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For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story with Christie Thomas and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

My husband and I are both avid hikers. We met on a snowshoe hike; our first anniversary was spent hiking the West Highland Way, a 100-mile trail in Scotland; our pre-kid days were filled with rambles through the mountains of Colorado. So, when we found out we were pregnant, we dreamt about raising outdoorsy kids who loved hiking as we did.

Our first year as parents didn’t look all that different from our days before kids. We’d pop our daughter into the Ergo and then, as she grew, the hiking backpack and kept on trekking. It wasn’t until she became an independent toddler that our expectations of family hikes were put to the test.

It’s not that we thought our 2-year-old would be able to hike more than a mile or so, but we were hoping she’d be content to stay in the pack in between her own sprints along the trail. We didn’t reckon that our hikes would dwindle down to a quarter mile exploration. Our norm became an hour drive into the hills, a half hour or so walk, plenty of snack breaks, and an hour drive back home.

On one of these excursions, my husband’s best friend, Uncle Steve, came along and completely reframed my mentality of hiking with kids. As we drove to the trailhead, I found myself warning Steve that this hike would be short and slow. I apologized for the way kids stopped all the time and tried to create realistic expectations.

Steve responded by asking our daughter what wildlife she was hoping to see on our hike. A Mountain Lion!! was the enthusiastic response.

We piled out of the car and within a couple hundred yards of the trailhead, Steve bent down and exclaimed, Look! I found wildlife! Our daughter ran over and knelt beside him, inspecting the centipede that was inching its way along the trail. After that, every few feet, they would find more wildlife: an ant, a snake’s hole, a bird or a butterfly.

This hike changed my mentality of exploring nature with my girls. Now, we ask what wildlife they hope to see each time we head to a trail. Our oldest is still hoping to see a mountain lion one day. Our youngest is convinced she’ll find a hippopotamus hiding in the Rocky Mountains. We always settle for squirrels and prairie dogs and a variety of insects, but the wonder doesn’t change.

Steve taught me that raising hikers looks small at first. It looks like wandering less than a mile, like piggyback rides and lots of snacks. It looks like examining all the wildlife in wonder—from the smallest ant to the soaring hawk. It means remaining ever-hopeful for a mountain lion spotting but still feeling successful at noticing a bird’s nest.

Now, I barely even notice the mileage of our hikes. They are measured not in feet but in experiences. Have we used our imaginations? Is there a sense of wonder? Do our girls want to go back?

When our youngest asked to go hiking for her second birthday, I felt like we had achieved a goal. We drove to our nearest National Park, hiked a short waterfall trail with plenty of snacks and drove back home. Our oldest can’t wait for summertime when we can go camping again.

Maybe one day, we’ll add miles and maybe even an overnight backpacking trip. But for now, I’m thrilled that, on a Saturday without plans, my girls request a hiking trip to fill our morning.

A friend recently commented that we are so intentional about getting the girls outside and exploring. I never really viewed it as intentional parenting but just as something we loved and wanted our girls to love, too. But I suppose we are intentional about getting outside and looking for adventure. When we moved to our new neighborhood, we found a wetland persevere about a mile away. It’s small and surrounded by neighborhood houses, but it’s filled with bugs and birds and all sorts of winding trails. Last spring, we watched a mama hawk teaching her babies to fly from the nest. When we forget about achieving a mileage goal, we’re able to stop and observe so much more easily.

I suppose this is how most of life is, isn’t it? When we take away a measurable goal, when we slow down and let our children take the lead, when we are intentional about taking on a spirit of wonder, even the shortest hike becomes a magical adventure.

I’ve been thinking about other passions of mine I want to pass along to my kids. How am I starting out slow and modeling wonder? How am I modifying my expectations and keeping the experience playful? As my oldest learns to read, we may or may not finish an entire book but we celebrate the pages she completes on her own. As my kids have gotten older, we’ve taken them to marches around town, so they are surrounded by citizen activists. As they show interest in science or art, we seek out activities at our local museums and libraries. I don’t know what will stick, but I want them to feel empowered to explore and to look at life in wonder.

As our girls grow, I remember to pause and look at the small moments on the way with them. Today, it’s pausing to watch a cricket hop across the trail; as they grow these experiences will take on new dynamics. The foundations we build today with these little habits will add up, and I’m excited to see where our slow hikes take us.

  Annie Rim lives in Colorado where she plays with her two daughters, hikes with her husband, and reflects about life & faith on her blog. A world traveler, she has taught in the classroom, at an art museum, and now in the playroom.  You can connect with her on Twitter and Instagram.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story with Christie Thomas and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

My husband crouches low to bring the big stainless steel cooking pot and lid up from the lower cabinet and sets it on the stove with a clank. Our children buzz about his feet in great anticipation while he moves through the kitchen, retrieving supplies. With excitement, the boys hustle to the other room and swipe two dining chairs, dragging them back to the kitchen next to the stove. They perch one kid on each side, ready to watch Dad pop popcorn. My husband pours oil into the pot, and the children then dump in the kernels they carefully measured just moments before. With his thumbs crammed into red oven mitts, my husband shakes the pot back and forth over the hot blue flame, pressing the glass lid closed.

Brown simmering kernels cover the bottom of the pot, pressure building up, slowly popping open into white pillowy explosions caught in time; the first bursts of Movie Night celebration. The boys’ rapt attention focused on the contents of the pot under the glass lid, because it is finally Saturday, the night our family stops everything to be together without distraction.  

The rhythm quickens and soon, popcorn fills the pot. The lid is wet with condensation from vapor. Off goes the flame. My husband dumps the popcorn into a large bowl, sprinkles it lightly with salt and heads to the basement, the children skipping along beside, and me behind with smaller bowls and a bag of black licorice I saved for this very night.

I would have never thought a regular family movie night would become a sacred time to me. We just sit together on the couch, watching a screen spew forth entertainment, but this weekly ritual brings us together, in the same room, focused on the same thing, smiling, which is no small task.

Before we had children, watching a movie with my husband was not exactly thrilling. We watched films whenever we wanted to (which was most nights of the week), and the familiarity of such a repetitive act desensitized both of us. Now that time comes at a much higher premium, the novelty of watching a movie is prized time to connect with one another. Sometimes we long for those old days in our tiny apartment eating fancy chocolate, but would not trade the great responsibility and pride that comes with building a family together for our child-free days.

Movie Night is non-negotiable in our family calendar because we’ve come to believe this time together is an essential part of bonding as a family. When we fire up a movie and divvy up popcorn every Saturday night, we provide a space where each member of our family can be known, accepted, and loved for the unique gifts they bring with them. Movie nights represent our commitment to each other by sending the message that each person matters and nothing takes precedence over that. Our shared experience as a family coming together around a bowl of popcorn every week will stick in our minds for years to come. There is power in routine because of what it represents: we will be there for one another through thick and thin.

In the future, the activity we regularly gather around may change, but I hope we always make space for time together. We may trade the popcorn and licorice for guitars and amplifiers and a family jam session. We may still be watching movies, but exchange Pixar for the Criterion Collection with a discussion afterward. I can imagine Arts and Science Night where we make art, take lessons, or hold our own family science fair.  

For now, when Saturday rolls around, I anticipate snuggling on the sofa with my children and husband, the bowl empty except for the dregs and crispy husks between us, and I relax into the joy I feel when I hear their squeals of laughter and notice wonder on their faces. Movie night gives me hope that we, as a unit, are cementing our love and commitment to one another. The lights dim, the happy little Pixar lamp hops across our screen, and we settle in for another night together on the couch.

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.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story with Christie Thomas and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

The first time I stopped to pick up a stranger on the side of the road, my 4-year-old daughter Abigail and I were on our way to the grocery store. I saw Rosemary walking alongside a busy highway holding the hand of her 18-month-old, Elijah, whose toddling legs wobbled precariously close to the traffic surging by. It was pure instinct to pull over. There was nothing for miles in the direction they were heading, and with the speed that cars traveled on that particular road, I couldn’t imagine how they’d reach their destination safely. After accepting my offer of a ride, Rosemary settled into the front passenger seat, and I reached in the back to buckle little Elijah into the car seat that my younger daughter usually occupied. Abigail showed her toy to Elijah as we pulled back onto the highway and Rosemary told me where they were headed.

Four of my kids were in the car on the day we stopped to help Marina. She sat in her broken-down car in the median of a busy Interstate, trying in vain to cool down her 1-year-old son by fanning him with her hands in the sweltering Midwest summer heat, as traffic whizzed by at 70 miles per hour on either side. After an awkward introduction shouted over the sound of the rushing traffic, Marina accepted my offer of help with tears in her eyes. “So many people were just driving by. I thought no one was going to stop to help us.” We shuffled children around until everyone was secured, then shared our drinking water and snacks as I drove to safety with the air conditioner blasting.

It didn’t take long before my habit of stopping to offer help to strangers rubbed off on my kids. “Mommy, should we stop?” they would pipe up from the backseat when they saw someone who looked like they needed help. We didn’t always pull over. Not every moment is appropriate to interrupt with spontaneous acts of service. Not every situation is safe. But we did continue to look for opportunities to serve, and we found plenty of them.

When we moved across the country several years ago, I hadn’t found myself on the side of a road with a stranger for a long, long time. It seemed that our days of spontaneously helping strangers had come to an end. And then the neighborhood children started showing up on our doorstep looking for friendship and a place to play. First, it was just one. Then two, then four, sometimes as many as ten at a time. Many weekends in my house it feels like there’s a constant stream of children who are not my own coming in and out the front door. The words they say are plain enough – “Can I play at your house for a while?” or “Look at this cool thing I got yesterday!” or “Can I come in?” As I got to know them and listened to their stories, a clear pattern emerged – the kids who show up most often, stay the longest, and are hungriest for attention are the ones who have profound hurt and trauma in their past. What they say is “Can I stay and play?” but what I hear their hearts really crying out for is safety, love, and acceptance.

We decided long ago that when kids showed up on our doorstep, we would do everything we could to welcome them in. Sometimes this is easier said than done. Sometimes I don’t want to use up an entire jumbo-sized box of Goldfish in one afternoon, feeding snacks to a herd of children. Sometimes I don’t want to manage the extra chaos that comes with a high concentration of children in one house. But sometimes the tween from a few houses down – the one who has witnessed more trauma in her short life than anyone should have to endure – sits at my kitchen table and plays with playdoh while I cook dinner, and I know that she knows she’s safe here. Sometimes the kid who is bullied at school meets a new friend in my front yard, and I get to watch them play together. Sometimes I know that even though it’s a small thing, welcoming and loving these kids is worth it. Letting people into our life makes a difference.

Our family is not holed up in a fortress, built with the intention to keep others out like we’re defending against an assaulting army. Our family unit is surrounded by something more like a permeable membrane. (Remember science class? A cell with a permeable membrane allows selected things to pass through its walls, while still providing security and protection for all that is within.) We are a family that allows others in. And we are a family that reaches out.  

Are there dangers in this approach? Of course. Thicker, more rigid walls would allow us to risk less. Letting others in always comes with the potential for discomfort, inconvenience, and even pain. But rigid walls around our family would also mean that the love with which we’ve been so richly blessed would have a harder time reaching out to impact the world around us.

We can’t fix every problem. We can’t meet every need. But I hope we are creating a family culture where the needs of others are not perceived as a threat to ourselves. I hope I’m instilling the confidence in my children that they can make a difference. I hope they become noticers – the ones who see a need and are willing to do something to meet it. The ones who will speak up when it’s right, and reach out even when it’s hard.

I hope they’ll keep asking me “Mom, should we stop and help?”

Sarah Caprye lives in Spokane, Washington, with her husband Aaron and their five daughters, where they love connecting deeply with their church and community. She blogs approximately once a year at sarahsotherblog.blogspot.com, and writes informally on social media. When she’s not taking everything in life too seriously, she enjoys stirring up laughter while wearing a T-Rex costume. You can find her Spokanasaurus Rex shenanigans on Facebook or Instagram, or follow her personal Facebook page to read her occasional bouts of writing.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story with Christie Thomas and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

Today, like most days, my kids have been tugging at my clothes and talking nonstop over each other and me. When I’m trying to write out what needs to be done in my planner, my oldest comes to get my attention by bumping my right elbow, sending an errant swoop of ink across the page. When I get on my laptop to type, my toddler boy thinks it’s super fun to push whatever buttons he can reach. We muscle through the day: meals, school, play, clean-up, and there’s constant noise, bickering, touching. It’s mom-life, and I love it, but my brain needs a break in the worst way.

Blessedly, for a few hours each day, my youngest two still sleep. I‘ve gone through various seasons, trying to decide what to do with the bigger two girls during those precious hours. We’ve tried doing schoolwork—it’s a quiet time to teach them. I’d love for it to be reading time, but the big two aren’t quite ready to read independently. The older one is close, but it’s still laborious. I send them outside for a while, but it’s cold—twelve degrees below zero today—and, though my babies are Alaskans, outside time doesn’t last long at these temps.

I know the official American Association of Pediatrics recommendation for maximum screen time. I’ve heard arguments about how bad it is for development, and I’ve seen the effects in my kids’ attitudes. When my first and second were small, I dreamed they wouldn’t see any screens until the age of five, except for high-quality entertainment on family movie nights where we’d make memories over homemade kettle corn. In reality, in this season I’ve intentionally chosen to turn nap time into screen time for my older girls. With screen time included, the afternoons have become a chance for me to rest and be kind to myself. Would it be nice if I sat with them and played educational games? Obviously. Is this ideal school time I’m giving up? Absolutely. But right now, this is where I can find a few minutes of space in an otherwise chaotic day to rest my tired, highly sensitive, introverted self. I’m willing to give them more screen time than I prefer in trade for a more present and healthy mama for the rest of the day.

It’s so easy for me to feel defensive about this. I’ve walked around with a chip on my shoulder, daring anyone to question my screen time rhythms. This defiant attitude didn’t come from confidence, but the fear I’m doing it all wrong. The honest truth is I’m doing the best I can. A season of screen time doesn’t make me a bad mom or a neglectful mom or even a less-than-ideal mom for my babies. These labels simply aren’t fair and don’t reflect the love and time I pour into these little people.

My use of screens allows me rest and margin so I can be kind to my family and show up more fully during the rest of the day, so it deserves a place in my schedule. I carry so much shame and guilt when I use electronics as a babysitter, but when I consider them tools, like a hammer or a whisk, they lose the power to shame me. Tools can be used for good or harm, but they don’t, on their own, imply anything about the value of me or my parenting. I’m giving myself the freedom to use them—or not—however best serves my family.

I’m trying to remember this is only a season. I can see change coming. It’s still cold here, but it won’t be for long. My girls will be biking through puddles in the cul-de-sac across the street before I know it. Jenna is so close to being able to read, and Katherine is too competitive to let her sister read for long without her. By the time next winter comes, I suspect they may both bury their noses in books the way they sort of melt into the tv now. Then Brian and Lilly won’t nap forever, and we’ll have to find different rhythms, times, and ways to make quiet happen. But on this chilly afternoon, when they tumble back into the house and strip off their snow gear, they’re watching something produced by PBS.

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. 

 Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 38: Every Screen Tells a Story!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode #37 with guest Lora Cook and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

I shove a letter E block and a bouncy ball with the side of my foot, clearing a path between the door and her crib, so I don’t cripple myself later tonight in the dark. My eyelids feel like those heavy hotel drapes that require every muscle mustered to push them open but then keep sliding closed anyways.

After inserting the pacifier and clicking on the space heater, I tiptoe around baby dolls and markers to shut the door. Click. Peace. This is the moment I’ve thought about all evening, the fleeting hour or two between my toddler falling asleep and when we crawl under our own covers.

Shuffling back to the living room, I sigh a little.

There he is, arms folded beneath a fleece blanket, legs stretched out on the couch, eyes closed while Netflix plays on in the background. Real life evenings—our together time as a family and a couple at the end of the day—look a lot more exhausted and repetitive than I think they should.

When I’m scrolling through Pinterest skimming through articles called “5 Ways to Create a Stronger Family” or “8 Habits Close Families Have in Common,” I feel the door cracking for guilt and disappointment to slink in.

Let’s face it: there are many moments of motherhood where comparison or shame makes me disappointed that my family culture isn’t picture perfect.

In fact, many of our rhythms feel more haphazard and mundane – this is what seems to work, so this is what we do most days. Whether it’s Saturday or an average weeknight, we scan the fridge for leftovers, I invent something to eat, he cleans the dishes while I zip up our daughter’s footie pajamas, and then we click on our current series and let our eyelids droop till it’s 9 pm.

Everything we do seems to have casually evolved. We rarely discuss it. We just kinda live it.

I often think we should sit down and draft a family constitution to “fix” our habits. Maybe we should plan a schedule beyond Tuesday night Bible study. What if it was Mexican food Monday followed by Wednesday Game night and Friday date night? Would our lives feel more exciting and purposeful then?  

But tonight, before I tailspin into an existential motherhood crisis about the meaning of life and building a family, I smile at the clean pile of dishes stacked beside the sink. I feel grateful.

I’m grateful for our very own family rhythms, the real ones—not the awkward family creed I could try to impose. For the fact that my husband powered down the TV earlier tonight and helped me bring our plates to the dinner table and not the couch. For the giggles and squeals, my daughter screeched when she refused to give us goodnight hugs, so we tickled her belly instead.

I’m glad for the way we talked about camping plans for this summer and found a new lake to pitch our tent near. For now, my husband will bust out the equipment and then strategically stack it all back into our tiny Civic at the end of the trip while I watch our baby enjoy the pine needles and dirt.

I’m content with the little traditions that we just do. The ones that we never formally discuss with a ten-step implementation plan. The habits that we naturally fall into because of our family DNA and where our own personal gifts tend to complement each other.

I’m thankful for the relaxed soul I married. The one who doesn’t fret over the fact that we watched too much Netflix this month as I do. The one who serves as the backbone, the driving consistency to wake us up on time each Sunday and then work his tail off at the office each week so he can come home, tickle our daughter and wash the dishes at night.

And I’m starting to realize that we really do have a bonafide family culture, relaxed and unplanned as it may be. The closer I look, the more steady, healthy habits I find that already exist and make me grateful.

So if there’s anything I want to be more intentional about these days, it’s intentional gratitude. Taking the time to stop and smell the roses of what we are getting right and what I enjoy about my family’s imperfect personality. Stopping to be thankful for us and kinder to us. Stopping to point out what my family does well and how we can build on those traits instead of nit-picking at our failings and our low energy evenings.

Gratitude encourages us to grow and press on.

We’ll be here, eating together at the table, pitching a tent under the trees or playing footsies on the couch while watching our show, cultivating the healthy habits that we want to see spread.

Alex Davies shares ways to make life beautiful on her blog www.SeeAlexWrite.com and Instagram. Her family of three lives near the ocean in San Diego and loves camping, eating and board games. She is passionate about inspiring creative moms to choose a heart-made life. Click here to get your Free Creativity Injection from Alex.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 37 on Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode #37 with guest Lora Cook and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

Subscribe to our email newsletter and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox about twice a month, along with access to our resource library and other awesome perks! 

One of parenting’s great delights, along with baby giggles and toddler bedhead, are the words and phrases my kids mix up or use incorrectly. Unless it’s horribly inappropriate, I rarely correct these little mistakes; babies don’t keep, and they’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, hearing their innocent misspeaks makes me incredibly happy. (At the moment, I love that my two-year-old thinks caterpillars say, “ribbit,” and when we enter the caterpillar room at our local botanical gardens, he walks around croaking like a frog.)

Since my four-year-old, Ian, started preschool last fall, he’s picked up on the concept of tattling: When someone makes you angry, run to the nearest adult and list your grievances with a long face and a whining voice. Of course, he’s done this instinctively for a long time, but now it’s intentional. He has learned the threat of punishment after tattling just might deter the assailant (usually his younger brother) from following through on snatching the Hot Wheel car.

But Ian has it a little mixed up right now. When he means to say, “I’m telling on you,” he says, “I’m counting on you!”

In the kitchen the other day—during that miserable pre-dinner witching hour—he was furious with me because I refused his demands for an additional snack. He scowled, crossed his arms (who teaches him this stuff?) and in his best 4-year-old snarl said, “I am counting on you, Mama!” I couldn’t help but smile and pull him in for a hug.

At church a few weeks ago, we sat down a row or two behind a family that gave me a glimpse of what our family might look like in another 15-or-so years. The husband and wife—solidly middle-aged and going gray—and three children—two boys who appeared to be in their late teens or early 20s and a preteen daughter. They were lined up in the gray chairs: dad at the aisle, then mom, son, daughter, son. While we stood singing during worship, the dad pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket and hustled out of the sanctuary to take a call. The wife kept turning to look back toward the door, wondering where he had gone. When he returned a couple minutes later, she put her hand on his elbow and asked, “What’s going on?” I watched him take a deep breath and purse his lips, steeling himself before he leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She stood up straight and stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. She then turned to her right and passed the news on down the line to her children.

Within a few moments, the daughter began to cry. One brother put his arm around her, she leaned into his side, and he rubbed her back in a circular motion as the tears fell. When he stopped a few minutes later, the other brother took over his post. Through the rest of the worship service, these two brothers alternated comforting their little sister in shifts, until the songs ended and everyone took their seats. I was struck by the display of compassion, by their gentle touch, by the way she leaned on them so fully and the way they allowed her to.

Because I’m raising two boys and their younger sister, I spend a lot of time thinking about these gender dynamics. I’m not interested in cultural stereotypes that paint girls as emotional and boys as strong, or girls as nurturers and boys as protectors. I think all my children can embody all those characteristics. I am not content to merely raise a strong daughter; I also want to raise compassionate and emotionally-intelligent sons. I look around at the world and I see people incapable of listening, empathizing, and expressing their emotions in ways that are both authentic and helpful. I am determined to do better by my boys.

Several years ago, when I was still pregnant with our first child, I watched an interaction between a mom and her preschooler. He was melting down because it was time for them to leave. She kneeled down, held his hands, and said, “It is ok to be angry. It is not ok to yell.” Since we entered the toddler stage, I have used that exact sentence or some variation of it almost every day. It’s such a simple phrase, but it’s versatile and helpful in an almost endless number of parenting scenarios.

It is ok to be sad. It is not ok to speak that way.

It is ok to be upset. It is not ok to hit.

It is ok to be silly. It is not ok to scream.

While I know all toddlers feel their emotions strongly, I also know that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, here. I have always had strong emotions, but I somehow learned to believe that it was bad to be sensitive, bad to cry, and unpleasant emotions should be stifled. I know better, now, and I don’t want my kids to grow up with the same misconceptions. Those two sentences, paired together, allow me to affirm my kids’ emotions, while also guiding them towards more appropriate behavior.

The reality is that if we are not comfortable with our own emotions, it’s very difficult to walk with others through their sad moments. I watched those boys—practically men—at church, and while I don’t know this family or how they operate, it was clear they were taught not to run away from sadness. Whether by words or example, those boys had learned that negative emotions are meant to be felt, and they knew to be there for their sister when she needed support.

I still haven’t corrected Ian’s mix-up; as far as I’m concerned, he can keep saying, “I’m counting on you,” forever, because it’s true. I want him to know that no matter how he feels–even if it’s hot anger directed at me–I will not run away. I am not scared of his big feelings, his disappointments, his anger, or his sadness. I believe a child most needs to lean on the love and compassion of a family when they are angry, disappointed, or scared. I know life’s twists and turns will ask us to count on one another, again and again.

Like those boys did for their sister in the middle of the sanctuary, and like I did for Ian in the kitchen that afternoon, I’ll keep pulling my boys close. I’ll tell them it’s ok to be sad, or angry, or hurt. I’ll try to model the compassion I desire in their character. I’ll remind them that no matter what, they can count on me, and I’ll teach them to be men who can be counted on.

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. 

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 37 on Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture!

For April 2018, we are hosting a whole series about Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture. Check out Episode #37 with guest Lora Cook and members of the Kindred Mom team, and check back to read more essays in the series as the month unfolds. If you missed it, check out our completed March series on Becoming a Resilient Mom!

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The gray morning drained all my joy. My kids, playing Baby Bear and Mommy Bear, sounded too loud and annoying while I fried eggs like a short-order cook. I wanted an escape. Between pouring more milk, and cutting twelve more strawberries, I noticed the chore list laying on the counter. Suddenly, the day off from school felt less like a break and more like an unending challenge. My desire for productivity fought against their need for extra attention, and the internal debate began: “Do I play along in their game, or start with the tasks on the list?” The baby animals somehow morphed into ninjas, and they cartwheeled into the kitchen with “hi-ya’s” and swooshing vacuum hoses held up in the air as swords. I had to make a choice.

How could I enjoy the little moments without being overwhelmed by the multitasking of motherhood? How could I create a home for my family and also keep order in my house? I often only see the dishes piled in the sink, the floors that need to be swept, and the bills to pay stacked on my counter. It is hard to ignore that my house needs tidying. It steals my focus. A clean house makes me feel like a good mom and wife. It makes my days feel worthwhile, and I believe it gives me value. Stress easily deceives me. With a busy schedule, the kids needing affection, and the duty of housekeeping, my heart starts racing and I grasp for control to make the racing stop.

In the stillness of the night, or when I am driving alone, I know what makes me a good mom. It isn’t maintaining a house, but making a home for people I love; a home where we are celebrated and known, as well as a safe environment, to explore and learn. I want to hear laughter echo off the walls. I want time to read books, teach my kids to cook and train them to have self-control and to love others well. I long to pour myself into the people I live with instead of only the structure I live in. The responsibility to care for a house, and the calling to be a mom are tightly intertwined and both within my role, but I cannot allow them to have equal power over my attention.

I noticed the sign my mom gave me two summers ago when most of our days ended in tears. I see it every day on the windowsill above my kitchen sink. On this day, I stopped to read it:

“Enjoy the little things in life, for someday you will realize they were the big things.”

I put away the milk and the strawberries. I finished eating my eggs and put the dishes in the sink, I didn’t want to miss the memory-making moments with my kids.  There would be time to clean the kitchen, but right then they were putting on a concert, and I realized my whisk made a great microphone.

When balancing the tug between house and home, these are some practices I use to help manage our days and not lose sight of creating our family culture.

Set Expectations
Creating a home requires limiting activities so we can cultivate the relationships that dwell there.  I use timers to put time restraints on how long we will do certain tasks, so the kids know when I am working and when I can play. On paper, I can make any hectic, overfilled schedule possible, but in reality, I get distracted. Setting expectations minimizes conflict.

Shared Interest
I have found the simplest way to bring our family together has been discovering the interests we all share. When our family engages in activities we all enjoy, we have fewer fights and complaints, and more laughing and learning together.

Teamwork
When everyone has jobs around the house to be responsible for, I am strengthened to fight the lie that, “everything is my responsibility.” Our family culture grows to be more than having fun together but also loving and caring for each other.

On that gray day when my husband came home, I hadn’t showered and the laundry wasn’t folded. It was 6:00 p.m. and dinner was half-prepped, but I had made a choice to say yes.

Yes to cuddles!
Yes to 5 games of Spot It!
Yes to extra marshmallows in hot chocolate that put smiles on all our faces!

I made a choice to build a relationship with my kids. The house was not in order, but our home was a pleasant place despite the mess, and we could do the tidying together tomorrow!

Curry Winters is a wife and mother of three wild and lovable kids. She is a producer with a loud laugh who enjoys family dance parties and getting too many books from the library. She blogs at Truth for the Trenches about God’s truth bringing hope into the daily routines of life you can find her celebrations and confessions on Instagram.

Check out the most recent episode of the Kindred Mom podcast, Episode 37 on Intentionally Cultivating Your Family Culture!