STRUGGLING IS LEARNING.

I get a lot of praise for homeschooling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Emily

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

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

-Emily

SHOULD-ING AND SHEDD-ING: THE STRUGGLE OF PRIORITIZING YOURSELF WHILE PARENTING.

My inner monologue seems to be in conflict with itself tonight. I’ve tackled the bare minimum in the kitchen after tucking the kids into bed. Now a voice urges me on: ‘Make a list’ it says one moment, followed by, ‘You’ve done enough, go watch a movie and fall asleep on yourself’ and then there’s ‘You never found Ozlynn’s shoes for the recital tomorrow, and you committed to bringing a savory item, and you'd better get up at 5 A.M. tomorrow so you can do all the things!’ Those aren’t the words that are controlling my actions though, because what I NEED to do, right now, is write. I don’t “need” to change the filter on the turtle’s cage at 11:30 at night. I mean, I did anyway, and it’s done now, but not because I am some ambivalent animal-tender, more so because the gurgling noise interrupts my nightly routine of mentally noting my failed goals. And if I can cross the gurgling noise off of the list (that I should be making), at least that’s one small victory and one less detail that might keep me from falling back to sleep. Gah! After all that, it’s clear that I did “need” to change the turtle filter. Good choices. But screw the list, and I mean it this time. I really just want to write. I want to remove the rambling symbols rolling around in my mind and allow my fingers tips to release each one as I punch them onto the screen. Nah, I’ll just keep ‘should-ing’ myself instead: I should wrap it up and go to bed. Or I should finish that whiskey that I poured myself, knowing full well that I wouldn’t drink all of it, take a jacket and the dog and go spy that caramel-colored moon, waning through the silhouette of trees in the back yard. I should sit in the dark and imagine this last month, and all the things (literal and proverbial) that I am currently shedding. I allow my heart to be weighted down by these things when I should have been letting them go, like a tiny crimson river poured from my fem-cup into the toilet bowl. Whoosh, I flush its startling color away from the stark, white side of the toilet. I’m just going to go to bed, and try to focus on what I know to be true; I am beyond privileged, and blessed. I wake up grumpy, but hopeful, every day. I love this fiasco of raising children and getting old, and learning about myself, and learning about this man that I share a bed with. It’s a beautiful chaos and a stagnant world the day I don’t have moments to overcome and triumph. I could literally make a list of all the shit I need to triumph over right now… Argh! Okay, okay! Morning To-Do list:

-Kids must shower.

-Go to store.

-Make a cracker and cheese spread.

-Find Ozlynn’s fucking shoes.

-Put the laundry in the dryer.

-Support Haven as she fulfills her agreement to play ‘Part of Your World’ on the piano nine more times before the recital.

-Do the girls' hair.

-Oh shit, do I have time to put on mascara?

-Don’t forget all four of the kids' sheet music.

-Try not to get in a fight with John while doing all the things.

-Be nice to in-laws when they meander up stairs to chat as I’m only one shoe deep and realizing that I forgot to put on a panty liner.

-Make it to the recital, and smile at people.

-Emily

WHY I CHOSE TO BIRTH MY CHILDREN AT HOME.

As a home birthed baby of the early 80’s, I have the sepia-tone proof that my mom and dad brought me calmly into this far-out world. In their four-poster bed, my mom is reclined against the embrace of my shirtless, long haired dad. He is smiling, leaning in towards her cheek to give words of encouragement. Eyes closed, she is laboring, adorned in an array of patterned blankets and knee-high socks. A midwife, her expression both relaxed and intent, is curled into the space between my mom's exposed thighs. This nest of support, wisdom, and trust exudes what birth can be, and what I assumed it always was.

Fifteen years later, my baby sister’s birth was something else all together. My mom chose to keep this life inside her, even as her own health began to decline. I stood vigil beside my birthing mom, in place of a bygone lover, wishing I could crawl in bed beside her. The blue hospital gown haphazardly covered her cinched waist where an electronic fetal monitor held her. I ached for the comfort in that old photo. And, as if she knew the struggles that awaited her on the outside, Mary Jo fought to remain in the womb. A pair of forceps and a vacuum extractor could not convince her otherwise. At last they clutched her tiny wet body from the parted abdomen of my anxious and exhausted mom.

But life prevails under many different births, and soon we were at home with our new, healthy baby. MJ’s infant existence provided me with early access to my “maternal gut feelings.” I swooned over the sweet, warm smell of cradle-cap concealed beneath measly strands of her black hair. Her body nestled into the breast of my mother as I watched completely unabashed; the grunts and suckles, her out stretched fingers seemed in search of the world’s compassion. I filled the tiny wrinkled palm with my own giant finger and vowed to protect her from anything.

The next year came and my mom asked me to help her while MJ got vaccinated. Once in the doctor’s office, my mother and I had to forcefully restrain her frantic body as she thrashed and wailed under the needle. Afterwards, we huddled in the hall, her spent body squeezed between us as we sobbed. I knew we were protecting her from illness, but I felt a moral conflict about the way it was done.

MJ grew during the course of hundreds of pancake breakfasts, and repeat Disney movies on VHS. We painted curly mustaches on one another with watercolor paints and took long walks in our neighborhood, just the two of us, her tiny legs leading the way. The nights passed with my mom at work. MJ and I would pace back and forth together during her marathon cries, pink-blanky mashed between us as we both yearned that mom would return home from her evening job. Each day was filled with decisions that I had no idea I was so thoroughly involved in making for her. As a sixteen year old, I did my best.

A decade later, I was pregnant with my first baby. I recognized right away what ‘felt’ right to me. But in the actual realm of motherhood, I couldn’t ‘feel’ my way through all the decisions; I had to ‘know.’ I was pre-internet during my pregnancy and relied on a fat file of photocopied paperwork on vaccinations. This sat on my left, a dictionary on my right, and a slowly protruding belly between the two.

Like many young pregnant women, I was suddenly isolated from my previous social life. I filled the vacancy of company with writings by Lamaze, Bradley, and Ina May Gaskin. I marveled over the anatomy of a reproductive system that I always had folded neatly inside me.

As my body continued to change, I gave myself permission to embrace my skin and bones for the first time in my life. If I were fortunate enough to have a low-risk birth, I would let my body lead and make every attempt I could to birth without interventions.

At three months pregnant, I held my best friend’s hand as she labored in the hospital. I witnessed the hypodermic needle as it was inserted into her spine. Intrigued, I watched as the pains of labor faded from her face. We spent the next hour watching the infant fetal monitor together, chatting with the nurses about her stronger contractions and happily awaiting the arrival of her son. I realized her body would still do what it needed to do, regardless of the epidural.

Just then the doctor came in to check her progress. She was given a time limit in response to her ruptured membranes. Pitocin, more pain reliever, and eventually transition was complete. We supported her lifeless legs so she could begin pushing at the doctor’s command. I panicked as she refused his orders to push. She asked for more time, and was answered with his gloved hands, physically applying pressure to her perineum, forcing her to push anyway. She pleaded for him to stop. As he refused, I watched her use every ounce of the strength she had left in her numb legs to shove him away. I was quickly escorted from the room.

Respectively, I know of births that were the embodiment of calm and nurturing, and unfolded under the care of a hospital. I am well aware that emergencies require doctors and that sometimes all the reading, training, and support that a person can obtain on the journey to motherhood, won’t stop life from unraveling.

My own four home births have provided me with a knowledge and gratitude for two things in particular:

1) My body never blocked me from having the birth that I sought. I knew what to expect of my body, and it (literally) delivered. I have also shared the moment of disillusionment with friends who had their birth plans rattled. And, after some tears, they rose to the challenge by embracing those difficulties, later even speaking on behalf of other mothers who may have to birth with unchartered complications. Both of these births are “successful” and abundant in blessings.

2) During the labor and birth of my first baby, I was vocal about who I needed beside me at the birth pool. To my great pleasure, these people were there. And the ones that were not there, my in-laws for example, sat in their truck outside the apartment, perhaps with less faith for what I was trying to do, but never with a lack of support for the individual decisions that my husband and I had made. They waited, and even if they weren’t in the same room at that moment, they stood beside our choices. That is a trust that I hope to give my own children when differences of opinions arise. Without the people in my life making space for me as a birthing woman, respecting what I wanted to do with my body, and lifting me (literally, my dear husband’s strong, tired arms) up so that I could confidently give birth.

I am always enraptured over an individual woman’s birth story. Sharing the triumphs and unresolved difficulties of labor and birth is an empowering action that can lie dormant at the core of each mother. By listening and encouraging one another, birth stories can blossom into dialogues that help us navigate who we are and who we want to be, not only promoting other woman to find out what they want from their birth, but ultimately identifying what they need and want from their lives, as well. 

-Emily

SATIATING MY INNER ARTIST. HOW TO BE CREATIVE AND A PARENT.

I have been mothering multiple children for over a decade now, and in their midst, my time is always shared. I have begrudgingly learned that some tasks cannot even be begun in the realm of raising little people. Perhaps that is when we lose sight of actions that bring us joy. To be peeled away from what we love to do, because we are never not needed, is painful at times. There was a moment when I felt sure that I would never again see an artistic endeavor from conception to completion. To feel compelled to create, or inspired in that moment, and realize that someone is always going to be hungry, or crying, or bored, and you are the one responsible for tending to those needs, is really awful.

I’ve adapted. Part of it sounds like less than a solution. I have embraced that sometimes I appear to be a slob. Okay realistically, if the creative urge is strong, I cut corners. My friends know that if they drop in on me, I may be wearing my pajamas as an outfit. On certain occasions, I have not asked the kids to clean up after themselves if they are not interfering with me, and aside from throwing food at them, I will anchor myself in the task at hand. It’s an artist/mother survival technique.

The truth is, I've never been afraid to make a mess, but there was always time before kids, to start and finish something. Now there are twenty in between stop-and-start-again phases. And at the end of the day, as I scramble to throw dinner together, the countertops may be covered in unfinished paper crafts, paint trays, and the resulting hint of what could someday be art are littered over the colorfully blemished dining table. My bed may be hiding beneath strewn fabric awaiting a final stitch and me somewhere else completely, making a sandwich, applying a bandaid, or just belly to the ground, playing with my kids.

I have made an effort not to completely abandon those things that seem absolutely unfathomable to finish. I credit this to handing over much of what I love to do, to my kids. I may have wanted to collage a masterpiece, but I spent the hour cutting out things that they wanted from magazines instead and in between helping the littles with the glue and the scissors, I was able to steal enjoyment from the creations that they made. This is how they have come to sew, paint, sculpt and draw. I had to willingly let go (literally sometimes: paint brushes and pencils pulled from my grasp), and be okay with assisting them in their own creations.

Making things for the sake of making things, is who I am. There is homemade flarp in my carpet that is never coming out. A beautiful smear of fuchsia paint has embedded in the wood floor in my dining room. Sparkles are so deeply ingrained in the nooks and crannies that you can’t escape, unknowingly wearing one or two on your face for a day. The mess is collateral damage for the bigger, more important part; remaining a creative force while being a mom. 

-Emily