a cloth tucked in a pocket and notice the vintage fabric is tearing away at the fifty-year-old seam.

Perfect. Add it to the list of Things-I-Have-to-Take-Care-of-But-Wish-I-Didn’t-Have-To.

Hey weirdo! You’ve been complaining of not having enough responsibility, and now you are frustrated you have to fix something? Newsflash, sister, responsibility comes whether you want it or not. You have to care about all of your crap, even the rented and inherited kinds.

I pinch the specks of blue scouring pad sticking to the snaggy edges of the gouge in my old rented sink as I wax philosophic. The soft fabric of the apron soaks up the water that pools on the counter’s edge.

None of it has ever belonged to me, or to any of us for that matter. Yet, we are responsible for providing stewardship and care.

Such is life. Stewardship is a human principle. We are all temporary tenants in this world, inheriting everything good, bad, and ugly left to us before passing it on to those who come after. It just matters what we choose to do with the stuff when it is our turn to manage it.

I look up from the rusty wounded sink and see myself reflected in the toothpaste-free mirror. I inherited this cheerful yellow apron with red strawberries from my grandmother, who inherited it from my great-grandmother. This garment represents a legacy of hard work endured by those men and women who went before me–people who exist to me as fabrications of second-hand memories. They were people who lived by the notion that things, no matter how small, were hard to come by. They felt the cost associated with every item they wanted to possess. Parting with money was hard. No doubt, the things they owned came the old-fashioned way—through blood, sweat, tears, and doing things that needed to be done regardless of desire.

I think of Great-Grandma as she sat down to construct this humble apron and wonder about the circumstances that lead to its creation. Perhaps she made it to replace one that was threadbare, patched, and beyond saving? Maybe, like me, she jammed the pockets full of odds and ends accumulated from her rounds through the house? Clothespins, hairpins, tissue, and Legos. No, probably no Legos graced these pockets when she wore them. She, too, might have been frustrated by busted seams. Still, she would have mended what was broken rather than toss it in the garbage and pout about not having the best and most durable item money could buy.

Remembering the past is a buoy in a storm. With renewed perspective, I get back to the task at hand. The way a shoe-shine boy buffs a mirror-like finish into leather, I grab the lime green polishing cloth and shine the chrome faucet to a brilliant gleam–minus the spit. I clean this bathroom, not to impress anyone, but to serve the needs of my family. It doesn’t matter if I own it because caring for it is the right thing to do. This is my home, after all, even if someone else’s name is on the deed.

The past illuminates the present, and I cinch the wise old apron strings a little tighter around my waist. I remember I am part of a legacy of hard work that girds, protects, and prepares me to take on the challenges that await–to say yes to the responsibility of stewardship. And now for the toilet, and then a needle and some sunny yellow thread.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Jenni Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a girl). She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom. She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food, and lots of play indoors and out. She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home, and you can also find her on Instagram.

**Unboxing** Jan 14, 2020
A tall, perky brunette in a purple velour tracksuit smiled broadly at me when I opened my front door. “Hey! It’s nice to finally meet you!” Julie said. I smiled in return and ushered her in.

We’d been trying to make contact for several months after a mutual friend recommended her. Julie had spent numerous weekends helping another woman go through thirty years’ worth of belongings after a divorce. Finally, we’d found a date that worked for both of us.

“Where would you like to start?” I asked. “Should we go right to work in the basement, or would you like to see the whole house?”

“It would be helpful to see everything,” she replied enthusiastically.

“Alright, then I’ll save the best for last!” I said and led her up the stairs. She assured me that she held no judgment, but honestly, I wasn’t at all embarrassed to have a stranger examining rooms that even my closest family didn’t see. Exhaustion and overwhelm superseded my need for privacy, kind of like how being in labor erases natural modesty in the struggle to give birth.

Upstairs we toured my bedroom, my office, my son’s room, and the open kitchen, living, and dining spaces. All were full, messy, and cluttered. Before we went downstairs, she said, “I’m seeing themes here. You’ve got books in nearly every room, lots of piles of paper, and craft supplies throughout the house.” All of that was nothing compared to what waited in the basement. Friends said it looked like a craft store exploded there. Throw in a bookstore and thrift store, and they weren’t far off. I’d always been a crafter and a reader.

I didn’t know where to begin, but Julie did. She pulled the boxes pushed up against the walls into the middle of the room. Many of them were still halfway unpacked from my move three years earlier after my separation. This was partly because we were renting, and I didn’t want to get too settled until I located a permanent home for me and my boy, one we could call our own. But I was also too physically and emotionally exhausted after taking care of everything on my own to deal with the boxes. Adjusting to solo-parenting required all I had. Now, a few years into my new life and with my son away for the summer with his dad, I found time and motivation for the task.

Julie grouped the boxes together by what seemed like similar categories to her. At first, I thought the categories were a little off. Boxes of scrapbooking paper sat by bins of unused Montessori items. Piles of books were moved next to cartons of mini-albums.

I half-heartedly sorted through the boxes and set aside items that were easy to let go. I watched Julie energetically move boxes around. Her zeal overwhelmed me a little. What had I gotten into?

But I found that her energy ignited my own. As she rearranged my boxes, I was given a new way of looking at what they contained. When she moved items from where they’d sat for years into different spaces, I could better evaluate their usefulness and purpose. Even though she wasn’t using the KonMari method, I felt that same sense of “waking up” the items. I could see more clearly. It became easier to let go and easier to organize. By the end of the night, she’d filled her car with items I’d decided to relinquish to charity. “They need to get out of the house now, so you aren’t tempted to keep them!” she said.

I continued to sort that week until our next meeting. The progress I made, after years of facing my piles while frozen in my tracks, was enlivening. I somehow found enough breathing room to step outside of the all-consuming effort of solo-parenting and take care of neglected parts of my own life.

As I worked, I realized it wasn’t so much the way Julie rearranged the boxes as much as that she pulled them out of the dark corners and into the light. I’d changed so much in the three years since the boxes were unloaded into this basement. My priorities and responsibilities were different now. I’d sorted through dark corners and cluttered beliefs about myself and how I’d manage as a solo mom. Now it was time to start doing the same for the physical mess hiding in the basement.

***

Julie wasn’t the first stranger who had reached out to help me.

Before I left California three years earlier, my divorce counselor connected me with a kind estate sale organizer from her church. Typically, she helped downsize homes for seniors moving into assisted living or liquidate estates after a death. She offered her services to me at a greatly reduced rate. She knew she was ministering to me, even if she didn’t put it that way.

I was a little embarrassed that first time to have someone see my stuffed rooms and closets. From the street, my house was beautiful, but inside was a different story. Clutter had plagued me even before motherhood. Parenting a spirited little boy understandably left less time and energy to confront my mess. Now I needed real help as I counted the days and weeks before a cross-country move I was managing on my own during a season of great stress and change.

Jane was in her sixties, tall with curly grey hair, calm and kind, a transplant from the Maine coast to the West Coast. As we toured my mess, Jane told me, “It’s so normal for families to feel overwhelmed about the stuff in their parents’ home. And elderly people don’t want the neighbors to see the state of their houses. So I come in and get things organized and cleared up ahead of time. I’ve seen everything.”

Jane’s method was a little different than Julie’s. We didn’t have the open space of an unfinished basement to work in. Instead, we went room by room. Drawers and boxes were emptied onto folding tables she brought. Lots of tables. “It’s so much easier to sort items if you can see everything,” she said. It was true. I liked this method.

The significance of Jane’s help wasn’t lost on me. Mine wasn’t her typical end-of-life work, but this change in my life most certainly was a death nonetheless. Separating belongings into what to leave and what to take was yet another step in the grieving process. I was preparing to leave behind what I thought my life and my son’s life would be like. I was saying goodbye to our California dream house and moving 1,500 miles away to a rental in South Dakota. He wouldn’t have the big pool, swing set, large playhouse, and giant sandpit where we were going. We wouldn’t have our park-like yard of mature trees and flowering bushes. And, of course, he would grow up spending school years with only his mom and summers with only his dad.

When the moving van pulled up a few weeks later, the motto printed on its side caught my breath: “Helping the world keep promises.” Certain people in my life had not kept their promises. But these women, and countless others, had kept theirs while they helped me unbox my mess and labor toward my future. As mothers themselves, some of them also divorced, they knew that raising a child on my own was a giant undertaking. They stepped in to fill the gaps left by others. When they gave me love and support, I was better able to give it to my son. Their strength and confidence kindled my own. They helped me prepare well for a journey I hadn’t planned to take: a move back to my hometown with a new identity. Even though it wasn’t under the circumstances I’d hoped for; I looked forward to raising my son in a place where we had deep roots.

Underneath it all, Julie and Jane weren’t only helping me with the physical messes in my home. They were helping me pick my way through the mess of an upturned life. Things still get super, big-time messy, both in the house and in our souls. Life, work, and school crowds out time to keep on top of everything. Like all moms, I still need help. But the lessons they taught me empower me to keep my promises to my son and myself as we move forward together.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Kristina is a writer, editor, and creator in South Dakota. She is a solo parent to an amazing boy and two scruffy dogs. Kristina seeks to find God in the beautiful mess of life and share that through her writing. She would love to meet you on her **blog**. *Her essays, articles, poetry, photography, and art have appeared in a wide range of print and digital publications, from literary journals to anthologies, national magazines, blogs, and more.*

**Peace in the Chaos** Jan 09, 2020
The mudroom was non-negotiable.

I scoured hundreds if not thousands of floor plans on the Internet before we built our home, a shortlist of priorities serving to weed out non-contenders. The absence of a mudroom was a surefire way to land a plan on the chopping block.

The house we brought our boys home to when they were born was in a neighborhood, a quarter-acre lot with a little back yard, but our outdoor space, however small, was sacred. As soon as they could walk (or crawl, in the case of my youngest, who followed big bro around from the get-go), afternoons were spent toddling around the yard, and the dirtiest spots drew them in like magnets. Leaf piles became construction sites, rivulets of rainwater just right for mixing up creative concoctions, and the sandpit beneath the swing set was a number of different things, perhaps a cave one day and a café the next. The heights of their imaginative play could be measured in the amount of dirt they tracked back through the house at the end of the day.

“You’re such a good mom,” people would say with sympathetic laughs whenever I shared photos of my kids covered in grime and grinning with wild abandon. They assumed that the mess was a point of contention I allowed only because it made my kids happy. But they were giving me too much credit. My motivation for offering them such messy freedom was much more self-serving than sacrificial. I simply learned early on in my life as a boy mom that this wasn’t a battle I wanted to fight. It required too much energy. We were all happier, more at peace, when I embraced the chaos.

Still, when it came time to move – the mudroom was non-negotiable.

When we broke ground on our new house, the construction site became the boys’ personal paradise. Mounds of dirt became mountains atop which they were both kings. Embankments became roller coasters they could ride over and over. The mudroom, naturally, was the first room that got any use as our house took shape. Here, we would shed our shoes before traipsing through the bare bones of each room. When the sink in the adjoining laundry room was installed, I used it daily to remove the dirt that continued to cover everything my kids wore. We bought all their clothes second-hand at consignment sales that year, all except a pair of good quality, kid-sized mud boots.

In many ways, I felt out of sync in that season, quite literally unsettled as we commuted daily from our temporary living quarters to the site of our future forever home. But there was a lot of personal growth, too. I gave myself plenty of grace and learned to go with the flow. For instance, we didn’t put up a Christmas tree that year — there was too much laundry piled in all the corners of our little living area to make space for it — but we did sink a few of our friends’ discarded trees into our new pond to create fish habitats. We also started growing our own food in a little garden on our property, but we ate most of our dinners from takeout bags on the unfinished back porch – we were rarely in a place with a working kitchen at mealtime. And it was all ok – good even. Little by little, I loosened my grip on my perception of perfection and lived in the present instead. We were all happier, more at peace, when I embraced the chaos.

**

We’ve been in our home for a year and a half, and my husband and I are working on a project outside, refinishing a swing we’ve rescued from disuse to place beside our pond.

The kids, however, are restless. They’ve been hopping half-heartedly from one activity to the next, abandoning bikes in the driveway and losing interest in their fishing poles after five minutes without a bite. My seven-year-old steps a little too close to the pond and his boots make sucking sounds as he pulls them out of the mud.

“I need to go clean off,” he whines. These days, the kid who could make mountains out of mud pits can forget how to have fun outdoors, too tempted by the pull of some kind of screen inside. What he really needs is some encouragement. “You’re a little boy – you’re supposed to be muddy!” I tell him.

“Yeah, get lost,” my husband chimes in. He means it in the best possible way. We’ve traded that quarter-acre lot they use to love for nine full acres, a world of possibility at their fingertips. Sometimes they just need a little nudge.

A few minutes later, I hear them debating their course of action. Hayes wants to play on the “island” in the upper pond, really just a circle of land that’s been exposed in the current drought. They’ll have to cross a moat of mud to reach it. His five-year-old brother hesitates. “Mommy said to get muddy,” Hayes coaxes. This line of reasoning is good enough for Drake, who decides to follow big bro once again.

I grimace a little on the inside. I did tell them to get muddy, but this is extreme – they’ll have to practically swim in the sludge to reach their destination, and today was cleaning day, all the floors shining, doorknobs degreased. I think how much easier it would be just to send them inside, succumbing to the lure of a screen. But that’s not my style, and I fight the uncharacteristic urge to restrict their play. “Just don’t go past the mudroom before I clean you off!” I call to little backs that are no longer listening, having crossed the threshold from boredom into blissful make-believe.

The decision not to interfere buys me an uninterrupted hour of peace to finish my project. They’re still playing when I head inside to start dinner. I can see them in their muddy kingdom out the kitchen window as I string beans from the garden. I think how much easier it would be if I just bought canned. But that’s not my style, either.

When they finally come up to the house, Hayes is up to his armpits in mud. His body above that point is untouched, a distinct line between the bright red fabric of his shirtsleeves and the slick brown below. I wonder how exactly he accomplished this. He and Drake strip down to their skivvies in the mudroom underneath a sign that says, “Drop Your Pants Here.” I find the sign funny in an ironic sort of way – they were dropping their pants here long before they were ever instructed to do so. Is it all kids who have an aversion to clothing in the house, or just my boys?

When they disappear upstairs to shower, the mudroom is anything but peaceful in their wake. Piles of wet clothes soak the floor, and shoes spill from their cubbies. But they made magic in the mud this afternoon – memories that will last them a lifetime. We will eat a home-cooked dinner together tonight, and this year, maybe we’ll cut our own Christmas tree. Yes, there is peace in the chaos, indeed.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Bre Humphries lives on a little hobby homestead in North Georgia with her two sons, a hunter of a husband (it’s his name as well as his favorite pastime), 11 chickens, four goats, two pigs, and a dog. Quality time is her love language, she’s passionate about whole foods and healthy living, and she’s happiest when she’s outside, especially in the fall. In whatever quiet time she can carve out, she writes for North Georgia Living magazine and, occasionally, a **personal blog**, https://backandmoon.wordpress.com/

**Paint-Speckled Mother** Jan 07, 2020
I have to do something with this kitchen. I have lived with it for ten years. In some seasons, I’ve even ceased to notice, but today, I’ve decided I cannot live with it for one more second. The dark brown cabinets with antique brass pulls and big decorative medallions beneath them. The bright orange countertops. The cracking linoleum—a mosaic of browns, oranges, and something I can only describe as “dijon yellow”—with two-inch circular holes where knots in the subfloor deteriorated beneath it. This kitchen is older than my parents’ marriage.

Additionally, my children are being noisy and demanding. How many pickles do y’all need in an afternoon?!? The obvious answer to my building frustration with both the children and the kitchen: half an hour of Pinterest and one poorly planned decision. “Pack it up, kids, we’re going to Lowe’s.”

I spend fifteen seconds choosing a gray to paint the cabinets. Morning Fog seems like a solid choice for a kitchen, no? Then I spend about five more making yet another brilliant choice: “Big girls, if you can agree on a color, I will let you choose the paint for the interior of the lower cabinets.” I leave them to make a choice while I take the preschoolers to customer service in search of someone who can mix paint. I return to find Jenna (8) on her hands and knees with Katherine (7) standing on her back to pick out the perfect shade from the top row of paint swatches: Robust Pink. Cool. Pepto Bismol with a hint of salmon seems like the clear choice for my cabinets.

Thus began my first-ever DIY home project.

I learned some important lessons. For instance, you should remove the bottom hinge before the top when taking off cabinet doors, otherwise you need a hand ready to catch the door before you get whacked in the noggin. (Hypothetically.) You should always use primer unless you want to paint four coats of Robust Pink before coverage is almost sufficient. Also, 45 years of kitchen grease will not be handled by sanding. (Ick.) You should wear a hat when you paint the inside of cabinets. Related: just because you wash your hair (and rinse and repeat!) does not imply the paint flecks will be gone. The parts of your arms likeliest to be painty are also the parts you are least likely to notice and scrub. You will look ridiculous in public for the duration of this project.

I plugged along, starting with the lower interiors and the slightly-coral bright pink. I painted and painted… and painted again. I bought a can of high-coverage Kilz to prime the next portion of espressoish brown. (I say “ish” because “espresso” is a great color. This… was not.) Then I was on to drawers and contact paper and refilling the bottom cabinets to make space in my dining room for the contents of the uppers. When it came to the orange counters (neon pumpkin?), I enlisted the help of a friend with a fine arts degree—my own BS in math was zero help to me here. I removed caulk, scrubbed, patched, and primed them. She directed the work of making them look like granite. Up next is actually painting the cabinet doors that are taking over the space where we usually eat dinner. I remain undecided about the very ugly linoleum: the plan is to re-floor both kitchen and dining room, but the dining room carpet is integrated with the living room and hall, and we’re not ready to re-floor the whole house just now. Maybe I’ll paint the floor. It’s not like I can make it worse.

Why did I decide to take on my entire kitchen based on one crappy-in-the-usual-ways afternoon and 20 seconds’ deliberation after ten years living with a kitchen straight out of the 70s? I still cannot tell you.

I spent the entire month sanding, painting, and yelling at my children to stay out of the kitchen and do not touch the wet paint! For the love!

And it’s still not done. It’s fine.

The question I’ve asked between binged podcast episodes might be the same one you’re asking: Do I regret this? Was it a bad choice to spend twenty seconds considering a project that would take more than a month to complete? Do I even like what it’s becoming? No, I don’t regret it. And, as I’ve covered, pretty much any change is an improvement.

As for the haste, I’m pretty sure I just needed to jump. Those darn antique brass medallions under the door pulls have annoyed me for ten years now, but I was having babies all that time, and it was never a great time to look at the options, make the decisions, spend the money, disrupt the kitchen, and spend several weeks working on it. This is not a good time to do any of those things, either. I doubt I would ever have stumbled upon a “good” time, but I do like what it’s becoming. It’s brighter, which is important in the middle of winter in Alaska, with the four hours of daylight. It’s cleaner—the light gray doesn’t hide things like the dark brown did (again, ICK), and it’s been good to have my children see me doing the project. I realized they hadn’t seen me wield a drill before, much less a palm sander. (My husband is unusually handy, so outsourcing to him is always the expedient option.) I needed us all to remember that I’m capable and allowed to make big changes, too.

It turns out, I have agency. I spend so much of my life responding to my kids and their situations. Yesterday, I read in a John Gottman book, “Behavioral psychologists have observed that preschoolers typically demand that their caretakers deal with some kind of need or desire at an average rate of three times a minute.” Three times a minute. No wonder I live my whole life reacting—or, at best, responding—to them. Four kids times three requests a minute means I am handling their needs or responding to requests (often “no” with subsequent sadness from them) every five seconds on average. No hyperbole. Every. Five. Seconds. (It’s no wonder I am so happy the release of Disney+ coincided with my bad-day-turned-hasty-choice.) Of course, I have a hard time making proactive decisions. With five-second intervals available, I can barely even breathe. I needed to make this decision in a few seconds because a few seconds was all I had.

My children and I all need to remember that they can absolutely survive for a few weeks on PB&Js, Disney+ (praise Jesus), and vague instructions hollered from a paint-speckled mother contorted to paint awkward places. I don’t have to be on call for requests, questions, and demands every five seconds. I’m a grown woman—I can make actual decisions that make my spaces more pleasant for me to live in, and I don’t always need thoroughly-researched answers before I start.

It turns out, sometimes a few seconds is all I need to make a decision: It’s time to begin.

*Click here to read/listen to more essays in the Peaceful Home Series on KindredMom.com*

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect Jesus lover, wife, and homeschooling mama to four babies, ages one to seven. When she isn’t buried in children or hiding from them, she enjoys reading, photography, and sharing stories on her blog, where she’d love to connect with you! You can also find her on Facebook or Instagram… or perhaps holed up in her bathroom with some coffee.

**Inviting Peace** Jan 02, 2020
With a toddler running around and a bun in the oven, I knew finding a way to get some exercise—real exercise—was going to be a challenge. Sure, I chased that toddler around all day and had the exhaustion to prove it, but what I didn’t have was any benefit of an elevated heart rate in the aerobic zone, properly strengthened or stretched muscles, or the stress release of any intentional exercise routine. I knew I needed it, so when Blockbuster (yes, this was a while ago) had a table full of discount fitness DVDs, I snapped up one that purported to be a gentle yoga program for expecting mothers. Gentle. Expecting. Checked the boxes for me.

I put my curly-haired wonder down for a nap, surrounded by her stuffed animals. Once she drifted off to sleep, I thought I’d pop that DVD in and give this yoga thing a shot.

I see a serene, studio environment, three subjects on the screen. Instructor, and two pupils, each demonstrating a variation on the pose.

Zero previous experience. Zero understanding of the real benefits (or the real point) of yoga. I just knew it didn’t look like a lot of jumping around, and more than anything seemed accessible. Seemed easy.

My belly was twenty-five weeks round, big enough I couldn’t easily get into any of the poses, and after five minutes of trying to do the easiest/modified version, frustration boiled up, and I quit. I sat on the couch, holding out hope that watching other people do yoga offered the same benefits as doing it myself. Maybe. Just maybe.

Something about not being able to do even the most basic poses touched deep insecurities. I was ashamed of my inability to get it together to intelligently move my body in healthy ways. That afternoon marked the last time the prenatal yoga DVD was ever played until I passed it off to someone else a few years ago.

***

Five years after my first private yoga failure, I walked into a group class at the YMCA. I was on a fitness kick, having fulfilled my fitness goal of walking or running at least ten miles a week for a whole calendar year. We had joined the local YMCA, partly so I could check in my five kids and have a mental break and a place to pound out my miles on a nice indoor treadmill (with a tv screen). I had walked by the yoga class at least a dozen times during other visits. Maybe a change of pace could be nice, I thought, and maybe now that I’m not 25 weeks pregnant, I might find yoga appealing, approachable, possible.

I timidly walked through the doors to the studio, scanning the room for clues about how to get started. Shoes or no shoes? Everyone else left theirs at the door, so I slipped mine off too. Mat? Several others grabbed community mats from a hanging spot on the wall, so I found one for myself and laid it in an open spot.

I nervously smiled at the women to my left and right as the instructor started up the class. I tried matching her body positions and listening to her verbal cues. I could never quite hit the angles or positions, and by the time I was on my back for a pose I couldn’t manage at all, gobs of tears were streaming down my face, pooling uncomfortably in my ears. I gave up trying to match the instructor at all, and let myself cry for the remainder of the class, my confidence shot. I promised myself that I’d just stick with treadmill walking from now on.

***

Serious anxiety entered my life this past year. It had always been a reasonable, contained, underlying reality for me. I’m the cautious sort and managed to avoid many a disaster simply by refusing to engage anything outside of my comfort zone. It’s a great tactic for managing risk, but a terrible one for a thriving life. Still, it wasn’t until this year that I saw anxiety in a new light—a gaping wound, raw and tender, dangerous, and uncontainable.

Much of my anxiety has been a result of health events in the past year, and my chronic habit of ignoring my physical needs. It’s not that I’ve never done anything to care for myself; I’ve tried lots of things. Every few years, I get on some kind of fitness kick, some renewed commitment to a particular way of eating. None of them have stuck because all relied on willpower to forge ahead in areas that haven’t yet been healed. With a gaping wound, I tried to get up and get moving—run, go, do, make it happen. What I really needed was triage, wound-dressing, rest, and a new vision for what it means to care for my body.

I’ve held traumas in my body, stress in my body, and even my memories have a home in my muscles in a way I’ve never given much thought to. My body has done amazing things—pregnancy and birth of seven beautiful children. Even that has come with some “side effects,” and now the lack of strength and diminished function are specifically and seriously impacting my life in a negative way. I’ve had no peace this past year, between a complicated pregnancy and postpartum season and my first all-out spar with mental health and wellbeing. I’ve been at the very end of myself, empty as empty can be, unable to bootstrap my way out of despair and into my comfortable pursuit of productivity. Peace has been absent because productivity is no longer on the table. I’m here, wondering from day to day whether I will be able to function at all, or if I’m going to use all the energy I’ve got for the humble tasks my family needs me for.

***

A dear friend of mine has been going through the process of becoming a certified yoga instructor. I’ve seen her at a park playground, seated on a blanket in some sort of stretchy-dancer-like pose, breathing deep while her kids play nearby. At our weekly homeschool co-op, I’ve caught glimpses of her taking a minute to sit during lunch, legs criss-crossed, and eyes closed to breathe and stretch her neck slowly in a few directions. I know she prioritizes movement, breathing, and living in connection to her body moment by moment. I’ve longed to know how to do that myself, but haven’t been able to make the leap.

Imagine my total surprise when, weeks later, she sends me a text and offers to come to my home to lead me through some of the basics—part of her efforts as a new instructor to gain experience and also bless my socks off. I accept her offer, with the caveat that body things uncork weird emotional things in me, but I’m glad to learn and try. Unfazed, she says she’ll bring a mat for me since I don’t have one, and she’ll be here Monday.

When she arrives, I am in the middle of a several-day stretch of heightened anxiety. I nearly cancel with her, because I don’t want to be a stick-in-the-mud friend, but the truth is, I’m pretty desperate for any way out of the internal mess I’m in, even if it’s yoga. She leads me through a half-hour of gentle and very basic moves, giving tips about breathing, how to transition, how to start simple, and extend a particular stretch. I don’t cry at all until we’re wrapping up—a definite improvement on my last experience. She offers to come again if I want to continue checking this out. I know I want to, but I’m not ready to say so just yet. Committing to more yoga seems like a big deal, considering my history.

A few days go by, and an anxious afternoon creeps up my neck. I feel myself starting to waffle under the weight of unseen things, and know that if I don’t do something, I will inch my way toward bedtime and another nighttime anxiety attack. My children are settling into beds, and the twinkle lights strung around the room are the only lights on. I decide I just might need to send this anxiety away through a quarter-hour of the basic yoga moves I learned from my friend. I don’t have a mat, but I do have an open space of carpet. It’s good enough for me.

I uncomfortably sit criss-crossed and try to let my glutes and hamstrings stretch awhile. I close my eyes and rest my hands on my knees. I breathe slow, deep breaths and count as I exhale. When I get to five, I tip my chin down and breathe, stretching the muscles in my neck and between my shoulders. When I get to five again, I turn my head to the side and stretch the opposite arm out, feeling the increased stretch in the side-neck muscles and the top of my shoulder. When I get to five again, I switch.

I carefully move to the tabletop position that sets me up for cat/cow, and I breathe. My five-year-old daughter, whose bed is right next to me, is watching intently. I don’t want her to know how desperate I feel to outrun this anxiety. I ignore her and arch upward like a cow, then curl into cat pose. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I’m breathing. I am defiantly rejecting the anxiety pawing at me, breathing in peace, breathing out stress. I repeat patterns of five because that makes sense to me at the moment. I do a few more poses my friend taught me, ending on my back with a full body checklist, releasing tension in every joint and muscle from head to toe.

When I crawl into bed, the dark night surrounding me, my head on my pillow, I realize anxiety is not with me. I feel peace. I am ready to sleep (until the baby wakes to nurse), and I think to myself, I need to do this again tomorrow night.

The next morning, I hit up Amazon and look at yoga mats. I find one for $12.99 and put it in the cart with all the other last-minute Christmas items I’ve earmarked.

I think this is how life-change begins. A humble admission that I want to learn. A generous offer from a friend to meet me where I am. A few small steps to get started breathing. Stretching. Setting down the need to race my way to the next big goal.

I’m starting this year with a new lens…not what I hope to accomplish this year, although there will be some things. I choose to start this year inviting peace. Inviting God to continue the work He has begun in me. Continue the healing He has set in motion. Continue the process of trading out my need to advance, impress, or achieve for the truth that I am right where I need to be loved as I am, without needing to earn or prove my significance.

This year I will breathe. I will stretch. I will honor my limitations. I will set my posture as one ready to learn vs. one ready to crush (goals). I will invite peace into my home and peace into my soul. I will trade chronic tiredness and bone-deep exhaustion for rest and restorative activities. I will nourish my body and my dearest relationships. I will invite peace into my depleted and discouraged places. I will open my hands and receive the gifts God brings in the stillness and silence.

And I will do it on my new, light-grey yoga mat.

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

**066 // The Beauty of a Humble Life – Lynne Patti, Jenni Van Winkle & Shannan Martin** Nov 04, 2019
Kindred Mom team members Lynne Patti and Jenni Van Winkle join host Emily Sue Allen to talk about the beautiful ordinary moments of motherhood that live alongside very humbling experiences of raising children. Special guest Shannan Martin shares what she has learned about the gifts found in unexpected places as a result of her family’s move to a humble neighborhood. Shannan is the author of the books: The Ministry of Ordinary Places: Waking Up to God’s Goodness Around You (affiliate link) and Falling Free: Rescued from the Life I Always Wanted (affiliate link).
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*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

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Mentioned in this episode:

Links coming soon!

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Lynne Patti**

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Grief Experienced / Learning How To Breathe As A New Mom / Prevailing Strength

**Jennifer Van Winkle**

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

**Shannan Martin**

Shannan Martin, author of The Ministry of Ordinary Places: Waking Up to God’s Goodness Around You (affiliate link) and Falling Free: Rescued from the Life I Always Wanted (affiliate link), is a speaker and writer who found her voice in the country and her story in the city. She and her jail-chaplain husband, Cory, have four funny children who came to them across oceans and rivers. They live as grateful neighbors in Goshen, Indiana.

Find Shannan on Instagram

Visit Shannan’s Website

(affiliate links)

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**065 // Blindsided by Motherhood – Lindsey Cornett, Robin Chapman & Jen Babakhan** Oct 21, 2019
This episode is all about the unexpectedly difficult surprises of motherhood! Kindred Mom team members Lindsey Cornett and Robin Chapman join host Emily Sue Allen for a group conversation that covers what strength looks like as a mom and how to be steady and patient in spite of challenges. The second half of the show features author Jen Babakhan who wrote the book *Detoured: The Messy, Grace-Filled Journey from Working Professional to Stay-at-Home Mom* (affiliate link).
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

Mentioned in this episode:

Links Coming Soon!

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Robin Chapman**
Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

**Lindsey Cornett**
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

**Jen Babakhan**

Jen is an author, wife, and stay at home mom. She can most often be found behind her desk or in the coffee aisle of Target. Her book, *Detoured: The Messy, Grace-Filled Journey From Working Professional to Stay-at-Home Mom*, was released in Summer 2019. Jen is also a contributor for *Reader’s Digest* at www.rd.com. Find out more about Jen on her website.

Check out Jen’s book on Amazon (affiliate link)!

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**064 // The Surprises of Motherhood – Jennifer Van Winkle, Sarah Allard & Karen Gauvreau** Oct 07, 2019
This episode is all about the surprises of motherhood! Featuring Jenni Van Winkle, Sarah Allard, and Karen Gauvreau. Check out the It Takes a Village series from Sept 2019 over on Kindred Mom. If you missed it, check out the complete Healthy Mom series from spring 2019 here!
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

Mentioned in this episode:

A Treasure Tree – Trent (affiliate link)

Two Trails: A Treasure Tree Adventure – Trent (affiliate link)

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Jennifer Van Winkle**

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

**Sarah Allard**

Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her high school sweetheart and together they are raising their three children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. You can find her on Instagram.

Read some of Sarah’s writing:
The Hospitable Home / Invisible Mothers / Steering the Ship

**Karen Gauvreau**

Karen Gauvreau is the mom behind Lightly Frayed, a blog that explores parenting from a humorous angle. She’s a mom of four boys, a writer for magazines like Thriving Family and MomSense.

If your kids are entering the tween or teen years, check out *8 Things I Really Wish I had Known Before Parenting a Teen* & *Empower Your Teenager to Transform Into a Hero*.

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**063 // Stepping Out of Survival Mode – Jenni Van Winkle, Lynne Patti, & Kristin Vanderlip** Sep 23, 2019
This episode covers the realities of leaning on a village in a time of need, how to ask for help, and ways to step out of survival mode. Featuring Jenni Van Winkle, Lynne Patti, and Kristin Vanderlip, creator of *Life Worth Living: A Daily Growth Journal*. (affiliate link) Check out the It Takes a Village series over on Kindred Mom. If you missed it, check out the complete Healthy Mom series from spring 2019 here!
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

Mentioned in this episode:

Links coming soon!

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Lynne Patti**

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Grief Experienced / Learning How To Breathe As A New Mom / Prevailing Strength

**Jennifer Van Winkle**

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

**Kristin Vanderlip**

Kristin considers herself an ordinary woman who has known the depths of suffering and despair and knows what it’s like to struggle after experiencing the deaths of her first child and father as well as through her daily life as an Army wife. She writes to help women find hope and live in expectation of God’s promises in the midst of unexpected pain and suffering. She is the author of *Life Worth Living: A Daily Growth Journal* (affilate link), writes regularly at www.kristinvanderlip.com and has had her words featured on (in)courage, For Every Mom, Women Encouraged, and iola magazine. She lives with her husband, two boys (ages 4 and 7), and calls home wherever the Army sends them, which is currently in TN.

Kristin’s Daily Growth Journal (affiliate link):

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**062 // It Takes a Village – Lindsey Cornett, Mary Kate Brown & Special Guest Leslie Verner** Sep 09, 2019
This episode is a look into the importance of having a village, how to cultivate it in your local area. Lindsey Cornett, Mary Kate Brown, and special guest Leslie Verner—mother, and author of the book *Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness*. Check out the It Takes a Village series over on Kindred Mom. If you missed it, check out the complete Healthy Mom series from spring 2019 here!
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

Mentioned in this episode:

Mary Kate Brown – appeared on episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast

Mary Kate’s essay about her friend group: Wild & Free Mamas

Wild + Free Homeschool organization

Episode 60 of the Kindred Mom Podcast – referenced Brene Brown / vulnerability

Jen Hatmaker’s podcast – Shasta Nelson episode about friendship circles

Sarah Allard on the podcast – Episode 2 about Building Community

Kelly Brogan – mentioned by Mary Kate

MommaStrong – Main site & FB group

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Mary Kate Brown**

Mary Kate Brown is a homeschooling stay-at-home mama living in the suburbs of Chicago. She is married to her high-school sweetheart Brian, and together they have three daughters. She decorates cakes, is a hobby gardener, enjoys reading, and she writes about faith and motherhood at **www.choosinggraceblog.com**. Catch up with her on **Facebook**and **Instagram**.

Read some of Mary Kate’s writing:
Dare to Dance / New Baby, New Mom

**Lindsey Cornett**
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

**Leslie Verner**
Leslie Verner has her masters in intercultural studies and bachelors in elementary education, both from Wheaton College. She has taught in both public and private schools, for students ranging from fourth to eighth grade, though most of her teaching career has been for seventh and eighth graders. She lived in China for five years, teaching English as a second language for three years and studying Mandarin full-time for two years before returning to the states to get married and be a teacher in Chicago’s Chinatown. She is currently staying home with her three small children, but is a freelance writer and editor at *SheLoves Magazine* and volunteers with international students in her area. Though Chicago was home for about 15 years, she and her family currently live in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where they enjoy “hiking” as a family (their oldest child is four). They also love exploring used books stores, craft coffee shops and hole-in-the-wall restaurants, though most of her days are spent chasing children at the library or park. Leslie blogs regularly about faith, family, social justice and cross-cultural issues at www.scrapingraisins.com.

Follow her on **Twitter**: @leslie_verner | **Facebook:** Leslie Verner | **Instagram:** scraping_raisins | **Pinterest**: leslie verner

Check out Leslie’s new book ~ *Invited: The Power of Hospitality in an Age of Loneliness*

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**061 // Friendship in Motherhood – Lynne Patti, Robin Chapman, & Special Guest Melanie Dale** Aug 26, 2019
This episode is an all about friendship in motherhood—the beauty and the challenges of building and maintaining relationships with other women while navigating the demands of raising kids. Hear from Lynne Patti, Robin Chapman, and special guest Melanie Dale—mother, Author, and host of the podcast Lighten Up With Melanie Dale. If you missed it, check out the complete Healthy Mom series from spring 2019 here!
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and seven kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Lynne Patti**

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Grief Experienced / Learning How To Breathe As A New Mom / Prevailing Strength

**Robin Chapman**

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

**Melanie Dale**

Melanie Dale is the author of four books: Women Are Scary, It’s Not Fair, Infreakinfertility, and Calm the H*ck Down, a parenting book with Simon & Schuster coming out next spring. She’s a monthly contributor for the popular parenting site, Coffee+Crumbs, and her essays are included in their book, The Magic of Motherhood. In addition to writing, Melanie enjoys hosting her podcast, Lighten Up with Melanie Dale, and speaking at events and conferences around the country. She lives in the Atlanta area with her husband, Alex, and their three kids.

(affiliate link)

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**060 // Celebrating Motherhood – The Kindred Mom Team** Aug 12, 2019
This episode is an introduction to the upcoming season of Kindred Mom, centered around the theme of “Celebrating Motherhood”. The members of the Kindred Mom Editorial Team discuss the upcoming monthly topics, the core mission of the Kindred Mom community, and introduce a new team member! If you missed it, check out the complete Healthy Mom series from spring 2019 here!
Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Jennifer Van Winkle**

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

**Lynne Patti**

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Grief Experienced / Learning How To Breathe As A New Mom / Prevailing Strength

**Mary Kate Brown**

Mary Kate Brown is a homeschooling stay-at-home mama living in the suburbs of Chicago. She is married to her high-school sweetheart Brian, and together they have three daughters. She decorates cakes, is a hobby gardener, enjoys reading, and she writes about faith and motherhood at **www.choosinggraceblog.com**. Catch up with her on **Facebook** and **Instagram**.

Read some of Mary Kate’s writing:
Dare to Dance / New Baby, New Mom

**Lindsey Cornett**
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

**Robin Chapman**

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**059 // Celebrating the Healthy Mom Series – Jennifer Van Winkle & Lindsey Cornett** May 10, 2019
This episode is a recap and celebration of the Healthy Mom series featured on KindredMom.com.
Check out the complete Healthy Mom series here!

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group
Some things mentioned in this episode…
Weeds and Warnings – Lori Ann Wood

What’s Cookin’ on the Back Burner? – Jennifer Van Winkle

Mothering While Broken – Jennifer Holmes

Buried Longings Brought to Light – Shannon Owen

How I Quit Struggling with My Weight – Robin Chapman

Meet our Spring 2019 Writers in Residence

Podcast episode # on Mental Health with Rachel Blackston

Podcast episode #56 on Rest with Dr. Saundra Dalton Smith

Making Room in My Soul – Tori Rask

Expressing Myself: When Creativity and Motherhood Collide – Robin Chapman

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Jennifer Van Winkle**

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

**Lindsey Cornett**
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**058 // Creativity, Passion & Purpose – Alex Davies, Robin Chapman, Alana Dawson & Amber Salhus** Apr 22, 2019
Closing out the Healthy Mom series, Episode 58 is all about creativity, purpose, and passion. In the first half, host Emily Sue Allen talks with team member Robin Chapman and writer in residence Alex Davies about how moms can find time in the midst of motherhood to feed their souls with creativity. In the second segment, Emily talks with Alana Dawson and Amber Salhaus of the Mom Wants More podcast about pursuing passion during the mama years.
Check out the Healthy Mom series as it unfolds here!

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group
Some things mentioned in this episode… “So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27, NIV
Alex Davies’s earring shop
The Mom Wants More Podcast with Alana Dawson & Amber Salhus
Related reading: A Million Little Ways by Emily P. Freeman The Fringe Hours by Jessica Turner
**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Alex Davies**

Alex Davies is a maker and mother helping inspire women to make life beautiful. She has been featured in many online publications for her vulnerable storytelling and focus on creating more joy everyday. Always chasing her creative dreams, Alex loves to write, sew and decorate while raising two girls with her husband in San Diego, California. Alex shares everything with you from mom wins to DIY ideas to her line of handmade jewelry and bags on her blog AlexDaviesLiving.com and Instagram @AlexDaviesLiving.

Read some of Alex’s writing on KindredMom.com
What if We Stopped Fighting? | 3 Ways Sisters Keep You Sane

**Robin Chapman**

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

Alana Dawson

Alana, pronounced like Atlanta without the ‘ts’, is a military spouse, mama to two girls (and one french bulldog), and a writer. She co-hosts The Mom Wants More Podcast, where she and her co-host encourage women to pursue their passions in the middle of their right-now lives. You can follow along with her adventures in military life, motherhood and more at www.alanadawson.com
**Amber Salhus** Amber lives in the Oregon countryside with her husband and two kids and she writes regularly atwww.ambersalhus.com where she helps women uncover what it is that makes them come alive, come home to the body they live in, and to show up to their right-now lives with passion, purpose, and joy.
*Featured Image by Hill Smiley Photography*

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**057 // Healthy Soul: Peace & Spirituality – Lindsey Cornett, Rachel Blackston & Lexie Stratman** Apr 08, 2019
Episode 57 opens up the final month of our Healthy Mom series: Healthy Soul. This week, host Emily Sue Allen talks with team member Lindsey Cornett and writer in resident Rachel Blackston about ways we find peace as mamas. In the second segment, Emily talks with guest Lexie Stratman, a homeschooling mom and former childbirth educator about some disciplines to bring more peace and stillness into home life.

Check out the Healthy Mom series as it unfolds here!

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

*Our community is embarking on a challenge we hope will bring some peace to your busy-mama life! Join us for the Peaceful Home Challenge. Want in? Sign up to take the challenge here!*

Just a few of our free downloads:

*A Self-Care Questionnaire to help you evaluate how to strategically create a self-care plan that is sustainable in your real life*

Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Follow Kindred Mom on Instagram

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

**Some things mentioned in this episode…**

Quotes:

“Peace is not the absence of trouble, but the presence of God.” (Sheila Walsh)

“[Christ] himself is our peace.” (Ephesians 2:14)

“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:19)

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, 18 may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, 19 and to know this love that surpasses knowledge that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” (Ephesians 3:14-21)

**Books:**

On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman

Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones

Psalms for Young Children by Marie-Helene Delval

My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers

Also, keep an eye out for Rachel Blackston’s essay mentioned in this episode, Every Mom is a Storyteller. It comes out later this month!

**About Host Emily Sue Allen:**

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

**Lindsey Cornett**
Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

Rachel Blackston

Rachel Blackston loves a good story, deep connection with others, a savory piece of dark chocolate and a steamy mug of high octane coffee. She resides in Orlando with her lanky, marathon running husband and her three precious daughters, priceless gifts after several years of infertility. Rachel and her husband Michael cofounded Redeemer Counseling (www.redeemercounselingcenter.com). As a therapist and coach for 15 years, Rachel considers it an honor to walk with women in their stories of harm, beauty, and redemption. She specializes in working with women with a history of trauma and abuse as well as those struggling with infertility and sexual betrayal. She writes regularly for the blog Red Tent Living and enjoys speaking in the community on topics such as the Knowing your Story, Calling, the Enneagram, Sexuality, and Attachment. To contact Rachel, check out www.rachelblackston.com or blackstonrachel on instagram.

Read some of Rachel’s writing on Kindred Mom:
Grief, Donuts & Resurrection

Lexie Stratman

Lexie Stratman is a mama of five living in the Pacific Northwest. She has taught childbirth education classes for over a decade and loves encouraging others to embrace the transformation God wants to do in their lives. She works with youth at her church and loves a strong cup of coffee.

*Featured Image by Hill Smiley Photography*

———————————-

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

050 // What We Learned This Year – The Kindred Mom Team Dec 17, 2018

This episode is a recap of the content shared on the Kindred Mom Blog & Podcast throughout 2018, as well as personal reflections from Host Emily Sue Allen, and Kindred Mom team members Lynne Patti, Jenni Van Winkle, Lindsey Cornett, and Robin Chapman.

Monthly Topics on Kindred Mom in 2018

Self-Care for Moms Series

Loving Well Series

Resilience Series

Family Culture Series

Cherishing Childhood Series

Life Around the Table Series

Cultivating Home Series

Comparison & Contentment Series

Podcast Episodes from 2018

Mentioned in this Episode:

Free Download: Recipes for Families Living Life Around the Table

Free Download: Self-Care Questionnaire

Resilience Series

Episode 38 of the Podcast – Every Screen Tells a Story with Christie Thomas

Essay: Putting Myself Aside by Natalie Ogbourne

Learn more about the Fall 2018 Writers in Residence

The Transformation Essays by Marilynn Song Harri – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Essay: Measuring Experiences by Wonder Rather Than Mileage by Annie Rim

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

About Podcast Host Emily Sue Allen –

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. She is also a regular contributing writer for Joyful Life Magazine and member of the Hope*Writers community. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

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Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing:
A Choir Calling / Prevailing Strength / The Perfect Monster Mom

————————

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing:
Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

————————

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:
Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

049 // Navigating the Unexpected – Sarah Allard & Marilynn Song Harri Dec 03, 2018

This episode is about navigating unexpected things as a mom, from the everyday stuff to things that are really serious. Host Emily Sue Allen chats with Sarah Allard and Marilynn Song Harri about various circumstances they’ve encountered as moms and how they’ve journeyed through those things. Emily also shares about the unexpected things that have been going on in her own life in recent months.

Visit the blog to read essays on Comparison & Contentment from November

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

About Podcast Host Emily Sue Allen –

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her high school sweetheart and together they are raising their two children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. You can find her on Instagram.

Read some of Sarah’s writing:
The Hospitable Home / Invisible Mothers / Steering the Ship

——————————————

Marilynn Song Harri is a happy wife, mom and homemaker in the small town of Walla Walla, Washington. While she keeps very busy raising and teaching five children at home, she pursues a life of simplicity, laughter and loving Jesus.

Read some of Marilynn Song’s writing:
Transformation Series – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 / Riding Into Love

————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.comand subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**48 // Contentment: The Quest for Peace – Lynne Patti, Rebekah Crosby and Tammy Mashburn** Nov 19, 2018
This episode explores part of November’s Kindred Mom topic–Contentment. Host Emily Sue Allen chats with Lynne Patti and Rebekah Crosby about cultivating contentment and why this is important in motherhood. In the second segment, Emily talks with Tammy Mashburn, a writer, and resilient grandmother who has an inspiring perspective about contentment despite facing a serious chronic illness.

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

Visit the blog to read more essays on Comparison & Contentment

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

About Podcast Host Emily Sue Allen –

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

——————————————

Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who decided to give her red pen a rest and do a bit of writing from the desk in her sunny kitchen instead. She shares honest stories of mothering daughters, making peace with imperfection, and embracing grace on her blog,Write the Rough Draft, and is co-creator of The Drafting Desk, a monthly newsletter offering soulful encouragement for fellow recovering perfectionists. Rebekah’s hobbies change on a weekly basis but have most recently included photography, cross-stitch, knitting, and raising monarch butterflies. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and two little girls.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/writetheroughdraft/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writetheroughdraft/

Website: https://writetheroughdraft.com/

————————

Tammy’s passion is encouraging women to be present where they are as they learn to thrive in their chronic wilderness. She loves equipping and connecting others to the Word of God through a daily quiet time and journaling. She serves in her local church through Women’s Ministry, mentoring, leading small groups, and Bible Study.

Tammy and her husband, their dog Lola make their home in the Upstate of South Carolina.

http://tammylmashburn.com

http://tammylmashburn.com/mornings-in-the-word-the-book/

https://www.facebook.com/tammy.mashburn.1291

https://www.instagram.com/tlmashburn/

https://twitter.com/Washburnchic

————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**047 // Comparison: The Thief of Everything – Lindsey Cornett, Jenni Van Winkle, & Corey Wheeland** Nov 05, 2018
This episode explores part of November’s Kindred Mom topic–Comparison. Host Emily Sue Allen chats with Lindsey Cornett and Jennifer Van Winkle about what comparison steals away from those who give it an inch, and practical ways to combat the propensity women have to compare themselves. In the second segment, Emily talks with Corey Wheeland, Fall 2018 Writer in Residence for Kindred Mom, about how she has navigated comparison as a single mom.

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

About Podcast Host Emily Sue Allen –

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this Episode

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

——————————————

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. She is also a regular contributing writer for Joyful Life Magazine and member of the Hope*Writers community. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

————————

Corey Wheeland is a writer, graphic designer, and, most importantly, mom to her amazing daughter, Zoey. Wanting to find her way back to herself after her divorce last year, she decided to pursue her lifelong passion of writing. This pursuit manifested itself in the creation of a blog called The Nostalgia Diaries, where her goal is to simplify, enhance, and engage people’s lives by helping them focus on the most important things: remembering, appreciating, believing, and becoming. Since the creation of her blog, Corey’s writing has been featured on Motherly, Perfection Pending, SheKnows, Red Tricycle, Yellowbrick, Mamapedia, Parent.co, and Chief Gratitude Officer. She’s determined to spend the rest of her days living creatively and colorfully, all the while drinking cinnamon green tea, listening to good music, and soaking up as much sunshine as she can.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thenostalgiadiaries/

Web site: https://nostalgiadiaries.com/

*Featured Image for this post on KindredMom.com by Lindsey Cornett.*

————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**046 // Home & Belonging – Robin Chapman and Vanessa Hunt** Oct 22, 2018
This episode explores October’s topic–Cultivating Home–with discussion centering around creating a sense of belonging within our homes. In the first half of the show, host Emily Sue Allen chats with Robin Chapman about belonging and how to encourage healthy relationships between the people in our homes in both big-picture and practical ways. In the second segment, Emily talks with Vanessa Hunt, mother of two and co-author of Life in Season (affiliate link), about the ways our hearts are connected with our homes and how we make home a sanctuary for our families.
**Recipes for Families, a free e-book from Kindred Mom, is full of meal ideas and practical kitchen wisdom from over 20 moms! Click the image below and subscribe to our mailing list and get your own free copy!

More from this Series

Episode 45 on Cultivating Home

Essays on Cultivating Home from various writers on KindredMom.com

Writers in Residence Information & Application Form << (click here to view)
Each season, we select a small group of writers to be part of our work behind-the-scenes and to help shape the content of the upcoming series topics. This allows us to partner with writers who have a particular perspective or experience related to the topics we explore as a community to best serve our readers and listeners. It also gives us an opportunity to introduce our readers and listeners to the meaningful projects our Writers in Residence pour their hearts into. Writers in Residence demonstrate high-quality writing, a distinct vision for capturing a unique and hopeful angle on motherhood challenges and experiences, and champion the core values of Kindred Mom. Writers in Residence are thoughtfully selected after an application and interview process. If you’re interested in more information about this opportunity, visit our website for a PDF that outlines the benefits and expectations of writers who serve our community in this role. The form to apply for this role is also on the website at the link above.
Guests on this Episode

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing: Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage
—————————————— Vanessa Hunt believes that there is a beautiful, intricate connection between our hearts and our homes and she is passionate about helping you discover how you can have more peace in both. She is the co-author of the book *Life in Season: Celebrate the Moments That Fill Your Heart and Home* (affiliate link) released in 2016 and she founded the website At the Picket Fence, where simple ideas for your home meet encouraging inspiration for your heart. Vanessa writes and creates from her home in Oregon which she shares with her husband and two children and as a true Pacific Northwestern girl she takes her coffee very seriously. She is a regular guest on local television as well as a speaker at women’s gatherings around the country.

Verses mentioned in this episode:
1 Cor 13:5 (NIV): “Love… keeps no record of wrongs” Romans 2:4 (NLT): “Don’t you see how wonderfully kind, tolerant, and patient God is with you? Does this mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that his kindness is intended to turn you from your sin?” James 1:20 (NLT): “Human anger does not produce the righteousness God desires.” Ps 16:6a (NIV): “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places”
————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**045 // Cultivating Home – Rebekah Crosby, Lindsey Cornett, & Lynne Patti** Oct 08, 2018
This episode dives into October’s topic—Cultivating Home—with conversations about what the most important things are in creating a home space that reflects your family values. On the first half of the show, host Emily Sue Allen talks with Lindsey Cornett and Lynne Patti about finding purpose in cultivating home for our families, as well as some practical tips about how to accomplish home tasks with little ones in the mix. The second half of the show features current Writer in Residence Rebekah Crosby, mama of two girls, and co-creator (along with Lindsey Cornett) of The Drafting Desk newsletter.

Catch up with the latest series topics over on KindredMom.com!

Life Around the Table
Cherishing Childhood

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

Writers in Residence Information & Application Form

Each season, we select a small group of writers to be part of our work behind-the-scenes and to help shape the content of the upcoming series topics. This allows us to partner with writers who have a particular perspective or experience related to the topics we explore as a community to best serve our readers and listeners. It also gives us an opportunity to introduce our readers and listeners to the meaningful projects our Writers in Residence pour their hearts into.

Writers in Residence demonstrate high-quality writing, a distinct vision for capturing a unique and hopeful angle on motherhood challenges and experiences, and champion the core values of Kindred Mom. Writers in Residence are thoughtfully selected after an application and interview process. If you’re interested in more information about this opportunity, visit our website for a PDF that outlines the benefits and expectations of writers who serve our community in this role. The form to apply for this role is also on the website at the link above.

Join The Kindred Mom Private Facebook Group

About Podcast Host Emily Sue Allen –

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom, and she hosts/produces the Kindred Mom podcast. Emily is also a member of several communities for writers (including Hope*Writers and Rise Up Writers, among others) and she is a regular devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. Soul care for moms and helping women find joy in the midst of their motherhood journey are among her greatest passions. Emily is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at emilysueallen.com. Find Kindred Mom on Instagram and Facebook, and follow Emily on Instagram to see her most recent family adventures.

Guests on this episode:

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at the The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Rebekah Crosby – Writer in Residence for Fall 2018

Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who decided to give her red pen a rest and do a bit of writing from the desk in her sunny kitchen instead. She shares honest stories of mothering daughters, making peace with imperfection, and embracing grace on her blog, Write the Rough Draft, and is co-creator of The Drafting Desk, a monthly newsletter offering soulful encouragement for fellow recovering perfectionists. Rebekah’s hobbies change on a weekly basis but have most recently included photography, cross-stitch, knitting, and raising monarch butterflies. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and two little girls.

https://www.instagram.com/writetheroughdraft/

https://www.facebook.com/writetheroughdraft/

https://writetheroughdraft.com/

http://www.thedraftingdesk.com

Links to stuff mentioned in this episode:

Feathers Plucked for a Nest – by Ann Voskamp

The Nesting Place (affiliate link) – a book by Myquillyn Smith

Completing the Cycle – by Anne Bogel/Modern Mrs. Darcy

Comments on how much time we spend managing stuff – Tsh Oxenrider

Kids Live Here – by Rebekah Crosby

The Lazy Genius Podcast – Kendra Adachi

Featured image by Hill Smiley Photography

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**044 // Deepening Connection Around the Table – Jenni Van Winkle, Corey Wheeland, & Misty Phillip** Sep 24, 2018
This episode continues to explore September’s topic—Life Around the Table—with conversations about deepening connection around the table and the practical things that foster close relationships with kids as they grow. On the first half of the show, host Emily Sue Allen talks with Jenni Van Winkle and current Kindred Mom Writer in Residence Corey Wheeland about what is really important when it comes to meal times. The second half of the show features Misty Phillip, mama of three boys and writer/speaker and host of the new, forthcoming podcast, By His Grace.

Visit KindredMom.com to explore the new website and the upcoming September series: Life Around the Table

Subscribe to the KM Newsletter & Get the Recipes for Families ebook including 60 recipes to try!

Join the Kindred Mom Facebook Group

Guests on this episode:

Jennifer Van Winkle is a fun-loving and intentional-but-casual minimalist. She is an editor of and regular contributor to the Kindred Mom Blog and Podcast. She is also a regular contributing writer for Joyful Life Magazine and member of the Hope*Writers community. Currently, she writes from home with kids underfoot on her personal blog Pepper Sprout Home. She is passionate about squeezing the most fun out of life in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and 3 children. She is always in search of truth and what it looks like to live authentically and if that surrounds a plate of delicious food shared with good friends and family, then she’s pretty much in the happiest place she can imagine. Find Jenni on Instagram.

Read some of Jenni’s Writing:
Poop Mountain / Go Get Him, Tiger / Speed Boat : Ocean Liner

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Corey Wheeland is a writer, graphic designer, and, most importantly, mom to her amazing daughter, Zoey. Wanting to find her way back to herself after her divorce last year, she decided to pursue her lifelong passion of writing. This pursuit manifested itself in the creation of a blog called The Nostalgia Diaries, where her goal is to simplify, enhance, and engage people’s lives by helping them focus on the most important things: remembering, appreciating, believing, and becoming. Since the creation of her blog, Corey’s writing has been featured on Motherly, Perfection Pending, SheKnows, Red Tricycle, Yellowbrick, Mamapedia, Parent.co, and Chief Gratitude Officer. She’s determined to spend the rest of her days living creatively and colorfully, all the while drinking cinnamon green tea, listening to good music, and soaking up as much sunshine as she can.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thenostalgiadiaries/

Web site: https://nostalgiadiaries.com/

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Misty Phillip is married to the love of her life and best friend, Peter Phillip. Together they have three amazing young men and one precious daughter-in-law. Misty left her corporate career 18 years ago to homeschool her boys and has almost worked herself out of a job. In this new season of life, she encourages and mentors women through her writing, teaching, and speaking by sharing her faith and hope in Jesus Christ. She is an author, blogger, speaker, and podcaster. Misty shares about Christian Living, Faith, Home, Family, and the books she loves at By His Grace. Misty has written a Bible Study on Overcoming, entitled the Struggle is Real, But so is God. You can download the first week for free on her website, along with scriptures to pray when you are struggling. Facebook.com/mistyphillip/ Instagram.com/Misty.phillip/ Twitter.com/mistyphillip/ Pinterest.com/mistyphillip/

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**043 // Life Around the Table – Patty Scott, Lynne Patti, & Robin Chapman** Sep 10, 2018
This episode launches into September’s topic—Life Around the Table—with conversations about practical things to help get food on the table in the midst of busy family life, as well as how to navigate hospitality when you have little ones underfoot. On the first half of the show, Lynne Patti and Robin Chapman talk with host Emily Sue Allen about family meals in their homes. The second half of the show features Patty Scott, mama of two and author of Slow Down, Mama.

Visit KindredMom.com to explore the new website and the upcoming September series: Life Around the Table

Subscribe to the KM Newsletter & Get the Recipes for Families ebook including 60 recipes to try!

Join the Kindred Mom Facebook Group

Joyful Life Magazine Kickstarter – Just a few days remaining! Back the project by pre-ordering your own copy. The first issue is due out in November.

Guests on this episode:

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. She is an editor and contributor to the Kindred Mom blog and podcast. Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” She enjoys singing weekly with a professional choir, Lego building, and most importantly, connecting with good friends over good food. In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious and abounding in love. Lynne and her family live in Los Angeles where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam.

Read some of Lynne’s writing: A Choir Calling / Prevailing Strength / The Perfect Monster Mom

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Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect mama, wife, and Jesus follower. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her husband of 13 years and four children (ages 1 to 7). She’s trying hard to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy, and she has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years know they are normal and there is hope. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with a cup of coffee, or online looking for grace in her mundane and crazy life on her blog, Instagram, or Facebook.

Read some of Robin’s writing: Growing Compassion For My Body / Parenting in Public / Tending a Marriage

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Patty Scott is a mom to two boys, ages 9 and 16. She has been married to her surfer/skater husband for over 20 years. Her home is full of neighbor kids and a whole lot of joyous mayhem most days. Patty writes to inspire and empower moms to love intentionally and make room for what matters most. Her passion is to encourage mothers and to create a place of solace for them as they do the most important work of motherhood.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hearts_homeward/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/heartshomeward/

Website: https://pattyhscott.com

Patty’s new book: Slow Down, Mama (Amazon Affiliate Link)

Mentioned in this episode:

Instacart

Instant Pot Cheeseburger Mac

Gretchen Ronnevik – Check out Gretchen’s course, Gospel Mentoring

Megan Ericson – Check out Megan’s podcast, The Minimalist Mom Podcast

Megan recommended Personalized Photo Calendars to help spur dinnertime conversation

Tori Rask – Essay – Table on the Go: Grace When it’s Needed Most (Essay will be shared later this month. In the future, you’ll be able to find the link on the series home page.)

Bethany Barendregt – Mentioned how “Love one another” is the priority for her family around the table. Check out the community that Bethany cultivates over at Women Encouraged.

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**042 // A Vision for Home – Lindsey Cornett, Sarah Allard & Marilynn Song Harri** Aug 27, 2018
This episode is about developing a personal vision for home and includes a preview of September’s topic: Life Around the Table. On the first half of the show, Lindsey Cornett talks with host Emily Sue Allen about meal-planning, being in the kitchen, and introducing the fall Kindred Mom Writers in Residence. Then, Sarah Allard and Marilynn Song Harri jump in for a conversation about how moms can pursue cultivating a peaceful home.

Visit KindredMom.com to explore the new website and the upcoming September series: Life Around the Table

Get the Recipes for Families Free Ebook with 60 Best-Loved Family Recipes and Kitchen/Meal Planning tips from 20 moms!

Guests on this episode:

Lindsey Cornett is a loud talker, iced coffee drinker, and lover of the written word who writes from the intersection of faith, family, and freedom. She’s married to Evan, and together they live in Grand Rapids, Michigan with three kiddos (four and under). Over time, she is learning to relinquish her perfectionism and embrace her life and creativity as-is. In the process, she’s become passionate about encouraging other women to embrace the freedom Jesus offers, which is rooted in the belief that we are enough just as we are. You can find more of Lindsey’s writing on her personal website, on Instagram, and over at The Drafting Desk, a thoughtful monthly newsletter which she co-writes to inspire women toward freedom from perfectionism.

Read some of Lindsey’s writing:

Two Bites of Humble Pie / Facing Postpartum Depression / Strong and Brave

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Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her high school sweetheart and together they are raising their two children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. You can find her on Instagram.

Read some of Sarah’s writing:

The Hospitable Home / Invisible Mothers / Steering the Ship

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Marilynn Song Harri is a happy wife, mom, and homemaker in the small town of Walla Walla, Washington. While she keeps very busy raising and teaching five children at home, she pursues a life of simplicity, laughter and loving Jesus.

Read some of Marilynn Song’s writing:

Transformation Series – Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 / Riding Into Love

Mentioned in this episode:

Essay by Lindsey Cornett about having a picky eater

Essay by Rebekah Crosby about the Tooth Fairy

The Drafting Desk

**Emily’s personal Meal-planning sheet will be included in the September Free Resource: Recipes For Families Living Life Around the Table – Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter to get it when it is sent out

Fall 2018 Writers in Residence

Patty Scott is a mom to two boys, ages 9 and 16. She has been married to her surfer/skater husband for over 20 years. Her home is full of neighbor kids and a whole lot of joyous mayhem most days. Patty writes to inspire and empower moms to love intentionally and make room for what matters most. Her passion is to encourage mothers and to create a place of solace for them as they do the most important work of motherhood.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hearts_homeward/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/heartshomeward/

Website: https://heartshomeward.com

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Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who decided to give her red pen a rest and do a bit of writing from the desk in her sunny kitchen instead. She shares honest stories of mothering daughters, making peace with imperfection, and embracing grace on her blog, Write the Rough Draft, and is co-creator of The Drafting Desk, a monthly newsletter offering soulful encouragement for fellow recovering perfectionists. Rebekah’s hobbies change on a weekly basis but have most recently included photography, cross-stitch, knitting, and raising monarch butterflies. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and two little girls.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/writetheroughdraft/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writetheroughdraft/

Website: https://writetheroughdraft.com/

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Corey Wheeland is a writer, graphic designer, and, most importantly, mom to her amazing daughter, Zoey. Wanting to find her way back to herself after her divorce last year, she decided to pursue her lifelong passion of writing. This pursuit manifested itself in the creation of a blog called The Nostalgia Diaries, where her goal is to simplify, enhance, and engage people’s lives by helping them focus on the most important things: remembering, appreciating, believing, and becoming. Since the creation of her blog, Corey’s writing has been featured on Motherly, Perfection Pending, SheKnows, Red Tricycle, Yellowbrick, Mamapedia, Parent.co, and Chief Gratitude Officer. She’s determined to spend the rest of her days living creatively and colorfully, all the while drinking cinnamon green tea, listening to good music, and soaking up as much sunshine as she can.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thenostalgiadiaries/

Web site: https://nostalgiadiaries.com/

**Our show’s current sponsor is Joyful Life Magazine. Check out the community over at **JoyfulLifeMagazine.com** and mark your calendars (September 15th, 2018) for the chance to preorder the first issue that is due out in November!**

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**041 // Finding Balance Through Family Transitions – Sandy Cooper & The Kindred Mom Team** Aug 13, 2018
In the first episode back after a long summer break, Emily Sue Allen chats with Jenni Van Winkle and Lynne Patti about their summer adventures with kids and preparing for the upcoming school year. They talk about the new Kindred Mom website, the free resources offered to subscribers of Kindred Mom, and some of what each of them is doing in their homes to be ready for fall.

Then, author Sandy Cooper joins Emily Sue Allen for a conversation about balance and what it looks like in the busy mothering years. Sandy’s thoughts on balance are refreshing and encouraging for moms who feel like they can’t keep up with all the demands for their time and attention.

Links from the show:

**Click here to view the new Kindred Mom website**!

**Subscribe to the Kindred Mom email list** for access to all the free resources discussed on this episode. With your free subscription, you gain access to the Kindred Mom Resource Library where all of these titles live, or if you prefer, you can download just the one that most interests you. For the specific resources, click on the link below, subscribe, and an email with the resource you’ve requested will be delivered to your inbox!

Get your free downloads:

**Manage the Mayhem of Motherhood: 52 Ideas to Help You Flourish**

**Create a Sustainable Self-Care Plan** (includes a Self-Care Questionnaire & Self-Care Planning Worksheet)

**100+ Quality Screen Time Options for Kids**

**Summertime Boredom Busters**

Information about our **Featured Guest Sandy Cooper**:

Sandy Cooper is the Leader of Women’s Ministry at New Life Church in Louisville, a Bible study teacher, and author. She helps frazzled women find peace.

Her greatest accomplishments include surviving the death of her 9-month-old son (Noah), surviving an on-going battle with clinical depression, and finding a laundry system that actually works (the search for which may or may not have contributed to the depression). She lives in Louisville, Kentucky with Jon (her husband of 24 years) and her three living children Rebekah (19), Elijah (17) and Elliana (11).

You can find Sandy at her personal blog (**www.thescooponbalance.com**), where she has been blogging for over a decade,

on Facebook **https://www.facebook.com/thescooponbalance/**

on Instagramhttps://www.instagram.com/thescooponbalance/

on Pinterest **https://www.pinterest.com/ScoopOnBalance/**

and in her latest book, **Finding Your Balance** (available on Amazon, affiliate links).

**Our show’s current sponsor is Joyful Life Magazine. Check out the community over at **JoyfulLifeMagazine.com** and mark your calendars (September 15th, 2018) for the chance to preorder the first issue that is due out in November!**

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

040 // Letting Go of Loving Motherhood – Robin Chapman May 21, 2018

In this episode, Emily Allen hosts Robin Chapman for a conversation on Letting Go of Loving Motherhood. As a new member of the KM team, Robin shares about her struggle to reclaim her health after a long season of pregnancy and nursing, and how she leans hard on the grace of God as she bumbles through motherhood. There are several announcements toward the end of the interview, including why (and for how long) Kindred Mom is shutting down for the summer.

Catch the whole Cherishing Childhood series over on Kindred Mom!

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect Jesus lover, wife, and mama to four babies six and down. When she isn’t buried in children or hiding from them, she enjoys reading, photography, and sharing stories on her blog, where she’d love to connect with you! You can also find her on Facebook or Instagram… or perhaps hiding in her bathroom with some coffee.

Mentioned in this episode: Self-Care for Moms Series from January 2018

Robin’s Personal Blog

Robin’s Fitness/Health Journey

Recent Kindred Mom essays:

Robin Chapman – Letting Go of Loving Motherhood

Robin Chapman –Growing Compassion for My Body

Emily Sue Allen – Grace Comes Quiet

Recently (great read!) on Robin’s Blog:

Speaking Shame to Survive It: I’m Sorry I’m Fat

Robin appeared on Episode 9 of the Kindred Mom Podcast – The Learning Curve of Motherhood

Listeners: We want to hear from you! >> Collaborative Family Recipe Resource mentioned in the episode – Click here to submit your details! (deadline May 31, 2018)

Subscribe to access our whole resource library >> Subscribe here to receive Summertime Boredom Busters for Kids mentioned at the end of this episode.

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

039 // Cherishing Childhood – Lindsey Cornett & the Kindred Mom Team May 07, 2018

In this episode, Emily Allen hosts Jennifer Van Winkle & Lindsey Cornett for a conversation on Cherishing Childhood, the May monthly theme on Kindred Mom. As the newest member of the KM team, Lindsey shares about her monthly newsletter and her enthusiasm regarding serving as a Kindred Mom team member.

Catch the whole Cherishing Childhood series over on Kindred Mom!

Lindsey Cornett is a writer, reader, and mom who is slowly learning to trade perfectionism for freedom. A Florida-to-Michigan transplant, her faith and sense of purpose are shifting as she experiences seasons in the world and in her own life. Lindsey is also the co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a newsletter for anyone trying to pursue grace instead of perfection. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett.

Lindsey Cornett’s Blog

The Drafting Desk newsletter

Lindsey appeared on Episode 27 of the Kindred Mom Podcast

Lindsey’s essay from the beginning of the month: A Season to Cherish

Jenni Van Winkle’s Essay: Say Yes to the Mess

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**038 // Every Screen Tells a Story – Christie Thomas & The Kindred Mom Team** Apr 16, 2018
In this episode, Emily Allen hosts conversations about how every screen tells a story within a family’s home and how to make intentional choices regarding screen use so the whole family’s benefit. Guest Christie Thomas offers insight into helping kids develop wisdom around this subject.

**Subscribe to the Kindred Mom Email list Here** We have a new format & schedule for the Kindred Mom newsletter going forward, which we’ll be sending out twice a month with helpful resources & encouragement. Please subscribe! You won’t want to miss it. We’ll be doing some regular giveaways to our subscribers as our list grows!

If you missed them, check out 2018 series topics

March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom

February series on Loving Well as a Wife and Mom

January’s series on Self Care for Moms

**The April series homepage is coming soon!

Mentioned in this episode:
~ Books ~

**Good Pictures, Bad Pictures** (affiliate link)
**Good Pictures, Bad Pictures, Jr.** (affiliate link)
Not specifically mentioned (but should have been!) **The Tech-Wise Family: Everyday Steps for Putting Technology in its Proper Place** (We are giving 2 copies of this book away to our email subscribers before the end of April!)

Where to find this week’s guest:

Christie Thomas is in the thick of parenting our three boys. She works as the Director of Children’s Ministries at her home church in central Alberta, and has been there since 2006. In 2012, she began work on my first book as she wrote weekly Bible-based devotions for the families in her church. In 2015 the devotions were released as “**Wise for Salvation: Meaningful Devotions for Families with Little Ones**“ (affiliate link). This devotional has brought hundreds of families and children closer to God.

Website
Christie’s Book
**Facebook**
**Instagram**
**Click here to get Christie’s resource about navigating screen use through prayer**

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**037 // Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture – Lora Cook & the Kindred Mom Team** Apr 02, 2018
In this episode, Emily Allen hosts conversations about intentionally cultivating family culture including how to evaluate where you’re at as a family, navigating sibling conflict, and she chats with special guest Lora Cook, experienced mom of 11 children who shares wisdom about how to invest thoughtfully in your family unit.

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

**Subscribe to the Kindred Mom Email list Here** We have a new format & schedule for the Kindred Mom newsletter going forward, which we’ll be sending out twice a month with helpful resources & encouragement. Please subscribe! You won’t want to miss it.

If you missed them, check out 2018 series topics

March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom

February series on Loving Well as a Wife and Mom

January’s series on Self Care for Moms

About Lora Cook:
Lora Cook is a humble and wise homeschool mom of 11 children. Her youngest is 2, and her oldest four kids are out of the house, having stepped into adulthood. Lora is not on social media (too busy!) but if you have a desire to be in touch with her, send a note to Emily, and she’ll forward your message!

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**036 // Dealing with Big Feelings as a Mom – Adriel Booker & The Kindred Mom Team** Mar 19, 2018
In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about dealing with big feelings as a mom in a healthy way.

Segment 1 includes Sarah and Lynne Patti for a group discussion about what it looks like to navigate emotions sensibly. Segment 2 includes Jennifer Van Winkle and special guest Adriel Booker, author of Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope After Miscarriage and Loss. Adriel shares about dealing with anger and grief, and offers wisdom about what it takes to handle these big emotions well.

**Subscribe to the Kindred Mom Email list Here** We have a new format & schedule for the Kindred Mom newsletter going forward, which we’ll be sending out twice a month with helpful resources & encouragement. Please subscribe! You won’t want to miss it.

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

Current series on KindredMom.com: Becoming a Resilient Mom

Last month’s series on KindredMom.com: Loving Well as a Wife and Mom

About Adriel:
Adriel Booker has served in global missions as a speaker, writer, advocate, and mentor for nearly two decades. Adriel leads **The Love A Mama Collective**, a movement of women empowering women through safe birth initiatives in the developing world, and co-leads an inner-city **YWAM community** with her husband in the heart of Sydney, Australia. She’s the author of Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss and writes online at www.adrielbooker.com. Connect with Adriel on your favorite social media platform at @adrielbooker.

Adriel’s book: **Grace Like Scarlett**

Where to find our guest Adriel Booker:
**Website**
Instagram – **Personal** & **Our Scarlett Stories** (for those who have experienced miscarriage, infertility & loss)
**Facebook**

Mentioned in this episode:

March Kindred Mom Series: **Becoming a Resilient Mom**
January Kindred Mom Series: Self-Care for Moms
Adriel Booker’s essay on Kindred Mom: **When Your Anger Frightens You**

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**035 // Becoming a Resilient Mom – Mary Kate Brown & The Kindred Mom Team** Mar 05, 2018
In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about what resilience looks like and why becoming a resilient mom is important.

Segment 1 includes Jennifer Van Winkle and Lynne Patti for a group discussion about some of their current struggles as moms, and the finer details about how to re-set a difficult day at home with kids. Segment 2 includes co-host Sarah Allard and special guest Mary Kate Brown. Mary Kate shares her journey dealing with significant health issues while mothering little ones, and how she became resilient through the process.

*We have 52 ideas to help you flourish in motherhood in this free ebook! Download your copy today!*

Current series on KindredMom.com: Becoming a Resilient Mom

Last month’s series on KindredMom.com: **Loving Well as a Wife and Mom**

Where to find Mary Kate Brown:

**Website**

**Instagram**

Mentioned in this episode:

Mary Kate Brown’s **Essay – Dare to Dance**

Emily Allen’s Essay – **When Resilience Feels Like Floundering**

January Kindred Mom Series: **Self-Care for Moms**

Photo for this episode by **Hill Smiley Photography**

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Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

034 // Loving Well By Setting Limits – Noelle Rhodes & The Kindred Mom Team Feb 21, 2018

In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about Loving Well by Setting Limits, as part of the February series on KindredMom.com. The first segment features Jennifer Van Winkle & Lynne Patti and the second is with Sarah Allard and special guest, Noelle Rhodes (Writer & Podcaster.) This episode discusses why limits and boundaries are an important part of loving our families well.

Kindred Mom Love series home

Where to find Noelle Rhodes:
Website
Instagram

Friending Podcast
Friending Podcast on Instagram

Friending Podcast Episode 34 – How to Find Your Mom Squad (w/ Emily Allen)

How To Become the Most Unlikable Mother in the Room – By Noelle Rhodes

(photo by Hill Smiley Photography)

Mentioned in this episode:

Kimberly Amici

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

033 // Loving Well as a Wife – Ann Hinman & The Kindred Mom Team Feb 12, 2018

In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about Loving Well as a Wife, as part of the February series on KindredMom.com. The first segment features Jennifer Van Winkle & Marilynn Song Harri and the second is with Sarah Allard and special guest, Ann Hinman (Pastor’s wife & mom of 3 grown children.) This episode is full of perspective and practical advice about how to invest in your marriage for the long haul, especially with kids in the mix.

Thanks to Ann Hinman for being our guest!

Ann grew up in the Midwest, but after moving around after college has called Seattle home since 2008. She and her husband George have been married 28 years. Together they have raised three grown children, and are enjoying this season of parenthood and marriage. Ann enjoys serving in various capacities as a pastor’s wife, going on walks with her dog, and indulging in middle of the week date nights… because they can!

Mentioned in this episode:

Kindred Mom February Series on Loving Well as a Wife and Mom including an essay by Jennifer Van Winkle on intimacy titled Go Get Him, Tiger.

“I didn’t think twice about skimping by with occasional time together. My marriage seemed great, and we were happy together. I followed the advice given by the monsters in my head, but I struggled because although my marriage was fine, it was bland. Deep within, I wanted romance and a connection with my spouse that rivaled all love stories ever told. We didn’t have that because I was too afraid to show up as an equal in my marriage.”

Special thanks to the following women for sharing their wisdom about investing in marriage:

Robin Chapman
Rachel Swanson
Faith Raider
Katie Carper

Kindred Mom January Series on Self-Care for Moms

Subscribe to Kindred Mom and we’ll send you an invitation to celebrate your small victories over on the Kindred Mom online group.

You can still get a copy of the Self-Care Questionnaire & Action Items Worksheet from January by subscribing here!

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

**032 // Loving Well as a Mom – Kat Lee + The Kindred Mom Team** Feb 05, 2018
In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about Loving Well as a Mom, to start off the February series on KindredMom.com. The first segment features Jennifer Van Winkle & Lynne Patti (part of the Kindred Mom Vision Team and moms of 3 and 5 children, respectively) and the second is with Sarah Allard (Mama of 2, Kindred Mom Team) and special guest, Kat Lee (author of Hello Mornings and one of the hosts of the Hello Mornings Podcast.) This episode is full of perspective and practical advice about how to love your children well.

Mentioned in this episode:

Kindred Mom February Series on **Loving Well as a Wife and Mom** including the first installment of the series, **Invitation to Love:**
“You may have a laundry list of things you want to accomplish in a day, and frayed nerves from having your attention pulled in a dozen directions. You may be attempting to balance dreams that make you feel alive with the humble reality of all that is required to tend a household and the people in it. Perhaps you feel like there is not enough of you to go around, that you can’t possibly do everything well–at least not all the time. The reality is–you, with your cold coffee in hand and lego creations underfoot, already have exactly what it takes to love your family well without so much striving.”

**Hello Mornings** by Kat Lee (and get the 3-minute Morning download Kat mentioned **here**)

**Hello Mornings Podcast**

**Inspired to Action Podcast** with Kat Lee

Kindred Mom January Series on **Self-Care for Moms**

**Subscribe to Kindred Mom** and we’ll send you an invitation to celebrate your small victories over on the Kindred Mom online group.

You can still get a copy of the Self-Care Questionnaire & Action Items Worksheet by **subscribing here**!

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

029 // Year-in-Review: A Celebration of Kindred Mom in 2017 Dec 18, 2017

In this episode, Emily Allen talks with her Vision Team (Lynne Patti, Sarah Allard, and Jennifer Van Winkle) about some of the essays that have stuck with them from this year. They talk about what they have enjoyed and learned through pioneering this community in its inaugural year, and share a bit about what to expect from Kindred Mom in the first half of 2018.

**New Archives Page! See a month-by-month look at what was shared on the blog and the sequence of podcast episodes that were released.**

Mentioned on this podcast:

*Correction: During this episode Jenni was talking about a quote she thought was from playwright David Mamet but it was actually a mis-quoted Earnest Hemingway quote which is: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

A Flourishing Life (Pediatric Cancer Awareness) – Jai Anderson

Facing Postpartum Depression Part 1 & Facing Postpartum Depression Part 2 – Lindsey Cornett

Speed Boat Ocean Liner – Jennifer Van Winkle

Podcast episode discussing Speed Boat Ocean Liner – Episode 14

Getting Out the Door Without Leaving my Sanity Behind – Charissa Pomrehn

Say No to the Narwhal – Noelle Rhodes

A Choir Calling – Lynne Patti

Podcast episode discussing A Choir Calling – Episode 12

My Body, Broken – Laura Way

Chasing Rest – Dorina Lazo Gilmore

Podcast episode discussing Chasing Rest – Episode 21

The Case for Naps – Lindsay Crandall

My Kids are Jerks – Robin Chapman

Redefining Supermom – Marilynn Song Harri

Podcast episode discussing Redefining Supermom – Episode 16

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and in a private Facebook Group.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.