Resilience Series

A Grief Experienced
March 28, 2018 In Pregnancy & Birth Resilience Series No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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Her bright blue eyes look up at me. I smile at her as I reach for my mascara. Her pudgy baby hands reach up to me and I can’t resist. I pick her up and settle her little bottom on top of my pregnant belly. I rest my forehead on hers and then kiss the soft skin under her ear. She has been my baby for 17 months. I am in awe of her innocence and her personality which is emerging more and more each day.

A flood of emotion washes over me as I consider how her little life will change in the next few weeks. A new baby brother is on the way. It will change her—it will change all of us—forever. As I hold her here, in my bathroom, I let the tears come.

What is this emotion? It’s vaguely familiar and slightly unwelcome. It’s sad and overwhelming and all-consuming. I can’t hold it back. Why do I feel this sadness at the end of this pregnancy? Why does this unwelcome lump rise in my throat as I hold my beautiful toddler in the bathroom while putting my make-up on?

I put her down and wipe the tears, grateful I haven’t yet applied mascara. I finish the make-up tasks and she busies herself with the bath toys close by.

We are a family of 6. We will become a family of 7. I imagined this transition would be a joyous one. I thought the prospect of having a newborn in the house again would bring that blissful, tired-but-so-happy deliriousness I have experienced in waiting for the arrival of some of my other babies.

***

Something that morning was brewing under the surface—something which I only began processing at that moment during my cry-fest, toddler kissing, makeup routine.

Grief.

It seems like a non sequitur to write that word and associate it with the impending birth of a new baby. Grief? Isn’t grief reserved for funeral homes and cemeteries? I don’t think so. I am grieving the loss of who we have been as a family up to this point, who I’ve been as a mother and a wife, and what all of my children have been like in this beautiful space before welcoming a new baby.

Perhaps we have reached a coasting season as a family. We’ve had our routines, we’ve known what to expect from the days and from each other. This new baby is about to change everything. Perhaps having babies 18 months apart is just too much for us to navigate gracefully. Maybe this baby is a tipping point and I have reached a critical threshold of what I can handle as a mother. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that adding another person to our family changes the dynamics of our family as we move forward. We will be different.

As I reflect on other transitions in our history, I see a similar pattern: I grieve for the loss of who I have believed myself to be and what our lives have looked like, but the reality is God is inviting me to embrace something new. It is uncomfortable and scary. It doesn’t come naturally to me and it is not easy. However, the future that God has for us–has for me–is what I want more than any self-achieved future I can create.

Even when it’s hard. 

Even when it’s scary.

Even when my 10-year-old daughter cries to me and says, “you’re so grumpy all the time.” Even when my 7-year old son has a massive tantrum, the likes of which I’ve not seen from him in years. Even when my 5-year old son’s behavior makes me despair or my sweet toddler’s pudgy hands reach for me and I can’t pick her up.

Even when.

I hold on to the hope–as redemption from this grief–that each baby I’ve birthed has made my heart more tender, more moldable, more teachable, and more resilient. My current reality is infinitely richer than I could have ever dreamed 10 years ago. Redemption will come and the grief will pass. There will be a day when embracing our 7-person family isn’t even a question. There will be a time when I behold and whole-heartedly love the family God has made us despite any hardship or stretching I feel acutely in this present moment.

***

I sit in the morning light with my 3-week old son resting on the boppy, observing the curve of his ear and how tiny wisps of hair are gathered on his earlobe. He is a beautiful new person; no longer merely an extension of me, but a fully-functioning, whole being in his own body. The thought stills my anxious, postpartum thought stream.

He’s here. He’s a part of our family, and he is a treasured gift. There is no longer a reason to grieve. Now, there’s only space for joy.

Lynne Patti is a stay at home, homeschooling mama of 5 vibrant children. A member of the editorial team, Kindred Mom serves as a fulfilling break for Lynne from the every day mom-tasks of Cheerio pouring and fixing “funny socks.” In her adulthood, she has found that God is real, gracious, and abounding in love. She lives in Los Angeles with her family where, after 16 years, big city living has become their jam. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter.

 Episode 36 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Dealing with Big Feelings as a Mom is now available!

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Daily Resilience Toolkit
March 22, 2018 In Home & Family Resilience Series 1 Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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It’s 10 am. I’ve been parenting for hours now. There have been wet beds and tantrums, defiance and messes. Breakfast happened with more than the average number of spills, and I’ve found spilled oatmeal more than once with my bare feet. My highly sensitive nervous system is twitching and I’m on the verge of shutting down. At least two of the four children are yelling at all times, and I can’t seem to get us all reeled back in.

Today was supposed to be different. I wanted quiet time, breakfast, and coffee before the kids woke, so I could  step into the morning with a calm, glad heart and the hope that my children would follow my example. But a bad night with several kids coming to my side of the bed in the ungodly dark hours followed by a rough morning of bad behavior (not least of all, my own) has set off a cascade of crap. You know how this goes… interrupted sleep is followed by early morning chaos that cruelly precludes coffee. My nerves are frayed and my responses less than gracious. Their behavior escalates along with mine until all five of us are yelling over each other and I basically hate everything.

I’m always surprised by how the little things throw me. I see my expectations dashed over and over, in a million small ways, and I see how I come undone every. single. time.

It’s not the big things that take me down. I can handle the urgent care trips, weeks spent trying to keep a newborn fed while juggling a household and recovering from birth, severe postpartum anxiety, even a heartbreaking miscarriage. I’ve been through all of these, and for whatever reason, coming back from those was straightforward enough. I’ve been able to dig deep and find what I needed to walk forward, in some cases directly to the support of professionals.

However, when life is just the normal chaos, I freeze. My movements and words become slow and deliberate, as if I’m trying to convince myself and the officer that I have not, in fact, had too much to drink. Internally, there’s a storm of shouting and anger: “Why can’t you just handle it? Why can’t they just obey? Of course she spilled her milk. Of course she did. Why are these people so loud??? You’re the one who decided four babies in a handful of years was a good idea!”

At ten in the morning on a regular bad day, I’m hours from the partial respite of naptime for the little two and a LIFETIME away from the promised land of bedtime (or whatever point after bedtime when they’re all blessedly quiet.) I’m struggling and learning (slowly) how to bounce back from this kind of crisis.

On the worst days, it ends with me hiding in the bathroom and scrolling Facebook while the kids destroy everything.

Perhaps you feel this, too? On my best days, I remember the truth that I’ve been specifically chosen and equipped for this horde of noisy people (whom I love), and I remember the tools I’ve accrued. I don’t have a special formula that reliably salvages our bad days, but I have slowly collected the following strategies that sometimes help when I’m desperate:

Get them outside or moving. My big two are old enough to be sent out, so weather permitting, this helps them burn energy and allows them to be as loud as they want without one thousand reminders to “use your INSIDE voice!” When the weather isn’t cooperative, I devise games inside: race up and down the hall. Jump on the trampoline. Do somersaults on the futon. Whatever, as long as it’s silly and high-energy.

Reduce complexity by one. No matter how many kids I have, one fewer feels infinitely easier. Sometimes I can pull one aside (bonus if it’s the instigator of the day) for a “special activity.” This buys me the minutes I need to mitigate the chaos of the larger group and calm everything down.

Give the kids a job. I wish I were better at this, but mine are in a phase where their desire to be helpful is high, but their ability to actually help is quite low. All the same, shifting them toward productive work frequently helps their attitudes, so while it’s a lot of effort for me to set them up with jobs they can and want to do, it’s usually worthwhile for the change of atmosphere in our home. When they wash the dishes, it takes them about five times as long as it would take me to do the job  alone and water gets everywhere. But suddenly my fighting, whining children have been replaced with proud, helpful ones. I’ll take the puddles.

Herd them toward read-aloud time. Or, you know, just start reading and see if anybody shows up. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it deteriorates into loud fights and whining about the book choice, but just as often, they all get quiet for at least a few minutes.

Usually, one of these will give us enough of a reset that I can catch my breath, get a glass of water, maybe go to the bathroom. There’s no magic here—the kids still need correction and attitudes require work all around, but a little shift can drastically improve the trajectory of my day.

If not, there’s always Netflix.

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. 

>>  Episode 36 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Dealing with Big Feelings as a Mom is now available!  <<

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Cultivating Rhythms of Resilience
March 19, 2018 In Faith & Encouragement Resilience Series No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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He seemed quiet and more reserved than usual. Something was bothering him and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew he needed new jeans— what thirteen year old boy doesn’t need another pair of jeans?  So after school, I picked up my son and we made our way to his favorite store. On the way home, I bought him a cheeseburger. That’s all it took. All the way home, I listened as stories tumbled out. We laughed together and he thanked me.

What drew our hearts together that day had little to do with the new jeans or the burger. It had everything to do with the afternoon we spent together. I very easily could’ve ordered him new jeans online or picked some up while he was at school. But I wouldn’t have connected with him in the same way.

We are Mamas who hold the mundane and the eternal, the sacred and the ordinary. We have values to instill and truths to teach. We have laundry to fold, lunches to pack and diapers to change. Squeezing it all in to the years we’ve been given can be overwhelming.

(photo by Robin Chapman)

Perhaps we don’t have to hold the mundane in one hand and the sacred in the other. As parents, one of the most beautiful things we can do for our children is bring the two together. We can build times of intentional parenting into the family rhythms we’ve already established into our days. Rhythms are the ways in which we arrange our time—the patterns we repeat day after day. Making dinner. Riding in the car. Walking the dog. No matter how organized or chaotic our lives are, we have family rhythms. The key to tapping into the heart of our child is to draw purpose into our existing rhythms.

This certainly isn’t a new idea. There was a man named Moses who taught a group of people the importance of ordering their days around guiding their children. He knew the adversity they would face and the ways they would drift away from their convictions. So he told them, “Write these commandments that I’ve given you today on your hearts. Get them inside of you and then get them inside your children. Talk about them wherever you are, sitting at home or walking in the street; talk about them from the time you get up in the morning to when you fall into bed at night. Tie them on your hands and foreheads as a reminder; inscribe them on your doorposts of your homes and on your city gates.” (Deuteronomy 6:5-9)

It’s brilliant! Moses taught the people to hold the sacred and the mundane together in their everyday activities. It’s a formula that still works for us today:

Eating together. Sitting together around a table is a perfect time to establish virtues in the heart of our children. What do we value? How can we integrate spiritual and moral conversation into the normal chatter, even for a few moments? Having important conversations about values helps kids make wise decisions when faced with a tough situation.

Taking a drive. It can be tempting to jump in the car and run a few quick errands without an extra passenger. However, there’s untapped potential in taking a drive with our kids, when they know they have our undivided attention. Sitting side by side (not face to face) gives them space to talk about struggling friendships, funny stories and the things that are weighing on their hearts. It’s a great time for parents to help kids interpret life, to be a friend and to listen.

Getting up in the morning. No matter what has happened the night before, a new day brings new hope. Parents have the potential to shape the trajectory of a child’s day by sending them out into the world feeling confident and loved. Taking a few moments in the midst of the morning rush to intentionally encourage the heart of a child cultivates trust and purpose.

Going to bed. The darkness of night and the safety of being tucked under blankets brings out vulnerability in kids. There is no better time for us to build intimacy in our relationship than when we take a few minutes to stop and listen to what’s going on in the heart of our child. Bedtime provides a great opportunity for parents to help children manage their strong feelings, making connections between actions and feelings.

As parents, we have the power to transform everyday rhythms into intentional times of growth and guidance. In doing so, we change our ordinary, mundane tasks into something extraordinary. As those times of gentle guidance multiply, we’ll begin to see the long picture of parenting. We’ll look back to see how the character of our children was formed in the seemingly forgettable moments. The times around the table. The whispered dreams in the darkness of the night. The trips to the grocery store. The conversations while we braid hair and check homework.

May you have the courage today to listen to the heart of your child. Be confident in your ability to hold the ordinary and the sacred together, cultivating rhythms that build trust. Dare to take your mediocre, everyday moments and see them for what they truly are.

Sarah Damaska lives in the Thumb of Michigan with her pastor-husband, one son, two daughters, and a new puppy.  In 2009, after the sudden death of their daughter, Annie, her grief drove her to an even deeper dependence on Jesus.  She writes about the intersection of hope and sorrow at sarahdamaska.com.

>>  Episode 36 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Dealing with Big Feelings as a Mom is now available!  <<

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When Your Anger Frightens You
March 15, 2018 In Resilience Series Tender Topics 3 Comments

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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Years ago as a brand new mom to a little boy I couldn’t possibly love more I had my first experience with the kind of anger that scared me.

I can’t remember the circumstances leading up to that moment or what exactly it was that ignited me, but I will never forget the fire I felt searing me from the inside and the violent, ugly thoughts that flashed through my mind.

The darkness frightened me.

No doubt there was a spectacular concoction of sleep deprivation and overwhelm that paved the way for me to lose it. (This is, of course, on top of the upheaval that children naturally bring to a home once accustomed to regular sleep ins and the luxury of a relatively easy weekly laundry rotation.) There were also other factors undermining my explosive emotions—financial pressures, a strained relationship with a friend, friction surrounding my role at work.

But the fact that I visualized throwing my adorable toddler into the wall terrified me. (Yes, I really did just admit that: I visualized shoving my toddler against the wall. Ugh.)

Who was this woman? Was this really me—the Christian mother committed to gentle discipline and intentional parenting? The wife who had never even yelled at my husband?

In that moment I suddenly realized how people could snap right in two and do unthinkable things they regret for the rest of their lives. Never before had I possessed an ounce of sympathy for someone known to abuse a child, but in that moment I was faced with the dark side of my own humanity and this is what I saw: I was capable of anything. Yes, even toward the tiniest person whom I loved with the most giant of loves. I was that person—the abuser—not in action or words but in the temptation of my heart.

To be clear, I wasn’t afraid I would actually inflict physical harm to my son. As angry as I was, I knew I had the self control to not act on what I felt. What most frightened me was the content of my own heart. Simply having the idea jet through my mind at all was enough to leave me shaking and scared and ashamed.

With trembling hands and a heart pounding my insides to a pulp, I called my husband and said, “I’m not okay.” I described how angry I was and confessed the darkness I had seen exposed in my heart. I told him I didn’t trust myself to be alone with our little one until I could figure out how to cool down.

A few minutes later he was home, hugging me while I sobbed all of my inadequacies out into the safety of his chest. He talked me off the ledge. He reminded me what kind of mother I am and he affirmed my commitment to invite Jesus into the deepest places of fear and inadequacy in my soul. (After all, the anger was only an indicator of the real things causing me pain.)

He also sent me to take a nap while he finished his last few hours of work from home with our son toddling around his feet, happy for some new company.

(photo by Hill Smiley Photography)

Several years later I can think of two or three instances I’ve been similarly angry and had to call my husband or a trusted friend for help. Always it’s been during times in my life where I’m severely sleep deprived. (I’m convinced chronic fatigue wreaks havoc on an otherwise stable person. I truly don’t think this can be overstated. It’s not an excuse, but it’s certainly not something to be ignored.) And it’s often been during times where other things are very much running at full throttle in the background: while grieving a miscarriage, while under a stressful deadline, while wondering how to make ends meet that month, and so forth.

As I’ve learned to crawl out from under the shame of my own meltdowns, I’ve realized that anger is a common thread running through most mothers’ lives. For most of us it rears its ugly head now and then in ways we’re not excited to admit and aren’t well equipped to deal with. We’re caught off guard because we thought we were “better” than that. We’ve bought into the faulty notion that love and anger can’t coexist within motherhood—that somehow our kids deserve a mom that’s more divine than human.

If you struggle with ongoing anger management issues then by all means, please consider getting some external help working that through with a professional—this is not the type of anger I’m talking about. But if yours is the type that springs up now and then catching you by surprise, consider now how to set yourself up to manage how you’ll respond.

A few things to keep in mind:

  1. Anger is a normal human emotion and you are not a bad person (or bad mother) for experiencing it.
  2. If you need to, remove yourself from the heat of the moment. Put the baby somewhere safe like his crib and take a few minutes to walk away and do some deep breathing. Tell your older kids you’re sending yourself to your room for a 10 minute time out. (Then use that time to actually do what you need to do—deep breathing, prayer, a phone call, etc.)
  3. While you’re not angry, spend some time thinking about your triggers. When are you most easily angered? Are there specific things that tend to set you off?
  4. When you experience anger it’s often an indication that something deeper is happening under the surface. Once you’ve cooled down, ask yourself some hard questions: Are you afraid of something? Feeling insecure? Stressed out? Feeling like a failure? And so forth. What is the anger trying to help you see? Once you’ve pinpointed those things, then you can begin to map out how to address them.
  5. Identify a safe person or two in your life with whom you can confess and also hold yourself accountable to.
  6. Deal with shame if it rears its ugly head.
  7. Practice self care and soul care. There are plenty of ideas in this series to help you determine what that could look like for you.
  8. Decide how you can be proactive with addressing circumstances surrounding your anger. Do you need to schedule a weekly evening for alone time? Do you need to take 15 minute daily walks without filling your ears with a podcast or even music, focusing instead on the sounds of the neighborhood or your footsteps or the chatter your toddler makes in her stroller? Do you need to learn centering prayer or take a weekly yoga class or give yourself a strict 9:00pm bedtime until your baby starts sleeping through the night? Do you need to join a MOPS group or let go of some unnecessary volunteering commitments for a season or rearrange your housework so you can snuggle up next to your little one for afternoon naps?
  9. Make some time to play with your children. Get down on the floor or go outside or take a bath together with some bath crayons. Often times too much multitasking is stressing us out more than we realize and we soldier on without realizing how far we strung ourselves out. A focused hour of play and bonding can sometimes be one of the sweetest, simplest antidotes to our parenting frustrations.
  10. And most importantly dear mama, include Jesus in your struggles. He wants to show you his kindness and empower you to receive it and walk in it. He wants to be strong in your weakness. He wants you to access his grace. He wants you to celebrate your humanity but never forget that he doesn’t abandon you to it. He will help you. He will stretch and grow you. He will guide you and teach you and even comfort you when you blow it.

As I tell my mom-friends over and over again: You will never be the perfect mother but you are the perfect mother for your child. Rest in this wonderful match that God has orchestrated and trust that he knew what he was doing when he made you their mom.

You’ve got this. Now take a nap.

Adriel Booker has served in global missions as a speaker, writer, advocate, and mentor for nearly two decades. Adriel leads The Love A Mama Collective, a movement of women empowering women through safe birth initiatives in the developing world, and co-leads an inner city YWAM community with her husband in the heart of Sydney, Australia. She’s the author of Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss and writes online at www.adrielbooker.com. Connect with Adriel on your favorite social media platform at @adrielbooker.

>>  Episode 36 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Dealing with Big Feelings as a Mom is now available!  <<

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Poop Mountain
March 13, 2018 In Laughable Moments Resilience Series No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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My nerves were shot. It could be because my toddler’s new favorite place to play was on top of the dining room table, or because my twins perfected the art of overshooting the toilet. Whatever the reason, I knew that to not lose my mind; I needed to get the whole crew outside, pronto. The sun was shining in December, which put a smile on my face even though I cleaned pee off of the bathroom wall four times that week. Where I live in Seattle, the sunshine doesn’t always last long, so time was of the essence. I crammed my toddler into a full body rain suit, (because I have trust issues), and lovingly reminded my preschoolers to put on their rainboots for the 80 millionth time, perhaps with a little too much urgency (read: impatience).

Our Costco folding wagon, the designer handbag of mothers with multiple children, was loaded down with approximately eighty pounds of happy kids. I grabbed the handle and lumbered down the busy street to the nature trails at the end of the block. Momentum and a slight downward grade made the load a little easier. Every step a little closer to peace and further from the chaos of my house.

At the trailhead, the children jumped out of the wagon and eagerly scampered down the gravel trail amid trees, ferns, and singing birds. The whole scene was entirely saccharine and idyllic, and I breathed relief that I had found one peaceful moment. My boys announced that they wanted to hike a few hundred yards further to climb Gravel Mountain, a term they coined at two for a sad rock pile that measured maybe two feet high. Cheap entertainment. They marched down the trail like soldiers, their little sister and I left to bring up the rear. Little Sis was just excited to walk on her own two feet–without my help–just like her big brothers.

Volunteers had recently worked to improve the trail network, as evidenced by sections of fresh gravel and drainage rock in the places that were prone to flood in heavy rains. On our way to Gravel Mountain, another large pile of fist-sized drainage rock blocked the trail. Wide-eyed, as if they just spied the Paw Patrol display at Toys R Us for the first time, the boys raced ahead to scramble over the new obstacle.

Wouldn’t this be a great place to end the story with a happy-ever-after picture of all things rosy and bright? Here with my daughter, on her own two feet, proud in her accomplishments, my two boys triumphant at the top their mountain, and me beaming in adoration that my kids are so grown up and more capable now than they were a few short years ago. But that is not what happened. Something waited at the top of that rock pile that would wreck all of us, and shatter into a million hysterical pieces, the chance for that delightful moment to exist.

The best thing to crap on your plans for happiness, fulfillment, and peace is just that, a massive pile of crap.

As they climbed over the mound of rocks I heard a scream; one of the boys had tripped. I rushed to make sure he wasn’t more seriously injured and discovered that, not only was his knee covered in dog poop, it was all over his skin because of a hole in his jeans. For good measure, the poop was also curiously in the armpit of his jacket, which smeared all over my hand as I hauled him up to his feet.

I am usually so prepared when I leave the house with my kids. I carry everything I could ever need in my diaper bag down to a miniature tape measure because you never know when you might need to know the precise length of something less than three feet. But, when you haul eighty pounds of anything farther than three feet, the need to carry extra baggage is ridiculous. I had nothing, not even a snot-soaked tissue in my pocket to help clean up the mess. I improvised and employed a few decomposing leaves from the mat of vegetation beside the trail. They promptly disintegrated as I mushed the poop about on my son’s leg.

I have often wondered if crying is as contagious as yawning because all three of my children erupted into tears in quick succession, and only one of them had a real reason. My first son freaked out because…poop. My other son cried because the hike was cut short and Little Sister sobbed because I picked her up and didn’t allow her to walk by herself, her independence crushed and likely scarred for life. In a futile attempt to control the situation, I yelled in my Sargent Mom voice for them all to calm down.

A little-known fact about poop: If it touches your extremities, it has a paralyzing effect. Poop had stolen my son’s ability to walk, so I loaded my frantic boy into the wagon. We needed a police escort, but there was only me to haul our troop out of nature and back to running water and wet wipes. My son envisioned a solo ride but I needed to move faster than a toddler, and I couldn’t carry her and pull the wagon at the same time. He didn’t want her to sit with him, and it became clear she didn’t want to ride anyway, given the way her rigid body refused to bend. As I pushed her down into the wagon, my son pushed her back up in protest. Somehow I loaded all three of them up and headed for home. When the trail was too steep for me to pull all that weight, I asked pleaded for my poop-free son to get out and help push the wagon uphill. He cheerfully hopped out, probably to get away from his brother who reeked, and to escape the thrashing, colossal fit thrown by his sister.

Our house never looked so welcoming than when we nearly skidded to a stop at the door. I wasted no time and right there on the front porch in the middle of December, stripped off everyone’s clothes and considered whether or not I should burn them just in case. I put my daughter down for a nap, the boys in the shower, and sat on the couch to breathe another sigh of relief, glad to be back in the chaos I wanted to escape earlier in the day.

In life, you will be surprised by crap, and it will screw up your plans, and when it does, you just have to bear the stench until you can wash it off…or burn it.

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.

>>  Episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Becoming a Resilient Mom is now available!  <<

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Strong and Brave
March 8, 2018 In Faith & Encouragement Resilience Series No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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Long before I kept a box of pregnancy tests in my medicine cabinet, I had a Pinterest board labeled “Baby Nursery Ideas.” Social media has elevated nursery decorating to an art, or perhaps something more akin to an Olympic sport. When my daughter was born—our third child but the first girl—we were just about to move into a new house, and her room needed the most work: new floors, a new door, repaired baseboards, and many coats of paint. And oh, the Pinterest browsing I did! I wanted the room to be feminine, but not in a traditional sense. I wanted it to be modern but not too trendy; no stereotypes. And of course, I hoped the nursery would somehow convey all my hopes and dreams for her life. No pressure, right? (Wrong. So much pressure. So much Internet-inspired, perfectionist pressure.)

Ruthie is one year old now. Her nursery is not quite magazine worthy, but it is cute and cozy. A watercolor painting my by grandmother—Ruthie’s namesake—hangs on the wall, next to a basket of books and headbands. Hanging to the right of the bedroom door is some typography art from a big box store.  (You know the kind: perpetually 40% off, very on-trend, meant to appear hand-painted but totally is not.) Nestled within a geometric pattern are three simple words: “Strong and brave.” Every time Ruthie wakes from a nap or I finish folding pink onesies into her drawers, I turn toward the door to leave her room, and I see it: Strong and Brave.

When I was five or six years old, I signed up for golf lessons. Once a week, my dad and I drove to a local country club, where an elderly security guard waited at the gate to grant us permission to enter. Each time we pulled up to the guard stand, my dad rolled down his window, pointed to me, and said, “This is a Future LPGA champ, right here!” I was mortified. I began making up excuses to get out of my lessons: too much homework, a headache, too sleepy. Eventually, my parents figured out I didn’t want to go to golf lessons, but I never told them why. I just couldn’t stand that moment of cheesy, braggadocious, but perfectly sweet enthusiasm from my dad. “Words of affirmation” is not my love language.

I’ve never felt particularly strong or brave, even before having children. I avoid scary movies (and even their trailers) lest I have nightmares for a week. I don’t play sports or work out. I cry easily and am super sensitive. In college, I introduced myself to a neighbor solely because I needed him to come kill a wolf spider in my apartment. (I wish I was joking about that one.) Over the years, I allowed my own insecurities and cultural messages to convince me I was both weak and cowardly.

At first blush, my daily life, to-do list, and calendar don’t do much to inspire images of bravery or strength. I change a lot of diapers, sweep up a lot of Cheerios, and send a lot of GIFs in text messages to my husband. I have heroes, and they are brave in ways I can’t ever imagine. I think of the fortitude required of a mother who has buried a child; the bravery of a woman whose husband is at war; the strength of fathers working two jobs around the clock; and the courage of children who walk to school in war-torn, violent cities. Admittedly, I’m a white, middle class, Christian woman with a husband at home—so there are women whose lives require more strength and bravery than my own. Still, this doesn’t at all diminish the truth of my own story.

When Ruthie was just a newborn, I turned to leave her room and was caught off-guard by that little piece of art. In a moment of quiet, soul-realization, I knew it. I pulled my shoulders back and I took a deep breath and I stood a little taller.

I carried and birthed three children in less than four years. I moved 1,200 miles across the country, away from all my family and friends. I reimagined my career and vocation several times. I show up for church most Sundays. I make an effort to listen to the voices of those who are different than me. Once upon a time, I taught a class of eighteen first graders in a public school. I’ve submitted essays to websites across the web and been rejected but tried again.

I was never going to be an LPGA champ, but I am already strong and brave because that is simply what motherhood requires of all of us. We are mothers with babies at our breast and toddlers at our sides, with teenagers backing our SUVs down the driveway. We are mothers on the sidelines of football games and in the lobby of infertility clinics. We are mothers at the social worker’s office or in a corporate cubicle. We are mothers with anti-anxiety prescriptions and mothers with gym memberships. We are mothers, and we are strong and brave.

Unwittingly, I gave Ruthie the reminder I needed most myself. By the time she is old enough to read the inscription on that painting, she may not even notice it. It will have been the backdrop of her entire life and may just blend right into the wall. So, I will have to remind her. I’ll point to it and say, “Strong and brave, Ruthie-love. That’s you.”

Like mother, like daughter.

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. 

>>  Episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Becoming a Resilient Mom is now available!  <<

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When Resilience Feels Like Floundering
March 6, 2018 In Resilience Series Soul Care for Moms No Comment

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

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I admire the extended arms and elegant movements of skaters on the ice, ballerinas on a stage, and women who carry themselves with strength and dignity. I watch them, enraptured by their grace and beauty, impressed by their freedom and flexibility, inspired by the confidence expressed through their skillful momentum through hidden challenges. All I see is beauty, not the strength that carries them.

It is only a moment after I have savored such a glimpse that I feel a knot in my stomach and find myself acutely aware that I do not have that same gracefulness. With a kid on my hip, a three-year-old melting down at my feet, and four other children squawking and wailing their way through the day, I struggle to see the beauty in my days, to see the beauty or strength within me. It’s a bonafide mess around here.

My whole life seems like my deplorable laundry system. There are dirty clothes on the floor, clean clothes untended in a pile, and a fresh load that I’ve just rescued from the dryer out of sheer desperation for clean kid pajamas to employ during bedtime, which can’t come soon enough. With warm garments gathered in my arms, I transport the oversized load to the existing disheveled pile, haphazardly dropping assorted items as I walk. There are clothes everywhere. Crumbs everywhere. Children everywhere. No matter how hard I try to pull everything together, to clean all the messes, and neatly stow our stuff out of sight, it never stays like that.

(photo by Hill Smiley Photography)

I sweep, vacuum, Swiffer, and steam. I gather, and straighten, and organize. I inhale, hold my breath for ten seconds, and exhale only to discover that new crumbs have magically appeared, and new bins have been overturned. The gross feeling that I am still, always, and constantly missing the mark hangs on me, along with all the tasks that are never done.

While I would love to feel more successful throughout my days, the truth is I am working out resilience in real time. I am confronting shame and conquering my fears as I move forward and daily take faithful steps toward, doing what needs to be done without a furrowed brow and a negative attitude. I want my kids to know they are capable of hard work, that some things require us to dig in and do what is needed even when we feel like it’s all a mess and we’ll never get it right.

If I want them to do that, I have to show them how by doing it myself. The mothering years are hard, but they are also pregnant with joy, full of wonder and discovery, and these hidden treasures are discovered and appreciated precisely through the challenges we encounter and overcome.

9 Things I’ve learned about Becoming a Resilient Mom:

1) Resilience is not about results, and it doesn’t hinge on the words success, fulfilled, feeling in control, or even graceful.

2) Resilience often feels like floundering.

3) Discouragement is not meant to be a default mode of being, but a momentary acknowledgement that where I am is not where I want to be.

4) Resilience is about recognizing the power I have to move myself in a new direction.

5) Resilience is about movement; an expression of inner strength in motion toward freedom from fear and shame.

6) I cannot become resilient if I’m waiting to be rescued from my own responsibilities.

7) Resilience requires first being honest with myself, and then with others, about my personal struggles, allowing myself to be seen.

8) Healthy self-care is critical for becoming a resilient mom.

9) It is easier to identify resilience in others than it is to see it in ourselves because the struggle speaks loudly to us, but the strength we exhibit in our lives speaks loudly to others.

As moms, we are being tested, strengthened, made flexible and strong while our souls learn to navigate new seas. We can’t wait to be rescued from our own responsibilities. We can look up and see the value of a woman—even one who is struggling through life—is enormous.

On ordinary days, even the graceful figure skaters and ballerinas are not dressed in glamorous costumes, with lights and cheering crowds all around. They are in their business clothes at the rink or on the stage (and by business clothes, I mean yoga pants, sloppy shirts, and a top-knot hairdo) honing their craft. Practicing, falling, and trying again; testing their limits and growing their strength. Floundering, falling and getting up again: This is resilience.

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.

>>  Episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast on Becoming a Resilient Mom is now available!  <<

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035 // Becoming a Resilient Mom – Mary Kate Brown & The Kindred Mom Team
March 5, 2018 In Podcast Resilience Series 1 Comment

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In this episode, Emily Allen hosts two conversations about what resilience looks like and why becoming a resilient mom is important.

Segment 1 includes Jennifer Van Winkle and Lynne Patti for a group discussion about some of their current struggles as moms, and the finer details about how to re-set a difficult day at home with kids. Segment 2 includes co-host Sarah Allard and special guest Mary Kate Brown. Mary Kate shares her journey dealing with significant health issues while mothering little ones, and how she became resilient through the process.

Current series on KindredMom.com: Becoming a Resilient Mom

Last month’s series on KindredMom.com: Loving Well as a Wife and Mom

Where to find Mary Kate Brown:

Website

Instagram

Mentioned in this episode:

Mary Kate Brown’s Essay – Dare to Dance

Emily Allen’s Essay – When Resilience Feels Like Floundering

January Kindred Mom Series: Self-Care for Moms

Photo for this episode by Hill Smiley Photography

————————————————————————————

Kindred Mom is a community dedicated to helping moms flourish in motherhood. Through honest and vulnerable real stories of motherhood, this community champions celebrating small victories and the beautiful things that happen when moms share both the triumphs and struggles of their journeys.

To connect with the Kindred Mom community, keep up with the essays that are shared on the blog at KindredMom.com and subscribe to the mailing list so you don’t miss a thing.

You can find Kindred Mom on social media in the following places: Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

Special thanks to Michael Patti for the original music featured on the Kindred Mom Podcast.

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Dare to Dance
March 1, 2018 In Health & Nutrition Resilience Series 3 Comments

For March 2018, Kindred Mom is hosting a series about Becoming a Resilient Mom.  

Subscribe and don’t miss a thing! We’d love to send some encouragement straight to your inbox.

My youngest daughter energetically climbs all over me as I struggle to keep her curious little baby hands away from IV lines. My oldest daughter stares at me, wearing a hesitant expression. She worries she might hurt me if she comes any closer. Meanwhile, my middle daughter obliviously scans my side table for snacks.

The visit does not last long enough to ease the ache my heart feels from being separated from them for so many days. At the same time, their energetic presence in my tiny hospital room completely exhausts me. I let out a sigh of relief, guilt, and sadness as they follow my husband and mother-in-law out of my room. Relief they are gone, guilt because I feel relieved, and sadness because they are no longer with me.

Alone and feeling utterly defeated, I contemplate how Crohn’s disease has robbed me of my peace of mind, my health, and how it now robs me of time with my kids.

***

Recalling my very first hospital stay three years ago, before I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, I remember feeling so scared that I might have had appendicitis. I was certain that an appendectomy would have been the worst thing that could have happened to me at that time. Little did I know.

Appendicitis would have been remedied by just one procedure. In contrast, autoimmune illness has made me feel as though my own body has betrayed me. It has taken more from me physically, mentally, and spiritually than I could say. I did not realize just how much I had to give, until I look back on the whole journey. I underwent three surgical procedures in 2017 (three years after my diagnosis) to remove damage done to my body, by my body. I hadn’t even turned 30 years old, and my appendix, though healthy, wound up being collateral damage in the process anyway.

I was still nursing my baby while having my veins continually pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics, until my treatment became so physically demanding, I was forced to stop earlier than I’d have liked to. I was supposed to be homeschooling my other two daughters, but my recoveries were far from quick, and we all became a little too familiar with Netflix. The rhythms of our home life abruptly shifted from stable to unpredictable as I vacillated between strong enough to make it through a day, and being so sick I was confined to my bed.

Before my third and final surgery, I had two intense procedures done (hence the hospitalizations) in an attempt to remedy an issue without needing a portion of my small intestine removed, which was a last resort. As part of the recovery from this procedure, I had to wear a surgical drain fixed  to  my abdomen that looked like a large, clear, rubber grenade hanging at my side. I was mortified by the contraption, and it was immensely painful. I hardly ever left my home because I was utterly embarrassed by it being semi-permanently fixed in my belly, held in place by thick black stitches. If I absolutely HAD to get out, I wore layers of clothing in an attempt to conceal this infection-collecting bulb that was supposed to help my body heal. At any cost, I did not want to be stared at by strangers, even if it meant that the kids and I stayed couped up in our home. This procedure failed and I underwent the second one, and was fitted with yet another surgical drain that was like a giant see-through plastic bag about six times the size of the rubber grenade. Great.

That was it for me. I couldn’t do it anymore. I had spent the past two months allowing these stupid complications from a disease I had no control over dictate how I lived my daily life and how I mothered my children. I allowed it to determine what we did or didn’t do when I had a choice because I was so embarrassed and angry. I knew a third and (hopefully) final surgery awaited me in the next month, and that recovery would take another six weeks of time away from me spending quality time with and taking care of my children.

I had four weeks to prepare for a big surgery. At this point I was stable, but emotionally depleted. It was the very end of spring, and I was not able to hide any large medical apparatus beneath layers of clothing. My first Sunday back in church after a number of missed weeks I released everything: my attempt to control the situation, my vanity and embarrassment, my disappointment and anger, and also my self-berating. I stood in the first row of the sanctuary during worship, sobbing with a giant, unconcealable, surgical drain hanging from my right hip. The words from my mouth were sincere: “So let go my soul, and trust in Him, the waves and wind still know His name. Through it all, my eyes are on you. Through it all it is well. It is well with me.”

From that morning on, I refused to let my unfavorable life circumstance get in the way of my life as a whole and my motherhood, if I could help it. We spent the following four weeks at the library, visiting parks, running errands, and visiting with friends. My kids and I even made new friends while out and about despite my unsightly, but necessary, medical accessory. I allowed people to come see me. I allowed them in to bring meals and surround me with prayer. I asked for help with babysitting. It was when I acknowledged that I couldn’t hold it all together that things suddenly came together. In a work of grace, this challenging situation worked out for our good right in the middle of the mess. I stopped hiding. I stopped keeping my health a secret. I stopped shutting myself and my girls inside in order to save face. I released my control over a situation where I had none to begin with.

Nearly one year later, I find myself living the same lessons I learned then. I once believed that resilience was only found in persisting against unfavorable circumstances. I’ve been humbled to learn that strength is also present when I relinquish my safety net of control.

Some days in life are like summertime: “the livin’ is easy”. Other days are a full-on downpour and  you have two choices:

You either struggle to keep everyone beneath your little umbrella, and end up frustrated because your feet still get soaked.

OR

You abandon your umbrella (whatever is your perceived protection) and embrace the rain. You might even dare to dance in it, as you discover grace that sustains and brings beauty from pain.

Mary Kate Brown is a homeschooling stay-at-home mama living in the suburbs of Chicago. She is married to her high-school sweetheart Brian, and together they have three daughters. She decorates cakes, is a hobby gardener, and enjoys reading. She is the author and creator of the “Start Your Homeschool” Guided Workbook, and she writes about faith and motherhood at www.choosinggraceblog.com. Find her on Facebook and Instagram.

>>  Listen to more of Mary Kate’s story on Episode 35 of the Kindred Mom Podcast: Becoming a Resilient Mom!  <<

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