STRUGGLING IS LEARNING.

I get a lot of praise for homeschooling.

Sometimes it feels good, other times I hear the skepticism within the praise: “you are so brave” mixed with a facial expression of fear, perhaps for the huge responsibility that I am shouldering by educating my kids without a teaching degree. I personally have spent nights awake, terrified that I am ruining my children’s futures. Typically this fear is bred from a difficult day of teaching. And by difficult, I mean full blown failures.

The lovely parts of homeschooling: watercoloring outside, sharing a cherished book aloud, or making a mess in the kitchen; these are the things that make it on Instagram. The refusals to put pencil to paper, the utter disdain for a third page of math, or the tears (so many tears) while struggling and failing, and trying again; these are the seeds of crippling doubt, that I hope no one can see.

Some of our days are filled with obstacles. A quiet day at home is few and far between, while I am maneuvering 4 kids through enrichment classes, social lives, extracurricular activities, and just good ole errands. I have grown as a human who relies on calendars and iphone alerts. Still, I am the mom known for my tardiness and lack of memory.

Believe it or not, I have come to see these flaws as strong suits in my homeschooling endeavors. I have a knack for falling in love with what we are learning. We may be sprawled on the floor with 3 history books, 5 maps and a globe, piecing the past together, when my commitments come barreling at me from nowhere. Living in the moment doesn’t even describe it. When I am discussing the Bill of Rights with my daughter and I can feel that she is engaged, I wouldn’t answer my phone for anything.

I have found a peace between the two worlds. My beautiful children continually remind me how valuable a little chaos is. They are forgiving and exhausting and complicated and genuine, and they wear their hearts on their sleeves. I will never be able to match what they continue to teach me on a daily basis. All handwriting and latin roots aside, our greatest lesson is that struggling and failing are learning.

Six years into this whole adventure, and I wouldn’t trade any of it for something easier. The rewards are too great, and the amount of time that I get with these little humans will someday seem too little. With a range of ages, and emotions and recently hormones, I have come to rely on some fundamental tools to scoot us through those rougher days:

1. Say “sorry.” It may be for raising your voice, or forgetting to say please. Maybe it’s for losing your mind over a those damn lost shoes as you are about to walk out the door. Whatever the cause, acknowledge that you could do better. They need to know.

2. Don’t expect your kids to always like you. “Your disappointment does not get to dictate how this day is going to go.” Sometimes I say it more for myself than I do for them. I can get grounded in that moment by acknowledging that I don’t need to reinvent the day to accommodate every burst of misery.

3. Tears are going to fall. My 10 year old son still struggles to read aloud to me. He may be a paragraph in, and stumble on his words and resign himself instantly to crying and defeat. I have come to accept his sensitivities, while still prioritizing what needs to be done. “This is hard,” I tell him “but we can do hard things.” Again… saying it to him, also allows me to hear it.

4. Go outside. If the day is getting heavy, and there is a general funk in the air, go throw a blanket in the front yard and be there together. Use the park, or find some local spots where you can put your feet in a river, or stare at some trees. I know I can’t tackle the housework, or get lost in my own agenda once I remove us from the house. I have even *gasp* left my phone behind (sometimes intentionally, sometimes just being forgetful me).

-Emily

HOW I STOPPED DIETING AND LOST WEIGHT.

I've struggled with food and body image issues since I was nine. It's hard to comprehend how a tiny 54 pound child could judge herself by her weight. I wasn't the slightest bit heavy, still prepubescent. The mere fact that I remember my weight at age nine attests to the inappropriate amount of importance it held in my young brain.

As you might assume, the fixation didn't go away. I filled empty cereal bowls with water and left them in the kitchen sink, telling my mom that I'd eaten. Then there was the calorie counting, if I went over 800, I felt like a failure.

Skinny didn't come easy. It wasn't my genetic predisposition to have the waif like body that I aspired to. When low fat became the rage, I ditched the calorie counting, and only ate non fat food. This equated to a lot more sugar, and my weight went up instead of down. Still failing.

I graduated from high school, and we moved back to my hometown that we'd left a few years prior. My friends were all away at college. I didn't get back in time to start school in the fall. I felt alone and aimless. This lead to a depression. Cue sad music, poor hygiene, and very sloppy poetry.

The number on the scale dictated to me whether or not I was worth something, whether or not I had any self control. I felt weak because I wasn't thin enough. The depression fed the hunger. I wouldn't eat at all some days. There were times when my body didn't even have enough energy to urinate. I felt psychologically empty and my biological state reflected that. This time, the scale cooperated. I was thin, finally.

Through the shadow of depression, I mustered a twisted sense of accomplishment, control.

Over time, I made friends through various jobs and started dating. The somber mood lifted but my body dysmorphia didn't take leave.
I still spent the bulk of each day thinking about food and judging myself for eating transgressions, avoiding fat like it was the plague.

I felt more in control of my life as an adult than I did as a teen, but the scale still dictated if I was good or bad. I felt strongest when practicing deprivation.

After I had my second son, I started having health issues, for a myriad of reasons, unbeknownst to me at the time. I was struggling with eczema that wouldn't quit, anemia, dizziness, and extreme fatigue. My infant son was also having eczema. Because I was nursing, I tried eliminating every food that was known to be problematic. For the first time in years, I started to feel good. I had energy, my moods were improved, my digestion was smooth, and I was sleeping at night. If I backpedaled and ate like crap, I didn't feel good, and my ability to be the type of mom I wanted to be went downhill as well.

This started what has become an obsession with health, not just being thin, but feeling good. Once you see the light, it's hard to go back. I still value keeping my weight at a place that feels right, but having energy and sleeping trumps that need. I'll never starve myself again. My body is my temple, not a vessel that I hold contempt for and do battle with. Consequently, being thin isn't a struggle anymore.

Learning my body and what works for me has evoked a passion for helping others explore what keeps them feeling vital. I take my bodily sensations as cues to tweak things as needed, and I watch my weight so that I can tell which foods do and don't agree with me.

My intention with the health component of MINDFUL+ MAMA is to share what I have learned through research and experimentation, maybe shedding light on areas that others need to explore. 

Health isn't about being alive, it's about feeling good, and living each day vibrantly.

-Angi

* This is the first post of many to come detailing specifics about health and wellness. Watch for the next one about Adrenal Fatigue. If you have children, and you're struggling with weight gain and poor energy, it's for you!
 

FINDING THE STRENGTH IN OUR FEMININE SENSITIVITY

I struggle to embrace that being a woman comes with wildly vacillating, often arbitrary, emotions. From one moment to the next, I don't know who I'm going to be, what I'm going to want, or how long it's going to last. Friday, I woke up chipper as hell, and by Saturday I was holding back tears, feeling disconnected from the rest of humanity, with no real interest in doing anything other than sinking into it. Sunday was more of the same, and my husband graciously, and for his own sanity, removed me from the house to go do whatever it was that I needed to. So, here I sit, at the top of a damn butte, again, perched on a craggy rock, with a lizard and a chipmunk for company, watching the river below, which somehow exists as a force gentle and fierce, all at once, always pushing forward.

There is immeasurable power to be found in running uphill on a dusty trail, toes clinging to unearthed stones to propel your weight forward, simultaneously preventing falling, the sound of your own breath casting out all other noises, and then back down, each pounding step feeling like your bones are reverberating within your skin. It's hard, and I am conscious of my strength when doing it.

In these moments, when the rest of the world seems to be at arm's length, and I feel hollow, as if a subtle wind could blow me away, pushing myself to experience my own power and connection to the ground beneath my feet pulls me back in, out of the illusion that is solitude.

In my younger years, when I could indulge the melancholy, I'd have confined myself to the bedroom, and cried the tears until they could come no more, emerging not a second sooner, puffy eyed and exhausted, but relieved.

Now, with three children to tend to, I have to work the intensity out in other ways, patiently waiting for my moment of release, while trying to own the unpredictability of my womanhood, like the river, gentle yet fierce, but never stopping.

As I make my way to the base of the butte, a literal and figurative return to reality, I descend to the river, where a swan serenely glides through the water, a first for me. I look up the symbolism of the Swan. It represents awakening the power of the self, finding balance, and having grace while doing so. I walk on the path beside her, trying to envelop myself in those qualities, invigorated by the world around me, breeze lifting instead of threatening me, realizing that my vacillating emotions are strengths, the soul rebalancing. I'll try to recall this sensation for the inevitable day that I wake with intensity again, gliding through it, and embracing the beauty of the depth therein.

-Angi

SAVED BY FEAR: A THOUGHT PROVOKING PERSPECTIVE ON RAISING YOUR CHILDREN WITH RELIGION.

My mom helped me maneuver the scary parts of life by teaching me to rely on the magic of faith. I called on Jesus whenever fears arose. A familiar four foot tall painting in my grandma's family-room depicted a gentle, Caucasian man with auburn hair cascading around his strong shoulders, his neatly trimmed beard, arms cradling a helpless lamb; this was my go-to image whenever fear got its grip on me. The evils in the darkness of the basement always provided ample opportunities to practice the shielding phrase, “I rebuke you Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ!” I repeatedly glanced over my shoulder while pulling laundry out of the dryer. I booked it back up the stairs singing ‘Jesus Loves the Little Children’ and was just barely delivered from the clutches of the sweaty, red Devil from the fantasy movie Legend. I was taught to pray to Him; the Father, the Son, the spirit-god, when I felt scared about anything, and that hansom, lamb-wrangler, would fill me up and protect me. As an adult I had a hard time sorting through all those different layers of God. I never felt secure in my prayers, because I couldn’t quite figure out who it was that I was asking help from. I didn’t have real faith that my reality was altered by pleading for extra favors. The only time that God felt right was when I experienced deep gratitude for my circumstance, a feeling that still fills me up when I am surrounded by nature. “Thank you, God” seems a true statement. “Help me, God,” not so much. This last year, I overheard a fellow mother express pity when she learned that a mutual friend’s child wasn't raised as a “believer”. She assumed this kid led a tragic life, in fear of death. I considered what my own children’s perspective of death was. I don’t promote the idea of heaven. That doesn’t mean we haven’t discussed death and the different beliefs about life after. We have had numerous field trips to the local cemetery, where we meandered around and I answered questions (to the best of my ability) about decomposition. We talked about the dates on the tombstones, depicting people of all ages leaving their remains behind. But this woman’s pity made me question if there was a benefit at an early age to filing hopes and fears away in an almighty. Do they need the thought of a bearded man standing vigil over them when they get up in the night for a drink of water. Or relying on unseen angels to guide them when they momentarily lose sight of me in a department store? Come to think of it, my kids must have it pretty good, because I really can't compare my personal fears as a kid, to the ones I imagine that they have. I don't think they are praying for protection in any way that I was, seven years old in my bottom bunk, hearing my mom leave the house after tucking me in and not returning until the bars closed. But there is a good chance my children have their own fears, which are every bit as real and as intense to them. Where do they go mentally under such stress? I have never been as explicit as telling my children that Jesus, the capitalized ‘he’ will “save” them. First of all I know too much about the power of words. If our society refuses to wrap its head around the idea that feminism means equal rights for women, I’m sure as heck not going to perpetuate the power of the patriarch and teach that God is a dude. I cringe in the same way over Disney Princesses that used to wait for a masculine savior to rescue them from their complicated lives. Ugh. Secondly, I feel that being saved is so much more about “I’ve got the golden ticket!” And not enough about “I practice the golden rule.” I understand that it is possible to teach both, and I admiringly respect the humans with kids that are doing so. For me personally, eternal life sounds like sort of bribe; one that may cause us to think less of the here and now. I cannot be sure that this isn’t our only shot at life, so I want to raise up my kids to identify where fear originates and teach them to conquer those inner demons, like fear of failure, or negative self talk,  and not waste time inventing mythical beasts to conquer in the basement. Attempting to teach my children to have an empathetic investment in the earth and its very people, is already a challenge. I don’t want to separate us further from the people we know little about, by religion. I understand that for some families, spreading the “good news” is what gets them in touch with the proverbial neighbors of earth. As an individual family, we will continue learning to respect and value the cultures and beliefs of other people and even enjoy celebrating our differences. I am comfortable exploring the scary parts of life with my children. Ancient history is full of terrible things. And, delving into American history has led to many discussions about morality and why humans treat other humans bad. There are current ‘what ifs’ about countries blowing other countries up. They are part of the discussion and will someday (I hope) be part of the solution. Not existing is a weird thing to imagine, but it is not a vague concept to my kids. People have died in their own lives already (Nana, Papa John), and parts of their world have and are ending, (native Americans, human rights, butterflies, coral reefs, pine trees) and how much of that will they become invested in if I teach them to believe that a He-man-God is coming to reinvent the world, make it new and carry us all to Perfect-vile? Life is brutal and I don’t intend to rub my kids noses in it, but I don’t believe that all fear leads to the dark side. Some of that fear leads to curiosity. It might be possible that I am letting my kids eat fruit from the “tree of knowledge”, and perhaps there will be consequences, like fearing an episode of the Cosmos where Neil deGrasse Tyson narrates the history of lead and its effect on the earth (pandemic worry for a week straight from my 10 year old). But, they can find peace by researching why something causes fear. I will be right there beside them. We are the only hands that God has, and I intend to lead an example using those hands to probe, explore, and wonder at every marvelous (and frightening) part of our existence.

-Emily

PERMISSION TO CRY: THE HEALING BEAUTY OF TEARS

I was very emotional as a child. Crying came easy, as did sulking, wallowing and sighing heavily. I didn’t like that I cried. Although my parents welcomed my tears with open arms, I wished I could be a little less sensitive…and a little more in control. Crying was a weakness in my tear-stained eyes.

Carrying around so many emotions, and knowing the floodgates might open at an inopportune time was burdensome. Why couldn’t I watch the freaking Clydesdale commercial without tearing up? Why did the fictional Air Force pilot in my book have to suffer so much that I was wiping my eyes on the elliptical (yeah, I’m that girl who reads a book on an elliptical machine at the gym)?Why did I well up whenever my husband used an exasperated tone? But worst of all, why did I want to cry from the pain of my autoimmune life, the pain that struck me nearly every day?

Somewhere along the way the tears slowed and then stopped. I can’t pinpoint the exact day, but I recall reaching a point where I no longer cried. A couple of years ago I went to a movie with two girlfriends. It was an emotional, faith-driven movie that convicted a lot of people. On a scale of one to five tissues, it got the full five snotty tissues. Sandwiched between my friends, I was the dry-eyed tissue-bearer. They shook their heads in disbelief. It’s not that it wasn’t a touching movie – I knew in my mind it was something the former me would have cried about. But I couldn’t really feel it. In fact, I couldn’t feel much of anything.

As I explained recently to another friend, I was in a phase where I felt emotionally dead most of the time. My health was suffering and I was just trying to survive. I didn’t think I was depressed. I could feel anger and happiness. I just didn’t feel sad. If happiness was the key to life and depression exacerbated illness, then it stood to reason that by not feeling sad, I would become healthier.

Except it’s not that easy. Shutting off my feelings meant that I didn’t deal with them appropriately. Buried somewhere underneath the physical pain was a lot of emotional pain that only caused more pain and stress each time the feelings would try to resurface. I felt very tense inside, like a bottle of pop shaken so hard it was ready to explode, but I didn’t dare remove the lid.

Eventually, I began feeling pain and suffering for others as a way to cope. With this new perspective, I even cried. Not for me, but for them. I was proud of myself, like it was a sign of emotional and even spiritual maturity. I kept a list on my phone of these people, the ones who needed my thoughts, prayers, good vibes or what have you. But as I took on their burdens, I only felt myself getting more stressed. What was to become of the troubled child who lost his main care-taker, his nana, to cancer? What about the man who had such horrible neurological symptoms that he feared for his life? Or the complete stranger who asked me to pray for the infection she was battling while trying to care for a young child? I could hardly manage my own life, and I was called the strong one.

I’m not suggesting we stop caring for others and wishing them healing. However, we cannot assume the pain of others to minimize our own pain, and that’s exactly what I was doing. I never felt

that my pain was worthy. I never allowed myself to have my moments.

In talking with my friend, I realized just how many feelings I had forced away. And that’s not okay. Ignoring those feelings only allows them to plant themselves deeper within. The roots take hold and grow like viney weeds, twisting around one’s insides and stifling new life.

As I strive for physical healing, I am allowing myself to heal emotionally, too. It’s a detox of mind and body. Now, when I have those moments where the tears well up, I stop what I am doing and encourage the tears. It doesn’t come naturally for me. What a strange sensation, knowing as I am in the midst of crying that I can stop the tears at any moment. Losing control is an uncomfortable prospect, but my goal is to get to the point where I no longer need the encouragement to cry, where I can get so lost in the act that I don’t think about controlling my emotions but rather release them with unashamed abandon.

Last night, my husband and children stared at me, dumbfounded, as I began crying while trying to navigate the kitchen on a very sore foot. They tried to halt my tears in an attempt to “fix” me. But I didn’t need fixing. I needed healing. So I simply walked away and said, “Give me a few minutes to myself.” Although the timing felt inopportune, life was giving me a chance to have my moment, and I wanted to seize it. I walked into the bathroom, bent over at the waist and cried so hard my chest heaved. I looked in the mirror at the blotchy, scrunched up face of a girl in pain, and I cried some more. I cried ugly, loud tears, marveling at the paradoxical beauty I saw in my tortured face.

When it was all said and done, I felt better. The physical pain lingered, but I felt connected and refreshed. I felt a little more like me.

-Suzy