TopPodcast.com
Menu
  • Home
  • Top Charts
  • Top Networks
  • Top Apps
  • Top Independents
  • Top Podfluencers
  • Top Picks
    • Top Business Podcasts
    • Top True Crime Podcasts
    • Top Finance Podcasts
    • Top Comedy Podcasts
    • Top Music Podcasts
    • Top Womens Podcasts
    • Top Kids Podcasts
    • Top Sports Podcasts
    • Top News Podcasts
    • Top Tech Podcasts
    • Top Crypto Podcasts
    • Top Entrepreneurial Podcasts
    • Top Fantasy Sports Podcasts
    • Top Political Podcasts
    • Top Science Podcasts
    • Top Self Help Podcasts
    • Top Sports Betting Podcasts
    • Top Stocks Podcasts
  • Podcast News
  • About Us
  • Podcast Advertising
  • Contact
Not in our directory?
Add Show Here
Podcast Equipment
Center

toppodcastlogoOur TOPPODCAST Picks

  • Comedy
  • Crypto
  • Sports
  • News
  • Politics
  • True Crime
  • Business
  • Finance

Follow Us

toppodcastlogoStay Connected

    View Top 200 Chart
    Back to Rankings Page
    Kids & Family

    Kindred Mom Podcast

    Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds

    Advertise
    • Apple Podcasts
    • Google Play
    • Spotify

    Latest Episodes:
    Simply Green: Cleaning Solutions Jan 23, 2020
    Show notes

    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

    Full show notes at the publisher

    The Sock Solution Jan 21, 2020
    Show notes

    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.


    071 // Stress and Stuff – Tara Bremer Jan 20, 2020
    Show notes Kindred Mom team member Lynne Patti joins host Emily Sue Allen to interview guest Tara Bremer (House Peace) about simplifying stuff to increace peace in the home. This episode is part of the Peaceful Home series on KindredMom.com.

    Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

    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:

    Click here to check out the Peaceful Home series as it unfolds!

    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

    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

    Tara Bremer

    HOUSE PEACE is led by founder Tara Bremer, who has been bringing peace into homes for over six years. She holds a BA in Psychology from Purdue University, and a Master’s in Counseling from Moravian Theological Seminary. She brings this knowledge of the human condition, behavioral psychologies, and habit formations to every home she visits, all with a judgement-free mentality. Whether she’s helping you formulate a plan to maximize closet space, or cleaning out your laundry room, Tara and her team love every aspect of the brain puzzle that is organizing and simplifying a home.

    In addition to being Birmingham’s most trusted and respected home simplifier, Tara puts her experience to the test every day with her own family, as a wife and mother of three.

    Find Tara online:

    Website
    Instagram
    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.


    Passed Down Jan 16, 2020
    Show notes

    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
    Show notes

    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
    Show notes

    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
    Show notes

    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.


    070 // Peaceful Home Series Intro – Kindred Mom Team Jan 06, 2020
    Show notes Kindred Mom team members Mary Kate Brown, Lindsey Cornett, Lynne Patti, and Robin Chapman join host Emily Sue Allen to introduce the winter season series: Peaceful Home on KindredMom.com. Everyone shares about what cultivating peace involves in their homes, and what the next few months will be about on the Kindred Mom blog and podcast.

    Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

    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:

    Click here to check out the Peaceful Home series as it unfolds!

    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

    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

    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

    ———————————-

    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.


    Inviting Peace Jan 02, 2020
    Show notes

    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.


    069 // Q & A with Emily & Kolby Allen Dec 23, 2019
    Show notes Jenni Van Winkle leads a Q&A with regular Kindred Mom Podcast host Emily Sue Allen and her husband of 14.5 years, Kolby Allen. They answer questions about their relationship, parenting a large family together, and the biggest fight they’ve ever had as a married couple…about chicken nuggets.

    Subscribe to Kindred Mom and get the free resources we have created for you!

    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.

    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

    Kolby Allen

    Kolby Allen is married to Kindred Mom founder Emily Sue Allen, and contributes his technical expertise to support the Kindred Mom community. This is his LinkedIn bio:

    Kolby Allen: Successful technology professional specializing in custom cloud services to optimize client productivity, establish secure and efficient systems that strategically minimize overall IT expenditures. Extensive direct customer support experience and technical problem-solving, with a keen ability to engage advanced and emerging technologies and techniques as needed to best serve clients. Highly-motivated team player with impeccable work-ethic, diverse technical experience, and extensive customer service skills.

    Connect with Kolby on his LinkedIn page.

    ———————————-

    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.


    Previous 1 10 11 12 13 14 19 Next

    Related Podcasts

    Tumble Science Podcast for Kids

    1

    Tumble Science Podcast for Kids Education for Kids
    The Longest Shortest Time: A Women’s Health Show for Everyone

    2

    The Longest Shortest Time: A Women’s Health Show for Everyone Government & Organizations
    Dream Big Podcast for Kids

    3

    Dream Big Podcast for Kids Education for Kids
    Brains On! Science podcast for kids

    4

    Brains On! Science podcast for kids Education for Kids
    The Purrrcast

    5

    The Purrrcast Kids & Family
    The Dog Trainer’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Teaching and Caring for Your Pet

    6

    The Dog Trainer’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Teaching and Caring for Your Pet Education
    footer-logo

    Contact Us

    Toll Free: 844-670-7747

    Links

    • Home
    • Top Charts
    • Networks
    • Apps
    • Independents Podcasts
    • Podcast Advertising
    • Podcast News
    • Contact Us
    • About Us
    • Analytics & Insights

    Stay Connected

      Privacy, Terms of Use & Our Code of Ethics Protecting Content Creators Copyrights