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**Kindred Mom Podcast**

Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds

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**Brave & Sad: Growing Family Through Foster Care** Feb 25, 2020
Show notes

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
Show notes

“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.

A Comfort Friend for All Feb 13, 2020

Show notes

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
Show notes

“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
Show notes

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.

The Putting Away of the Day Jan 30, 2020

Show notes

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