MINDFUL MAMA- Can You be Grateful AND Still Want More?

I’m writing this with hopes of an epiphany by blog’s end because I’ve found myself in a spiritual quandary. Mindfulness, that’s the name of the game… staying in the moment, soaking it up while trying not to think about desires and impending future obligations.

It’s one variety of content. And, it’s a challenge, even on our best day. Staying present with your children or husband when to do lists are accumulating in every corner of your brain, taking a moment to stop stirring your curry that’s on the verge of turning from perfection to burned, to truly see the LEGO creation your son is holding up to your face. This aspect of mindfulness takes commitment and practice.

Then there’s the facet of mindfulness that involves loving yourself for who you are in this very moment, the recognition that you are perfectly imperfect as is, RIGHT NOW. Self-acceptance. That doesn’t come easy either. How to push out the lingering mental post-it notes that you wanna lose five pounds, stop drinking coffee, and oh yeah, be more present with your kids. Running is a time when I feel that I receive guidance… maybe it’s the “zone” I’m in, or maybe it’s a lack of oxygen, but personal revelations tend to show up there. I was having a rough go of things (the control freak that I am) and while sprinting a straight shot down a path, sun beating on my face, a voice clearly said to me “you are enough in this moment.” I felt amazing afterward, zen master status, goosebumps all over, but it sure as shit didn’t make it any easier to pull the whole self- love thing off.

And then there’s self- improvement, striving to be better, to push yourself beyond your comfort zone. For me, among other things, that involves trying things that will put me in a position of being criticized (vulnerability issues much?). Blogging, that’s one example of how I’m pushing against the cozy walls I’ve created for myself. I’m out there, not just on a personal level, but creatively and intellectually. There are people who may feel that my writing skills are no bueno or that my ideas should be saved for a home journal. I’ll never know what everyone's thinking, and that’s extremely unnerving for me. I could quit. God knows I’ve wanted to. But, “they” tell us (whoever “they” are), that outside of our comfort zone is where growth happens, so I press on, reminding myself that others opinions don’t matter (which also feels like a half-truth).

Here’s where the quandary comes in. My big question… how do we stay “in the moment”, accepting ourselves as “perfectly imperfect right now” while still “striving to be better?” Feels like there are some incongruencies there. I’m over here trying to manifest living in Bali for a year while sitting in my living room attempting to appreciate the house I’m in. I’m working on trying to start a lil’ business to make some moola, to help pay for my future Balinese lifestyle, while endeavoring to be purely in the moment with my little girl as we rearrange the furniture in her Peppa Pig dollhouse. I’m finally a stay at home mom, and I’m scheming about things that are going to rob me of the peace that brings, a peace I’ve craved for years... but limitations aren’t supposed to be part of my vocabulary. I’m spending her nap time lifting weights and jumping around the house while trying to love my perfectly imperfect body and still pay homage to my physical temple. I’m closing my eyes to meditate every day in an attempt to get “more mindful” and appreciative, when I could be quietly drinking up views of the mountains from my living room windows, heart swollen with gratitude.

As I write this, in search for answers, I notice the word “self” is a consistent theme. Embracing the “self” in order to detach from “self.” More confusion as the cursor blinks at me, waiting for the words to pour forth, but my self is stuck. Deep breaths… because “they” say the answers are within as long as we quiet the personality and listen.

My intuition is telling me that maybe I’m trying too hard. That all of this “self-help” is turning into self-involvement. This focus on filling each moment with growth isn’t leaving space for true mindfulness, just a distraction from such. Maybe it shouldn’t take this much effort. Me trying to detach from Angi doesn’t allow for proper appreciation and unconditional acceptance of the Angi I’ve been given in this go around at humanity.

So, what does that look like? Do I stop with the forward progression, the endless striving? That doesn’t feel right either.

Bear with me, as I have an internal dialogue that the rest of you now have to be privy to.

Does wanting more have to mean that you don’t love what you’ve got? Maybe loving what I’ve got actually creates the desire for more because it feels so good to have that joy, achievement, or fulfillment.

I’m going to leave us with that because I want to hear from my fellow Mindful Mamas. It’s all I’ve come up with after one meditation and a long, quiet bath.

Maybe I’ll be back with a more inspired explanation next week. A few more baths and meditations might help, or maybe I should just stare at the mountains until then...

-Angi

GOING PUBLIC ABOUT HOMESCHOOL- Making the Shift to Teaching at Home.

I confess to thinking “no thanks” when a trusted neighbor brought a book to my house about homeschooling. I flipped through the pages, nodding in agreement as she insisted that keeping all of my kids at home with me would yield “more freedom”. I kept my judgy ole misconceptions to myself: homeschooling was for persnickety parents, ones who placed too much expectation on what a public school should provide.

I had read and reread "You Are Your Child’s First Teacher" by Rahima Baldwin Dancy. The first five pivotal years of my child’s life had and would continue to unfold in the nurturing/stimulating nest of our home. After that, public school would be their side gig. I hoped my kids would get a good gleaning of knowledge from the professionals before they came back home to me. They would be homogenized humans; normal, but brilliant. I would not shape them into tiny, weird, sheltered, idiots.

My discomfort with confrontation meant that I learned very little from the exchange with my neighbor that day... I could have asked questions or made stupid assumptions that she would have been happy to clear up, but no; my goal in situations such as these was to prematurely wrap up the conversation no sooner than it had started. My own idiot ego wanted to quickly slap a label on something instead of understanding it. I acted like an unknowingly prejudiced fool. (I have progressed since then into a self-aware prejudiced fool…)   

Kindergarten started, and I spent the first school year mostly proving myself right: public school was a wonderful experience for my 5-year-old daughter. I witnessed her gregarious nature on Tuesdays when I played teacher’s helper in the class. Haven loved the games played in a giant circle on the rug. She liked talking to people and being challenged and pridefully following all the rules. I didn’t realize at the time, but the number of creative projects, flashcards, and homework that we were completing at home had a great deal to do with Haven’s academic success. I was basically homeschooling without a personalized curriculum.

It wasn’t long into our kindergarten endeavors that I noticed the same experience was not being shared by all the kids in Haven’s class. A group of younger kindergarteners spent the first part of each morning crying for their mothers. In a room of 32 kids, the teacher had little sympathy to extend to this group of mostly boys. The kids, whose parents engaged in their little lives outside of school, all sat at the “red” table. The Roy G. Biv smart scale trickled down to subsequent tables all removed from one another.

I watched in agony as the more privileged kids established who got to be friends with: someone shy, someone wearing knockoff Skechers, someone whose unbrushed hair was not styled by adoring parents. The kids who weren’t mature enough to not make fart noises all the way to the pencil sharpener (more than half the boys) had to learn the hard way by having privileges taken away. After half a school year banished to sit still during the times actually permitted to move, the boys began to begrudgingly shut up and sit semi-still.  

But Haven seemed a perfect candidate for all things public school. She thought the way her teacher laughed without smiling, in response to a million kid’s stupid stories, was hilarious, not offensive. She made friends and played with different kids on a weekly basis. I adored completing every monotonous art project they sent home with her: creating something with 100 items, building a leprechaun trap, handcrafting valentines, celebrating the Chinese New Year by constructing a giant, embellished dragon head that could be worn by a small child… (okay, that last one was all me, desperate for praise, which I got and totally earned. That dragon was kick ass).

Haven was all set by the end of summer to continue her public education into the future. She would become a first grader in the fall. I would continue pulling her from slumber each morning, dressing her appropriately, packing lunches, driving to and from class each day, and helping her complete the assigned homework required to keep her ahead. But that summer, my idea of what school was, came to a screeching halt when I visualized Bowie walking through that same kindergarten door.  

He would be that younger student with a September birthday. He was emotional and quiet and intimidated by rooms full of noise and people. He would not receive a reprimand to “cry quieter” with any constructivism when he missed me during those first hours of class. What was I to do? Wouldn’t he become a tiny weird idiot if I sheltered him? Was public education a tool to weed out mainstream learners, and file the rest accordingly by table? What table would society want to shove my son into? Who would be there to give him the attention he needed to thrive?

I would.

I finally picked up the book. It was "The Well Trained Mind" by Jessie Wise. It sucked me in, terrified me, blew my mind, and intrigued the apprehensive, creative freak right out of me. Holy shit! I was a homeschooler!

I want to tell you that it was all easy peasy from that moment on, but it was terrifyingly difficult at first. Being responsible for the education of a person is intense (all praise to teachers everywhere!). Being suddenly responsible for the education of two persons, while entertaining a toddler and breastfeeding a newborn infant was f’ing craze balls.

But, the one thing that was guaranteed? I had more freedom. My neighbor was absolutely telling the truth. I lived in a pair of pajamas for months, didn’t brush my hair or concern myself too much with what my kids looked like, as long as they were put into the tub on a weekly basis and had an assortment of food thrown their way. It was survival, but I never had to force something. I got to be me, and my kids got to be them.

I remember the day Bowie and I finished "Teach Your Child To Read in 100 Easy Lessons." There had been absolutely nothing easy about it, but I was so proud of us. He could read. And he could do it in his underwear nestled beside me, where fart noises were permitted. I realize that homeschooling isn’t a choice for all families or even a desirable thought for others, but being an advocate for my son’s needs was personal, and I feel grateful that life permitted me to provide him with a learning environment that considers who he is and how he best learns.

After six years of homeschooling, I am still certain that it is the best fit for our family. I have learned the value of failing and how teaching to mastery takes more time than most classrooms can allow. We are life schoolers; absolutely not sheltered, unabashedly weird at times, but able to persevere through failure because messing up is learning.

I want to thank Genevieve, who humbly offered me books, solutions, and options that were unconventional. You enlightened me to homeschool and homebirth, and to ultimately enjoy my role as a mother.   

-Emily

EXPECTATIONS AND LET DOWNS- Allowing for Personal Growth in Marriage.

Over a decade ago, I stumbled upon a life-changing article in Oprah magazine (still killin’ it to this day, Opes). I nervously tore it out, knowing it would necessitate repetitive reading and slipped it into my purse when no one was looking. I then waited for the nurse to open the door and beckon me in, feeling every bit a criminal. I'm soooo bad. Alas, I still have the paper, likely folded and stowed away into a tiny corner of a drawer or bin somewhere, but four moves later, I wouldn’t know where to begin looking, so you’ll have to bear with my memory. It’s subpar at best.

The article was written by a woman who became a therapist later in life, after a failed marriage to a man and a subsequent successful marriage as a lesbian. It happens, right.

It’s an article I think of often, because it’s wisdom is indispensable to growth and understanding in long-term relationships, not just with a husband but family and friends as well.

She was treating a couple and assigned them a special task. They were to take turns not speaking for one day. In other words, the husband could speak for 24 hours but his wife was not allowed to talk or respond to him at all and vice versa.

For the husband’s go around, his wife felt extremely insecure without the presence of his commentary, causing her to create her own version of what she thought he’d say to her in each moment. All day she narrated her behavior with things like “I just know what you’re thinking…” and then would assert what she assumed to be his judgment of her. When the sun went down, and the husband was freed from his vow of silence, he was able to share that all of her assumptions were completely inaccurate. He’d thought none of the things she’d put in his mouth, and the negativity she’d ascribed to him was also flawed.

The moral of the story is that over time we all evolve, inevitably learning and metamorphosing. But, often in marriage or within families, we remember who a person was when they were younger or when we first met. We don’t mentally allow for the growth that has eventuated, thus parents talking to adult children like they haven’t aged a day since moving out, forgetting their worldly experiences beyond the walls of their childhood homes, or wives saying to their husbands “you'll always” and “you'll never.”

Within each of us, an often invisible transformation is constantly unfolding. When I say to my husband “you’re not confident enough to…” I call forth a man who no longer exists, and in doing so inadvertently shame the man who is, effectively nullifying years of personal work towards progression.

When my husband avoids subjects that may incite conflict, because he thinks I’ll impulsively lose it, he doesn’t honor the massive efforts I’ve put into controlling my visceral reactions.

And, I so desperately want to be better for him.

We are dynamic creatures, and internal renovation is a constant. It’s happening within each of us right now. Something is shifting, and it may not yet be apparent to anyone but us.

For a long time, only I was privy to my desire to gain control over my hot-headed temper and biting tongue. That appetite for growth was the first step towards change. But, my husband couldn’t see my mental shift. His awareness was limited to what his eyes perceived.

Slowly, I’ve been able to confront that agenda and manipulate my behavior to match my desires. But, the part of me that was ashamed of my temper, the part that my husband knew well, had difficulty letting go. Knowing what he assumed about me, what reaction he expected, made it all the more challenging. I can’t fault him for this. We interpret our lives through what we’ve learned to be true via past interactions.

We can’t start over with different partners every time we want to make ourselves anew. And, we also can’t forget the past. But, we can bite our tongues and assume a position of optimism. When we verbally remind one another of all the ways we fall short, we invoke more of the same. Believing in our partner's ability and desire to always be more, to constantly be better, gives them the space to begin that most difficult separation from those undesirable behaviors. Labeling one another only creates an injustice, a war not worth waging, because the improved version of you won’t ever be seen if you’re invariably living in the shadow of she who was.

So, I try to remind myself that my husband, my family, my friends are full of love, for themselves and others. And that love propels an internal battle, an aspiration to step out of the shadows of ineffective behaviors. We walk that path together, and if we can quietly assume the best of one another, gently setting aside previous expectations, knowing our earthly challenges coupled with the fervor of our souls' desires to advance, we give one another wings, empowering an instinctive and beautiful expansion.

-Angi

HOME SCHOOLING IN THE CHIP AISLE.

We’re at the grocery store, and I know you from around town.  Maybe we have mutual friends but we’ve never hung-out together, me a gaggle-deep amidst my 4 kids, you alone with a yoga mat slung over your shoulder.  You look startled by us, almost like I’m doing something wrong, but you can’t put your finger on it.  I simultaneously disregard a child’s pleas to purchase Cheetos, while gently reminding another to ‘make room for the world around them,’ as an old woman squeezes past our budding shopping cart.  I examine the contents on a label of jelly, and still manage to talk to you.  I know it’s a lot, but you could have just pretended not to see us.  Instead you ask, “Whoa, is it a school holiday or something?” One eyebrow rises, as you survey my brood. “Right?!” I say, chuckling, as if no one has ever asked me that one before, “They are homeschooled,“ and then under my breath, “they NEVER leave.”  You laugh and acknowledge my response to be inclusive with your own judgment. Now we can talk. “Shopping with Mom is actually a highlight in our homeschooling. They get to talk to strangers and even practice their conversation skills with humans of different ages,” (even the ones that don’t know that public school is a relatively new institution in the scheme of things). One of my middles steps on the shopping cart, causing one side to teeter and slam back down as she jumps off, startled.  I put a hand on her shoulder and bring my gaze to hers, “I asked you to stay off the cart. Please don’t climb on there again.”  This time you inspect us with two raised eyebrows and awkwardly move past while saying, “Okay… well, see you guys around.” 

I push on towards the produce, and remember a time when I wanted approval for my perfectly behaved kids.  But they aren’t perfect.  And they aren’t the only ones having a learning experience at the store.  Each time I feel defeated by a less than perfect scenario with my kids, I have an opportunity to make choices.  It used to be that I would chastise them in the heat of my humiliation. Later I reprimanded and then apologized for getting upset or raising my voice. After a while, I was able to talk to them without referencing any spectator’s judgments. I confidently know now that I can use my words with them just like I ask them to use their words with the world around them; politely. I’m a living example of the people I hope they will be.  That doesn’t mean that I’m always doing it right. I just know how to embrace failure and make that part of the brilliant lesson (that we’re all having) at the grocery store. 

-Emily

MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL- Changing Bodies, Aging, and Motherhood.

The morning after giving birth to my first son, I slowly made my way to the bathroom, waddling through the tenderness between my legs. Mostly unclothed from nursing, I knew the mirror was soon to confront me and tell truths I might not be ready to hear. I'd consciously avoided it's stares thus far. Inspecting the changes in my body elicited apprehension laced with terror. After a deep breath and internal pep talk, I let my gaze slowly shift toward the floor. My belly appeared to be stretch mark free and only slightly swollen. A wave of relief swept through, after months of horror stories and worry. Then the weigh-in. The scale granted more relief; I was 12 pounds heavier than I’d been pre-pregnancy, having gone to great lengths to ensure minimal necessary weight gain. I could manage 12 pounds. I’d put on 25 and run three miles daily, until the final month, stopping only to avoid the inferno that was August. I then sentenced my awkward body to 30 minutes of the elliptical machine for the remainder of the pregnancy. Hell-bent on giving my baby as healthy a start as I had control over and keeping myself in prime condition for a smooth home birth, I ate well throughout, only succumbing to cravings for pizza in the first trimester, when literally everything else sounded like a recipe for barfing. And, of course, I still wanted to look good postpartum, to retain my non-mommy body, clinging to the idea that I could and should exist as both, separately and simultaneously. Read on, lest you think me a fool.

My teens were awkward, at best. I carried extra weight after moving to a rural town in Wisconsin. I mean, it’s the cheese state, and the school cafeteria served unlimited homemade cinnamon bread at lunch. Sugar was a just reward for enduring teenage years at a new school with people who didn’t seem to want me there. Heaping bowls of Cheerios right before bed became a regular thing, cus it was fat-free, so why not? High school came to a close (praise effing be), and I sported minimal self-confidence with a Rachel cut gone terribly wrong. Think A-line bob with a long tail attached to it, seemingly from nowhere, because the 50-year-old hairstylist at the generic version of small-town Supercuts had obviously lied through her teeth when I asked her if she knew who Rachel from Friends was. I should have intuited that from the vapid stare she possessed after my description. Needless to say, attractive was not a quality I assigned to myself.

We moved back to California shortly after my rat tail was cut off, leaving me with a chubby, pale face framed by a not so flattering bob. My friends were all away at college, and I was alone. This led to mild depression, the shitty poetry phase, as I've mentally coined it. The melancholy halted my appetite and leaned me out. My hair grew. My pasty skin got a bit of California tan, I traded in my over-sized farm girl attire for feminine vintage finds and... started to get noticed. Late to the party, but nonetheless in attendance, I finally began dating.

That attention gifted a high like no other, something other girls had probably gotten in their early teens and were well over by 20. But, I needed it still, to build self-worth, to know that I held value to the opposite sex. I wasn’t just the “smart girl” anymore. My still malleable identity accidentally got intertwined with being stylish and thin. I had other attributes I was proud of as well, but it was all a jumbled up mess and remained that way beyond the birth of my first son.

And beyond the birth of my second.

Then came Indigo. A move. And 40. And no job. And no second income. And another body to tend to that wasn’t my own.

I had to skip workouts regularly because, Life. And because I didn’t want to throw myself back into adrenal fatigue from pushing too hard or pulling myself out of bed before the sun, sacrificing much needed rest in the name of fitness. Energy trumped skinny out of pure survival.

Botox wasn’t in the budget.

Cute clothes weren’t either. I was a stay at home mom for the first time ever, dressing up would certainly be lost on my toddler. And, I’d moved to a notoriously casual town. Think Patagonia- a puffer jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, with a greasy bun on it. It sure helped that these new moms I was sharing a city with weren’t prioritizing the aesthetic either. My new local trendy was fleece paired with “don’t give a shit,” and the timing couldn’t have been more kismet. Don’t mistake this for self-neglect. These chicks get things done. It’s really just a shift in priority commingled with a more action-oriented definition of being a woman. I needed that.

For most, this epiphany doesn’t require three children. It took that many for me to officially lose the emotional space to give any fucks about going out into the world and being noticed. There was no conscious choice made. It was forced upon me by the requirement of caretaking. Cus, ain’t nobody got time for that (that referring to anything/everything and anybody referring to mothers).

Untangling the value of beauty and youth from motherhood, from womanhood, from personhood, was less angsty than I’d anticipated. I’d watched my mother come to terms with aging, often seeing a woman far less beautiful than was there, and I worried how I’d manage, what the mirror would reflect back to me, unwittingly imprinting upon my self-worth.

But, I see the grey hairs springing forth from my scalp for the first time this year, like tiny radars tuning in to a higher frequency as I level up, and I smile, not rushing to cover them with dye. I earned each one with colicky babies, years of late nights spent snuggling and nursing instead of sleeping, with the endurance of one temper tantrum after another, the hysterical refusals of eating seemingly benign dinners, three children crying in unison while my husband and I exchanged vacant stares, taking mental leave for survival, and brother’s turning on one another at a moment's notice, screaming in the backseat because someone’s unwelcome fingertip is resting upon their forearm.

I earned this shift in perspective. I’ve never worked harder for anything, and I deserve the new brand of beautiful bestowed upon me.

Now, the smiles on my children’s faces act as the most important mirror of all, reflecting a worth that is predicated upon the joy they experience, the fullness of their bellies, the love held in each beat of their hearts. Of course, there is so much more to me than motherhood, and I welcome any and all “nice butt” comments my husband has to offer, but the way I look and how others perceive the wrapping of my soul is of little consequence in comparison to my role as “Mommy.”

-Angi