Health & Nutrition

Burpees: Why am I Doing This?
September 22, 2017 In Health & Nutrition No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

 

I am constantly thinking about what needs to be done; how to stay one step ahead in my day so as not to be swallowed whole. My planner sits open with beautiful blank pages waiting to help me organize my thoughts into actionable tasks. The problem is, I am fearful of messing up those beautiful pages. My handwriting has to be perfect so it is pleasing when I look at it…a work of art. I don’t want to brain-dump on these pages…maybe I can find some scratch paper?  I end up keeping the thoughts to myself in my already cluttered mind so as not to mar the page. I think about how to best be efficient with my time instead of actually being efficient with my time. I hypothesize, theorize, and philosophize about my day.  The time spent in my head ends up hindering me from accomplishing what I want to.  Critical thinking is a good thing but what is all that thinking good for if it produces nothing? I am in desperate need of a little less (mental) talk and a lot more action. Exercise is the answer to quiet my perpetually running mind.

**

Burpees. That infernal exercise that makes me look like a complete imbecile. The fitness model in the book I reference begins in a perfect push-up position: legs, back, and head in one long lean line. She hops effortlessly bringing her feet forward to land outside of her hands then shoots high into the air like a rocket. Back down again, hands to the floor and hops her feet back to the starting point. Bing. Bang. Boom. She makes it look so easy. I start with good form but as I continue, my push-up resembles more of a mountain shape, my rear end inching higher and higher like a periscope searching for ally ships come to rescue. Heaving and panting, I count reps with each squeak of my sneakers against the hardwood floor.

When will this be over!

Why am I doing this?

I put myself through this exercise a couple times a week, motivated partly out of vanity. I would like to look like this fitness model, to execute this exercise with consistently good form, and demonstrate my strength and agility. Surprisingly though, I have realized that I look forward to a workout, not for the vanity, but because when I do something physical with my body, it offers my brain a chance to shut off.

When I exercise, it is time for my mind to listen and not do the talking. I tune in to how my body is feeling and listen to what is physically challenging and what isn’t as hard today as it was yesterday. Stretching out a sore muscle and gently breathing deeper into the discomfort is a way of allowing my body to be acknowledged for the under-appreciated things it does every day.  My muscles seem to be thankful for the opportunity to work. My lungs are grateful to do their job of breathing in and out. It feels good to have blood pumping through my veins, and each drop of sweat is a hard earned nugget of euphoria; valuable because it is rare in my days filled with giving my all to my young family.

When my mind begins to reel off course and I begin to think way too much about the order in which I should shower, do laundry, write a grocery list, and the like, moving my body is often the missing component needed to restore balance to my well being.

I exercise to clear the mental fog and break up the cycle of overthinking everything.  Incidentally, I have found that when I offer my mind this kind of break each day, I end up having some of my best ideas. Like finding a dollar bill in the pocket of a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn (or washed) for a while, these good ideas are given to me without me having to search or strive hard to find them. Just as a passenger in a car gets to relax and take in the scenery while the driver remains alert to events unfolding on the road, my brain enjoys being the passenger instead of white-knuckling the steering wheel of decision making all the time. When my brain rests, creative thought comes bubbling up. That makes me happy because I thrive on creativity.

I love that this very physical practice fuels my creative life.

Establishing the habit of doing something physical every day helps me to be a better mother. I give my children a positive example of prioritizing a healthy lifestyle even though I may look silly and sort of pathetic as I do it. Knowing I am helping to instill in them healthy habits for their lifetime pushes me to work harder–both figuratively and literally–as they enjoy handing me heavier weights during my workouts. “Now do it again with this weight, Mom…it’s heavier!” You got it, Coach.  

So I lace up my sneakers every day. I’ve determined it is worthwhile for me to put up with looking like a dork with a periscope booty. I keep showing up for these workouts that help to center me and bring every last cent of determination to let my mind rest and allow my body to take control and move. Tomorrow I will be capable of more because of what I have struggled through today. I am stronger today than I was yesterday. Burpees, you bloody beasts, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby 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.

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Acceptance (Childhood Cancer Awareness)
September 18, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

 

On March 30, 2012,  Caden (my first born) was diagnosed with cancer at three years old.  Pediatric oncologists explained that he had an aggressive form of childhood cancer: stage IV, high risk neuroblastoma, with a five year survival rate of less than 50%.  Neuroblasts are embryonic cells that develop into nerves, and in my baby boy, it may have been a single cell that didn’t develop properly and instead became cancerous.  Risk factors and causes of neuroblastoma are unknown.   In Caden, the tumors started in his adrenal gland and spread throughout his entire skeleton, and one tumor pushed on his brain.

For the first few weeks after diagnosis, I silently begged to wake up from the nightmare.  Endless questions of why and how swirled in my mind and prayers, and always ended with me thinking that Caden–my treasured little boy that I had fed high quality foods, sheltered from violent TV, gave plenty of time to sleep, protected from hazardous things, and spent a lot of time playing outdoors–could not possibly have cancer.  I struggled to accept our new reality.  I walked by pictures hanging on the wall of Caden before he got sick.  The photo taken of him swinging in the park, barefoot and carefree, just after his second birthday with nothing but pure blue sky in the background would always catch me.

No way. Look at that happy, healthy child.  Was cancer growing in his body then?  I just can’t believe this has happened to him.  What would our lives be like if cancer never entered it?

Most of the time now, I no longer think these thoughts. It doesn’t seem possible to wake up from this nightmare anymore.  I have given up on wondering why or how.  I know I’ll never know the answers to either of those questions this side of heaven.  I accept that my first born was full of cancer at the tender age of three.

However, I do not accept that childhood cancer treatment feels harsh, barbaric, and cruel, using chemotherapies and radiation created for adult cancers generations ago.  I will not accept that some childhood cancers have very grim prognoses.  I refuse to accept that children are getting far less than adults in terms of cancer research funding, with only 4% of the National Cancer Institute’s budget and 1% of the American Cancer Society’s, and very few pharmaceutical companies developing drugs for pediatric cancers.  All of these things are completely unacceptable.  Cancer is the leading cause of death by disease in children in the United States of America.  I will never be okay with what Caden has gone through.  What I have accepted is that this is a part of his life, our lives.  I never want it to define who he is and I’m tired of it consuming my every thought.  I accept what we have been handed, but I don’t like it.  Acceptance feels much better than denial.

During the first few months following his diagnosis, I focused on getting through the ridiculously long and intense treatment, hearing the words that my son no longer had cancer, and continuing on with our lives.  Marked by the experience, but victorious, grateful, driven, and optimistic.  I’m sure it wouldn’t have been that simple, even if Caden had sailed through treatment and had a terrific response, but that’s not how it went.

Caden had insane amounts of treatment; children can tolerate much higher levels of therapy than adults can.  Yet despite these treatments, his disease was reluctant to leave.  Even as recently as one month ago, neuroblastoma cells can still be found in Caden’s bone marrow.  I must accept and co-exist with the anxiety this creates.  I have to swallow this figurative pill I never wanted to take, just has my son has physically had to do so very many times.

Yet, not a day goes by that I don’t think about hope. When I was a kid, childhood leukemia was basically a death sentence.  Today, that is no longer the case. Each day, new discoveries are being made.  Unfortunately, even today, some pediatric cancers are terminal upon diagnosis, and not every kid diagnosed with leukemia is cured either, way too far from it, but somewhere along the line, incremental advances have been made.  Gradually, more kids are surviving.  It hasn’t been a light-bulb, instantaneous discovery.  I have hope for Caden that maybe the tide is shifting and he can be swept up as one of the lucky ones, but I have to accept the reality of his prognosis in one hand and the hope that lies in the other. I accept I have very little power to change the outcome.  I must walk forward with faith in miracles.  In some ways, the fact that he is here with us now is one.  Ten years ago, that might not have been the case.

I accept that our future is full of uncertainty.  I accept that when someone talks about graduations, Christmas, birthdays, weddings, I will always wonder if he will be there.  I accept that his life is not, and will not be easy.  He faces challenges other kids don’t have to, but he is remarkable.  He doesn’t have to stand out like an Olympian or Nobel Prize winner to be exceptional.  I accept that I will probably never be comfortable with the word “survivor”.  I accept that a part of his childhood was stolen away, but he has had infinite love and attention poured over him.  I accept the lessons I have learned along the way.  I accept our lives as they are – good and bad, highs and lows, and everything in between.

In honor of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, we would like to highlight the following organizations that Pam Shrauger supports:

 

 

**Donating blood is another non-financial way to help children fighting cancer.

Pam Shrauger is a wife and mom of two in Bozeman, Montana.  Though her college degree is in meteorology, she manages a construction business with her husband and tries to check the weather when she can.  She also loves the outdoors and volunteers as a Bible Study Fellowship group leader.  Her young son’s battle with cancer has created a lifelong passion for supporting childhood cancer research.

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A Child’s Life is Worth the Inconvenience
June 28, 2017 In Childhood Health & Nutrition No Comment

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

The first time I went grocery shopping after my youngest son was diagnosed with food allergies, I spent three hours at the store and cried my way through the aisles. I read label after label, scanning for tree nuts, peanuts, and soy, becoming more discouraged as I went.

What is he going to eat?
How am I going to keep him safe?
Is it always going to be this hard?

In time, I realized I was going to have to do more cooking at home, including baked goods, snacks, and bread items. If it came from my kitchen, I could guarantee that he would eat safely and there would be no allergic reactions.

What I couldn’t control was what happened outside my front door. Every time he left home I feared what could happen. Would he make good choices at restaurants? Would he ask the right questions so the chefs understood what he could and could not eat?

The biggest challenge we faced was at his school. Our district has a combined middle/high school and in spite of “rules” against eating in the classroom, most teachers allow it. Lunch periods are short, some kids don’t bring a lunch, and the teachers don’t want the kids to go hungry. I get it, I really do. I want to feel sympathetic to all those situations and be the understanding parent, except I can’t.

Because I’ve had to race to the Emergency Room, both frantic with worry for my child and trying to remain hopeful in the medical doctors.

Will this reaction be worse than the last one?
Will the doctors be able to stop the reaction from progressing too far?
Everything will be okay…right?
Please, don’t let this be the reaction that takes his life.

At my son’s school, I heard about how students would take food he was allergic to and put it right up into his face. My son reported how classmates would eat items with peanuts and/or peanut butter, and then pass out folders – now possibly contaminated with nut oils – he had to hold during chorus class. He grumbled on about how they bullied him over his food allergies and made him feel like an outcast. In spite of his initial protests not to get involved, I became “that mom.” My mother bear instincts kicked in and I was consumed with keeping my child safe. I felt the school was failing him, and other less vocal students like him. If they weren’t going to protect him of their own accord, I was going to make them. I wrote emails and sent letters to the school, demanding that they keep peanut products–the most severe of my child’s allergies–out of the classrooms he spent his time in. I listed all the ways they were endangering my child, and how I was ready to pursue the issue all the way to the school board if I had to. It resulted in backlash from the school, and increased taunting from the kids.

Several of the teachers in the Fine and Performing Arts department posted a sign on the music room door in an attempt to keep the room nut-free. A parent of one of the band students complained to me that her child (and other students), sometimes ate their lunch in the hallway to comply with the nut-free rule, but the fact that they could no longer eat in the classroom caused them to miss out on instruction time. She made comments about how everything was “fine” the way it was before, and implied that other students shouldn’t be suffering from this inconvenience just because MY CHILD ( her emphasis added) had an allergy. She felt it was unfair.

It’s not fair, I agree. It’s not fair that my son can die because of the food he eats, or the food other people eat, because just breathing in peanut dust or having peanut oil near him can cause a severe reaction. It’s not fair that for the rest of his life he has to be diligent about where he goes, what he does, and how he interacts with people just to stay alive.

I wanted to vocalize all of these things to that mother, to make her understand how awful I felt about the whole situation. I wanted to tell her that I understood her frustrations and that I agreed with her. I wanted to tell her how upset I was with the students who were putting my son in potentially life-endangering positions, with the school for not doing more to keep him safe, and with myself for having to disrupt the learning of her child and others. But I couldn’t. Anger and fear were fighting a raging battle within my heart, and with my son’s life at stake, I couldn’t find the words.

Before I was a mother of a child with food allergies, I was not aware of how the choices I made each day when sending a packed lunch or snacks to school with my children could potentially harm another child. As Maya Angelou said, “When you know better, you do better.” The more I learned about food allergies, the more I was able to help my son make better choices for himself, and to help educate his peers about the choices they made when they would be spending time with him and near him. As a young adult, he is now able to advocate for himself, and his friends do not hesitate to ask him questions about what they are planning to eat and if it safe for him to be near, or if a food they ate earlier in the day will cause him to have a reaction.

Through visits with the allergy doctor, discussions with other moms of children with food allergies, and by reading resources from organizations such as Food Allergy Research and Education (FARE) I am able to make better choices when bringing a food item to an event. I make sure it is free of the top 8 allergens, so that it can be enjoyed by a majority of people, as well as including a list of ingredients. I also make a note that lets others know my food is prepared in a home free of several of the common allergens, and list those as well. Being the mom of a child with food allergies has made me more aware of how difficult it is for people who have limited diets to safely eat at social events. In addition to advocating for more awareness of food allergies, I try to set an example for others in how to meet the needs of those with special diets.

When my son was still in high school, it eased my mind when other parents contacted me ahead of time about food they would be serving at functions and asked questions about ingredients they weren’t sure about. I love when family members check in with me before social events about what kinds of food they can serve that my son can safely eat. These simple gestures make a person with food allergies feel loved and included, and help build the community of allies.

Beth Richardson is a writer of creative nonfiction with too many hobbies, who is currently distracted from her work by pursuing a college degree. With her husband and two young adult sons, she lives in southwest New Hampshire where she blogs about organized living, self care, and bullet journaling at justplainbeth.com, and on Instagram.  

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My Son, the Pineapple
June 16, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Health & Nutrition 1 Comment

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

Meet my son, the pineapple.

It’s just about the only thing he eats.

My boy, who was so big in the womb that he had to be air-lifted out of it, is now my house’s finickiest eater. He’s a healthy weight, thanks to the boulder-thick thighs he inherited from me. He wraps himself around me with a python’s intensity because he dreads being fed as much as I dread feeding him. It’s especially tough on my husband. He spends an hour after work each week trolling the grocery aisles, hoping that this would be the night that our little citrus-monger would eat a chicken nugget, chocolate chip waffle, or some thin cut French fries. The endgame stays the same. The chicken nuggets go cold on their tray, the waffle wedges wait while my son doodles in the maple syrup, and the fries are foregone for his own fingertips as he prods a pile of ranch dressing, smearing it across his cheek and finally into his mouth. That’s when he yells for his fruit cup or Greek yogurt. My husband and I have no choice but to appease the little dictator, anything to bring the meal madness to an end.

As he savors the cold, creamy yogurt, I think back to last Easter, when we first learned of his peanut allergy. My son was 16 months old at the time with no previous allergic reactions. My husband thought nothing of it when he gave my son a small piece of a chocolate-covered peanut butter egg. My son enjoyed it and asked for more. Thankfully, by the time he did, my husband already eaten the rest for himself. (Really, who can resist a Reese’s?!) So we got my son back home between family celebrations and put him down for a nap. Within an hour, he woke up screaming, “Mommy, Daddy!” and we raced upstairs, sure that he’d had a bad dream. Nothing could have prepared us for what awaited when we turned on the light. My son’s face was peppered in red hives and both of his eyes were nearly swollen shut. My husband cradled our boy and I frantically our pediatrician’s “Ask a Nurse” line.

“Is he able to breathe?” spoke the faceless nurse. I nervously confirmed – yes he could breathe. By that time, my husband had force-fed him some Benadryl. As long as he was breathing normally, we did not need to go the ER. She advised us to follow up with our pediatrician on Monday but it sounded like an allergic reaction to peanut butter.


I could devour peanut butter straight from the jar but I purposefully eschewed it during my pregnancy. Everything I’d read said that it could predispose babies to peanut allergies. I swore my OB said the same thing! When a blood test finally confirmed the diagnosis, our new allergist said that not exposing a young eater to peanuts could actually trigger an allergy. I didn’t know what to think, except that I’d failed my boy. Every kid eats peanut butter! What was he going to eat now? Was he ever going to grow out of this? Repeating his blood work in a year will tell us for sure, but more than likely, if he tests allergic next year, then he will carry the peanut allergy for the rest of his life.

The allergist gave us pamphlets explaining the different types of food allergies, enough to numb my brain, and a prescription for an Epi-Pen Junior. It broke my heart to give one to each grandmother, his primary caregivers during the workweek. “I hope I never have to use this,” my mother-in-law said. “If you do,” I told her, “you may as well call 911 for two ambulances because you’re going to need one for me!” I felt so totally defeated and worthless when it came to protecting my son.

A few weeks later, I noticed my dad casually finishing up a to-go order of Five Guys Burgers and Fries. He had his wrappers balled up in his fry carton and was slurping down a milkshake when I noticed another carton containing the shells of peanuts. My son was sitting at the other end of the table, intently watching Old MacDonald videos on You Tube, his arms still faint with initial red patches that took weeks to dissipate. I erupted, “What the hell are you doing with peanuts, Dad?!” I made Joan Crawford and the wire hangers look like kindergarten. “Calm down, hun; he’s fine.” Once I caught my breath and the blood pumped back to my face, I realized he was fine. I saw firsthand that my son could be exposed to peanuts without incident. (He was only in danger if he ingested them.)

I was relieved but we still had no idea what safe foods to feed him that he would actually eat. That’s when my husband discovered no-nut peanut and sunflower seed butter. They’re easy to spread with a smooth, mild taste and were right in our local grocery store. From the first night we tried them on crackers, my son loved it. We rejoiced at finally getting some protein into his limited diet. Of course, instead of using crackers, he decided to use his fingers for dipping sticks and tongue the butter off each one. But he was happy and so were we.

My son is wired to be the way that he is, never one to make things easy on his parents. He comes around on his own time, not on our time. Each day I learn to digest more of him – his ways, his charms, his quirks – and I realize it’s all a part of loving him; it’s all a part of letting him be a pineapple in a world full of nuts.

 Jeanne Gyr is a university academic advisor living in Baltimore, Maryland. She is a mom to two young toddlers, aged two and one, though her preferred child is her miniature labradoodle, Phillip. She credits her husband for the modicum of sanity in her world and believes that “Golden Girls” actress Bea Arthur is her spirit animal. She thanks you for reading, and hopefully, for laughing.

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Two Bites of Humble Pie
June 8, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Health & Nutrition 2 Comments

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. The deadline to submit essays for the upcoming July Topics (Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility & Secondary Infertility) is just a few days away (June 10th)! 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! 

 

I should have known better.

I tried to sneak something into the recycling bin without my toddler’s notice. I try this maneuver often, but my success rate is abysmal. I’ve done it with Halloween candy and preschool crafts, coloring sheets from church and Happy Meal toys. On this particular occasion, it was a book.

Earlier that morning, we trekked out to an early childhood education fair. We were on the hunt for a preschool for our son, Ian, to enter that fall. When we entered the gymnasium, a woman at the registration table handed me a reusable grocery bag stamped with the school district’s logo and stuffed with promotional materials. Among them was a paperback book about the “My Plate” program. You know the one, right? It replaced the food pyramid I grew up with; a round plate is divided into colored sections, each of which represents a food group. It’s a visual that always makes me think, “Crap. I haven’t eaten enough vegetables today. Or ever.”

In this book, a mother cat encourages her son and daughter to go on a scavenger hunt for foods from each food group. The little girl cat, Anna, is nervous to try these unfamiliar foods, but her mom and brother admonish her to try just two bites. Two bites from each food group, they say, will land her in the “Two Bite Club.” Anna’s eagerness to be in included in the Two Bite Club is equivalent to how I would have felt to be in the Mickey Mouse Club circa 1994.

I stood in the kitchen, flipping through the pages. I imagined some poor intern at the Department of Agriculture tasked with creating this book. What good would this cheesy, pedantic story do for my picky eater, whose stubbornness manifests itself most prominently at the kitchen table? Nothing, I concluded, and pitched it into the recycling bin.

Mealtimes with Ian have been a struggle since the first time we tried to introduce baby cereal. He comes by this pickiness naturally, because I am certainly not a “foodie” and my husband’s pickiness is the stuff of legend in his family. His Uncle David tells a story of wrestling with him on Grandma Shannon’s dining room floor, trying to force him to swallow one bite of rice. My husband won that round. And because the proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Ian has been winning the food battles too. We don’t literally wrestle, but many tears have been shed around our kitchen table (only some of them were Ian’s).

I guess I didn’t hide the book well enough because a few hours later, Ian came up behind me and proclaimed, “Read this, Mama!” I turned to find Ian’s blue eyes and that flimsy purple book staring back at me. Despite my best efforts at distraction and sleight of hand, I read it aloud approximately one million times over the next several days.

Children’s books tend to work their way under my skin and into my brain just like the catchiest pop song. At dinner just a few days later, I heard myself saying, “Ian, you can be in the Two Bite Club! Just two bites of that broccoli, and you’re in!” Lo and behold, he took two bites. And then a few more. Abra Cadabra! The broccoli had vanished from his plate.

The next day at snack time, he was begging for a second helping of pretzels.

“How about strawberries?” I said.

“Strawberries are not a snack!” he protested.

“Well, you already had enough to eat from the grain group today. You need a fruit or a vegetable.” Did I just quote that book again?

“Ok.”

Record scratch. Wait, what? I quoted that book again, and it worked? Again?

I couldn’t believe it. I had finally broken through the wall of my son’s pickiness, and I had that stupid book to thank for it. I was eating a big, giant piece of humble pie. (In which food group does humble pie belong? Can I call it a vegetable?)

We went on like this for weeks. When unsure about something on his plate, Ian could now be convinced to take two bites. Like Anna the Cat, he’d proclaim with surprise, “I like it!” and gobble it up. Needless to say, at this point, I could have been running seminars and writing parenting books. (I mean, I’m a writer. Surely I could do better than the Anna the Cat story, right? Right.) Ian’s sudden willingness to try new foods was a like shot in the arm; it buoyed me in all areas of my motherhood, but especially in the kitchen. Suddenly, I was winning the dinnertime wrestling match.

So, there we were a few weeks later at lunch time. Chicken nuggets and broccoli, warm from the microwave, with some apple slices on the side. (I do what I can. Mom Cat never really spelled out the recipes.) Shocked–and a bit satisfied–I watched Ian work his way around that plate.

“Ok, Mom!” he said. “I ate the vegetable group!”

“Great job, buddy,” I replied, more proud of my parenting than of his risk-taking. And then, Ian looked at me with the biggest smile, and in all seriousness, made a proclamation:

“Now, I need something from the cookie group.”

Somebody pass the humble pie.

 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. 

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Hope in the Shadows
May 26, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 6 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them.

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast! 


When I think about the topic of mental health, I’m reminded of that hilarious Bob Newhart clip in which a woman enters his office seeking psychological help. Bob initially responds in his typical deadpan humor then yells to his patient, “Stop it!” She is stunned by his calloused approach to her legitimate struggles and leaves his office more confused and discouraged than when she arrived.

Have you ever been given similar advice when you’ve sought counsel during an overwhelming season in your life? In your grief and stress, maybe you’ve turned to a friend for perspective and she flippantly replies, “Don’t worry. God has a reason for it. I’m sure it’ll all work out!” While those words may be true, they offer little more than a Band-Aid to our gaping wounds. Those oversimplified, cliché answers often leave us feeling unheard, devalued, and isolated.

In my nearly 40 years of life, I have battled depression (post-partum and depressive disorder) a handful of times. I didn’t want to feel like the world was caving in on me, crushing any hope of my circumstances improving but I felt powerless to move forward. I couldn’t just “stop it”, as if depression were some magical switch I could control on a whim. Something was broken in my ability to choose joy and find hope. Jesus seemed aloof, watching me struggle from a distance but with no real concern for the deep sadness that plagued me.

When life feels overwhelming and sad, these are 5 tools that have helped me through the shadows to a place where I can recognize truth and begin my journey toward a healthier way of being.

1. Be honest. I had to admit that I wasn’t “fine”. I needed help in addressing the negative thought patterns that ran circles in my mind. Those who knew and loved me could no longer provide the necessary help. Life felt inescapably sad and stifling. I struggled with ongoing hurt and guilt that required a new way of thinking. Owning my need for help meant risking further vulnerability but it also meant I was one step closer to freedom from the crushing dark.

2.  Call a (trusted) doctor. Sometimes a simple phone call can help with the chemical part of depression. I was at my son’s appointment when his pediatrician said, “So, when are you coming to see me? You aren’t the same vibrant person I met 10 months ago.” I was stunned by her direct approach but that’s exactly what I needed to finally address my overwhelming stress and grief. She encouraged me to consider an antidepressant to help with the probable chemical imbalance. I used to feel shame in taking an antidepressant; I felt like I was being judged for my lack of faith in God to heal me without medication. But that’s faulty thinking. While God’s grace is enough for our needs, He can and does use medication to help us on the road to healing.

3. Find a good counselor/therapist. My doctor referred me to a therapist who specializes in overachieving women who struggle with burnout. (Can you believe that’s an actual thing?) Counseling helped me to process my thoughts and experiences in a safe place, where a trusted guide pointed me to the truth. She gave me time and space to face the deeper issues and gain a better understanding of my life and heart and what God was doing in both. Counseling gave me practical strategies to accept the truths I already knew and to move forward in them.

4. Sleep. Sometimes sleep is the best anti-depressant. I’m learning to turn off the screens an hour before bedtime, read a good book, and go to bed earlier.

5. Focus on the truth. The truth is that God is with us, delights in us, and created us to thrive in using our gifts to serve Him. Daily journaling, intentional times of quiet, cultivating authentic friendships, and listening to good music have all encouraged me to focus on what is true.

I don’t know what you’re facing in this season of life but hope and help are possible. If you’re overwhelmed with sadness, paralyzed by stress or grief and unable to “stop it”, make time to address your pain and struggles. Maybe it’s time to be honest, call your doctor, find a good counselor, get some sleep, and focus on the truth.

Have you struggled with depression in motherhood? What tools have helped you to move through the shadows?

 Katie Carper is a recovering people-pleaser with a strong sense of justice and a deep desire to include the excluded. She’s grateful for coffee, laughter, and this adventurous life with her husband and 4 kiddos. You can find her at katiecarper.com where she blogs about community, faith, adoption, and special needs with hope, humor, and a good dose of snark. She also shares snippets of her life on Instagram. 

 

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Facing the Reality of Mental Health Issues
May 22, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them.

***This week we are doing a fun giveaway in celebration of the Kindred Mom Podcast release (quick links to subscribe to the podcast are on the sidebar, and we have a podcast page in the navigation with show notes for each episode). From May 17-May 24, you can enter to win one of two Hospitality Bundles full of goodies that might help you head up a Summer Connection Group in your local area. There are some beautiful things from Magnolia Market included. Not to be missed! Enter on Instagram (beginning May 17) for the Backyard Coffee Hour Bundle or subscribe to our email newsletter to win the Evening Moms Gathering Bundle. Winners for both giveaways will be chosen on May 24th.***

The car pulled to a stop in front of my family’s apartment, and I looked up to see the shadowy figure of my mom standing at the sliding glass door. I knew that stance well. It meant she was angry. Again. What could I have done this time? It was 11 o’clock at night, which after  mom’s normal bedtime, but I was 21 and had been at a church event with my boyfriend and his godparents.

I entered the apartment to ringing accusations.

“Where have you been? I’ve called everyone including your previous pastor, the police, your boyfriend’s cell phone and his godparents’ house. You couldn’t have been at church the whole time!”

I seethed inside. Don’t I have the right to live my life? How embarrassing that she called the police on me because I wasn’t at home before 10pm. Why is she suspicious of everything I did. Can’t she trust me? I had never done anything to jeopardize her trust. I have never smoked, never drank, never got in with the wrong crowd. I’ve tried so hard to obey. 

I felt trapped in an endless nightmare of wondering what would upset her. She hadn’t always been like this. When I was a child, people sought her out for godly wisdom and frequently visited our home. She was active in church activities and held a good job. My dad passed away when I was 7. The first few years after his death were relatively uneventful but when I was 11 Mom became increasingly paranoid and was admitted to the psychiatric ward for several weeks. After that she was never the same. She was suspicious about everything and everyone. This prevented her from holding a job and she cut off contact with all my extended family. Her irrational anger reared up anytime someone appeared to be against her even when the perceived threat was completely unfounded.

I lived day to day, year to year, trying to hide myself away so that I wouldn’t be the target of her fury. Those years took a toll on my mind as well. Since everyone else had been cut off, Mom was the main influence on my life for a long period. At times, her break from reality was a slow fade which pulled me with it. She would talk frequently about how people were against us. I started to believe that she was right: everyone was against me and I shouldn’t trust anyone.

But I was angry. I saw my peers gaining increasingly more freedom with age, while my freedom was continually reigned-in the older I got. Anytime I voiced my resentment, Mom accused me of being rebellious and twisted my words. In the end, I would feel guilty for my reaction and convince myself that I was wrong for feeling that way.

When I was 17 I started working at a local convenience store to help support the family. While I was working one day, a local locksmith named Walt came in the store. He started a conversation with me and found out that I was a Christian. When he left the store that day, God told him that he needed to continue visiting me at the store to demonstrate to me the love of God the Father. Over the next several years, Walt continued visiting me at work. He encouraged me to write down my feelings about my situation, and gradually I began to trust him. Walt’s wife suffered from mental illness, so he was able to help me sort through many of my own issues stemming from my home life and my mom’s condition.

It took me years to understand that mom’s actions and behavior were and still are a result of a mental illness. She remains in denial of it and I was too, for a long time. As I came to terms with her condition, I grew to understand my past, and learned to be more realistic about the future. For so long I lived with a false expectation that she would one day be normal again. Every time she would have another episode, I found myself deeply disappointed.

Living in that environment for so many of my formative years made me realize that I had to learn how to break the cycle for myself and my children. I began a quest to understand my own mind.  I wanted to figure out why my pervasive emotions were overwhelming fear, shame, guilt, and insecurity. I began reading books by neuroscientist Dr. Caroline Leaf, and through her writing, I gained perspective about my own mental struggles. As I studied the statistics, I knew that if I didn’t work to retrain my destructive thinking patterns I would be passing these traits of mental instability on to my own children. As my fearful thoughts would bubble up to the surface, I began the tedious task of painstakingly separating them into two categories: is this a rational fear based on truth or is it something that Mom was afraid of?

I still have a relationship with my mom, but having struggled with anxiety and moodiness when I spend time with her, I’ve had to set boundaries. My husband’s godmother insisted that I had to find a way to separate my mom from her illness, encouraging me to enjoy her on the good days and recognize that on other days it was the illness talking.

Situations still arise when the illness takes me by surprise and I am frightened by its shadowy figure. In those times I learn to screen the phone calls, or turn the issue over to my husband. Denial would lead me to live subjected to the illness. Courage leads me to tough love in the form of boundaries or emotionally distancing myself for a period of time. I choose not to be a victim, and I live each day as it comes, endeavoring to love her despite the sickness.

Naomi Fata is a wife, a work from home, homeschooling mom of three amazing children, and author of Beyond Head Knowledge: Knowing Christ Who Satisfies Our Hearts. She says she is an ordinary person who has found victory in an extraordinary God. Weekly she writes about renewing our minds at Christian Resource Ministry. You can find her on Instagram  Twitter, and Facebook. 

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Saving Sarah: A Journey Through Darkness
May 3, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics 10 Comments

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

Anita’s note: Sarah has given me permission to share her story. We first shared her story in October of 2015 for the #write31days challenge series 31 Glimpses into the Unquiet Mind.  

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The hiss of the bus stopping at the United terminal at the Newark, NJ airport stabbed me. We grabbed our suitcases, in preparation from finishing our transfer from one terminal to another on the airport bus.Two years had passed since that fateful night when we almost lost Sarah, and I hadn’t expected my eyes to tear up as traveled through an airport we had never been to before.

Questions bounced around inside my head as I gripped the my suitcase handle. Had Sarah stumbled off this very bus the night she almost died? Had she listened to the swoosh of the automatic doors and smelled the jet fuel before collapsing on the tarmac? My mama-heart wanted to know the details of that night, even if they hurt. Even though two years had passed, I wanted to make sense of all that had happened during that dark period of her life.

Every momma wants to soothe, protect, and bring light into our children’s nightmares–whether our child is five, 15, or 25. I will probably never know exactly what happened that night, but I believe that praying for my daughter made a difference in the outcome of her story.

The very night that sirens wailed and flashing lights converged on the scene while paramedics knelt at Sarah’s side, I knelt beside my bed, 2000 miles away, clueless to her plight. I knew she was in danger, but I didn’t know how much. The urge to pray was so great that I did something I had never done before–I sent out requests to some of Sarah’s mentors and friends and asked them to pray with me.

We didn’t find out until over a week later that paramedics rushed Sarah to a hospital near the airport and eventually released her after 12 hours. It took months for the full story to emerge.

Our well-brought-up-Christian daughter, the one we strove to instill with the proper balance of caution and freedom, had accepted some drug-laced ‘candies’ from strangers. Without even stopping to think of all the lessons we’d taught her, she had popped the candies into her mouth and ended up passed out at the airport on the tarmac between terminals. While it wasn’t exactly an overdose, it did require hospital observation.

At almost 21, she seemed too old to accept and ingest candy of questionable origin from people she had never met before. After all, we taught her all about stranger danger from an early age.

Had we failed as parents? For the past two years, Sarah’s behavior had bewildered us. She started binge eating and gained weight. She went away to college and struggled to get good grades—despite her 4.0 high-school GPA. She lost confidence in her ability to reason and think and write.

When she couldn’t decide on a major, she went to Argentina for a year, where she seemed to suffer from the throes of first love as well as deep depression. When she returned, the first love was a thing of the past, but the depression remained.

We took her to counseling. She continued to gain weight. We took her to psychologists. She spoke of going for a walk at night and stepping in front of a car.  She came home to stay with us until we could figure things out. I spent hours on the phone trying to find a treatment center that our insurance would pay for.

After seven months, the depression loosed its grip upon her life and she returned to her cheery self again. She stayed up late at night, sketching and painting. What a relief that she had found interest in something—anything, again.

Sarah’s grandparents invited her to travel with them to Puerto Rico for a month.  After one week away she seemed to implode on the stage of social media before our very eyes. She met some guy online and fell in love again.

Sarah started bragging about her drug use.  Drug use?! Our daughter had safely navigated her early teen years without ever experimenting with drugs. The news devastated me. When I tried to talk to her about it, she unfriended me on Facebook.

She met more guys on line, gun-toting terrorist types. She wanted to meet them, so she planned a trip to Europe. She informed us that it was her life and she would live it the way she wanted to.

When I pointed out that she had only $125 in her bank account after purchasing a one-way ticket to London, she accused me of interfering in her life. She lost her ATM card, but continued with her plans of ditching her grandparents at the airport and catching a flight to London five days later.

Fear squeezed me breathless when she got arrested for shoplifting the last week of her stay in Puerto Rico. Shoplifting?! Our responsible daughter, who had held down a part-time job from the time she turned 15, had shoplifted?

We didn’t know Sarah any more. She had morphed into someone who did incomprehensible things and spouted vitriol all over social media. But we loved her and wanted to help.

Unfortunately, once a child turns 18, parents have minimal ways to help. We can’t just haul our 18-year-old off to a psychologist and demand to join the session. We can’t even talk to the psychologist without our adolescent’s permission.

All we could do was pray. Pray for understanding. Pray that she wouldn’t make it to London. Pray that she would come home. Pray that she wouldn’t die penniless and friendless in some dark alley.

It took another week and a few miracles to find out what ailed Sarah. Something we had only joked about a time or two but had no real knowledge of: Bipolar Disorder.

For months afterwards, I let guilt beat me up on a daily basis. If I had only known more, I could have spared Sarah the heartache and trauma of her manic experience. Once I read a few books about bipolar disorder, I couldn’t believe that we, her parents, and the entire medical community, had missed the diagnosis.

But unlike diabetes and pneumonia, bipolar disorder never presents itself in an orderly progression of symptoms and clues. And once an adolescent turns 18, he or she has the legal right to autonomy from concerned parents. The median age for a bipolar diagnosis is 25, which means that half of those diagnosed receive their diagnosis at an even younger age.

If we had been informed, we could have guided Sarah to find the help she needed before the drug-laced-candy-from-strangers incident and collapse at the airport. We could have sought treatment before she did drugs. We could have prevented so much heartache if we had only known a little more.

In the year leading up to her diagnosis, I spent hours and hours on the phone. I argued with insurance agents about accessing treatment. I discovered that the standard for coverage for mental illness differs greatly from medical coverage.

Insurance companies only want to pay for in-house treatment if a patient is in immediate risk of dying. In the case of an eating disorder, the patient must be almost dead (they actually asked how much weight Sarah had lost or gained, and whether or not a physician would attest to her imminent demise). For a mental illness, the patient needs to have expressed suicidal ideation within the last 12 hours.

As soon as a patient shows any sign of progress, the insurance company will no longer pay for treatment–even if the parent, caregiver, or spouse (who know the patient better than anyone else) has concerns about the patient’s health or safety. To make matters worse, one can only find in-patient mental health facilities and partial-hospitalization programs in larger cities. The closest facility to our hometown required a 90-minute drive each way.

Sarah spent ten days in a mental health hospital, and keeping her there that long took constant communication with the medical staff and the insurance company. We knew the real Sarah, and we knew she wasn’t ready to reenter society. But we had no choice. They discharged her to my husband’s care before she was ready to live on her own. The ten-day reprieve did give us time for a crash-course on her illness so that we could understand what she faced and continue to provide support for her.

It took almost three months after her hospitalization for her psychiatrist to fine-tune Sarah’s medications to the point that she could re-enter society and cope with the emotional trauma of her actions during her manic phase.

Supporting a family member who has experienced a mental health crisis is similar to supporting a cancer patient who has finished chemo. It takes awhile for things to return to normal. We got frustrated at times with Sarah’s lack of progress, until we remembered that trauma to the mind takes time to heal, too.

If only we had known more about mental health issues, we would have been able to distinguish between rebellious behavior and behavior that signals a possible mental health crisis. We would have kept track of her behavior and had data to present to her medical providers that might have helped them make a diagnosis sooner.

Sarah suffered from orthorexia* her sophomore year of high school, so I was convinced that help for her problems with depression and binge eating could be found in an eating disorders program. Because we had a good relationship with Sarah before the crisis, she willingly let us talk to her medical care providers–which was both good and bad.

Good because we could answer questions and give information (Sarah struggled to remember details during this time period). Bad because at times we felt as everyone assumed that WE were the problem. The medical professionals wouldn’t believe us when we explained that Sarah wasn’t acting normal.

A mama has to have persistence in order to advocate for her child (or other family member) when it comes to mental health issues. Standing up to insurance companies does not come naturally to me. I avoid conflict and I hate talking on the phone. But Sarah’s life depended on my willingness to advocate for her. Without that persistence, Sarah would not have received the help she needed.

We have learned as a family how to deal with Sarah’s diagnosis. For the first six months, Sarah asked me to call or text her each day at the specific times she needed to take her medicine. She ask me to be her accountability partner, and I periodically check up on her to see if she feels like she is taking good care of herself (regular sleep, exercise, and diet all play a part in regulating bipolar disorder).

I encouraged her to find a counselor near her school so that she has a disinterested third party who sees her on a regular basis to monitor her. Sarah chooses to disclose to her potential employers that she has bipolar disorder and gives them permission to contact her psychiatrist. In other words, she is building a safety net for herself. Her life belongs to her, but I’m thankful that she has invited me into her world.

*orthorexia is similar to anorexia, with an emphasis/obsession on right eating that results in weight loss and withdrawing from social situations where food (especially food that the orthorexic deems as ‘unhealthy’).

Anita Ojeda has a passion for educating people about the early signs of mental illness in adolescents. She writes about her caregiving journeys on her blog www.blessedbutstressed.com. When Anita’s not lurking outdoors looking for and photographing rare birds in odd places, you can find her hanging out with her husband, camping with her kids, or mountain biking with her students.

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