A Moment

I found myself in an odd predicament last night.

Greg was out of town for work, and I was facing another night of single mom duty. I had just endured watching my boys go at it in their first kind-of-for-real wrestling match (in which the youngest appeared to use a baseball as a weapon), and upon the oldest's declaration that they should have more jelly beans, I scurried to the kitchen to make dinner.

I looked up from pizza making every once in awhile to text Julia about how my couch cushions were everywhere and Will was diving head first into the floor (thank you, swimming lessons, for building his confidence, but we didn't need to go this far), and how my "Reid you had BETTER NOT do that AGAIN or YOU will be in TIME OUT"s fell on deaf ears.

Then the phone rang.

It was my mom. And she said the most beautiful words:

"You know, it might just be easier for the boys to have a sleepover at our house tonight. That way we don't need to be at your house so early in the morning to get them to day care. When would you like us to come pick them up?"

A half an hour later, I gently coerced a hysterical Will into his car seat in the pouring rain (first time he's been devastated to leave me in years), and offered they should call if he doesn't calm down.

I walked back into my house to...silence.

The windows were open, and the rain was splashing the new foliage, and dog paws were click-clacking all around. A tennis ball dropped from one of their mouths. The cat purred at my feet.

But it was silent.

What would you do?

I wanted to pour myself a grande margarita and run through the house with Britney Spears music crazy loud and Elaine-style dance moves in full glory. I thought about dishing up an enormous bowl of ice cream and settling in with the Real Housewives while painting my nails Tahiti Pink. I contemplated jumping on the computer and just mindlessly surfing shopping for fun summer clothes.

But here's what I did instead.

I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the dishes, the mail, the coffee pot that needed to be filled. I looked out to the street and was cued by neighbors' driveways that I needed to get the garbage out. I turned to the family room, every light on illuminating those fallen couch cushions sprinkled with super heroes and micro machines.

I got up and walked to the family room window and sat cross-legged on the floor. I took the deepest inhale a person can take and I sighed and smiled as I closed my eyes, and I stayed.

Silent.

I literally turned my back on every single responsibility I have.

The meditation was only a few minutes, a deconstructing of my thoughts and a recognition of my stress and an allowance of feeling completely free and unburdened by the responsibilities that are generally the 24/7 of my life.

Do you know how hard that is?

I think you probably do.

Do you know how important I've decided it is to have that emotion of freedom?

Essential.

I feel like so many of us--moms and dads alike--become consumed with every role we play in the lives of others that we forget we are our own life. We forget that we are not defined by titles and responsibilities, that we have needs and not only do we need to acknowledge them, but we need to act upon them and give ourselves that care.

My need last night was a moment.

Upon standing, I left a little bit of anxiety behind for that spring evening breeze to carry away, and I continued as I would have: dishes done, garbage out, coffee made, couch put back, toys in the toy bin.

And then, well, I am human after all. I indulged.

I sure had missed Tamra and Heather and the other Orange County housewives. I wonder if they ever allow themselves time for a moment?

-Kristin

Maybe My Kids Will Be Jugglers

I feel if I don’t get my kids into a sport or activity soon, they will be doomed to be losers forever.

They are only three and a half and eighteen months, and already I am feeling pressure to ensure they are good at something by the time they are…well, NOW. Or God forbid they may not make the Varsity team of something amazing by age eight.

My kids have not had a single swimming class. No tumbling, either. They have not participated in any “mommy and son” sing-a-long, dance-a-long or act-like-a-ding-dong-a-long classes. We aren’t yet members of a rec center or the local Y.

Okay, so I’m lying. Mac has tried soccer. We paid a stupidly high amount for 10 indoor sessions up in psycho-soccer territory (aka Dublin, Ohio), and he seemed to kind of like it. But there were plenty of tears, too. And it was too early on a Saturday morning when also trying to manage a one-year-old. And many of the other parents were just waaaaay too into it.

In our backyard, we have soccer balls and a net. We have baseball gear and a basketball hoop. We have balls of every size and color and type. Mac can hit, kick and throw them all pretty well--or so his dad says; I'm no coach.

We’ve talked about what we’d like to get Mac involved in. Martial arts, for sure. Maybe wrestling (just like daddy). He said he wants to play baseball…or soccer…or basketball.

So what’s the problem? We just need to sign him up already. And buy the overpriced gear and show up at silly times for chaos and tears and “I wanna snack!” and “I need to pee!” and just sit and enjoy the misery with the other parents. It’s a rite of passage for young parents. I get it. Now we need to up and JUST DO IT, all Nike-style.

But I’m scared. I’m worried for them. Because…what if my kids suck at sports like I did? I’m worried that they will be totally uncoordinated and laughed at by others and not “make” the team one day. It’s devastating. And you never forget it.

I tried out for cheerleading multiple times, which was dumb, because I couldn’t even do a cartwheel. I did a LOG ROLL for the gymnastics portion of the try-outs. The judges weren’t even looking at me. Why would they? I was never going to make it.

(And please, do laugh out loud that I did a log roll at the tryouts. It is pretty damn funny. My lanky, stick legs, rolling around on the floor – what was I thinking?!)

I’ve never had good endurance (and I now blame sickle cell trait). I came in last on field day…in all the competitions. Remember the ribbons that were handed out? Yep, I had a huge stack of the 5^th and 6^th place orange and brown ones. I was always the last one picked for any sport during gym class. Basketball, soccer, tetherball — even four-square. As my brother will gladly tell you, I couldn’t even push a decent “shoe-shiner” my opponent’s way.

I can only imagine that it stinks for boys even more if they are not good at sports. That’s what they are built for, right? It’s a natural talent; they have muscles, they can pick up stuff easily and hit the ball over the fence…right? But what if my boys can’t? What if they try out all the sports and they aren’t good at any of them and they refuse to play anything because they are embarrassed and end up carrying around a heap of hurt and rejection for decades?

What if they really want to be good – like I did so badly – but they simply are not?

On the other hand...what if they find out they are really good at something? That they truly enjoy and love playing something, because they are so good at it? Or maybe they will be good at multiple sports. What if they meet their best friends in those circles at a young age and it keeps them engaged in their studies and out of trouble through their high school years, and they ultimately experience breathtaking moments of success and confidence and excitement and joy?

Of course, I would want that for them both!

I don’t care much for most sports, because I was never good at them. I couldn’t really try to participate anyway (until high school) because my parents were divorced, and traveling to Cincinnati from Dayton to see my dad and family every two weeks was much more important. For my kids’ sake, I need to shake off my past resentment and start cheering for them on the sidelines. I need to let them try different sports (and stick to it through the season’s end even if they don’t like it) and then let them determine later on which ones they really want to pursue. I need to get my butt up early on the weekends and push them (not crazily) to try hard and practice their tails off and to get better and to not give up.

Sports aren’t for everyone, but being involved in some way, with other kids, and learning how to work together as a team and just being active — period — undoubtedly is necessary for raising healthy, respectful, determined children. And I want that more than anything for my boys.

And, I think they may have a good shot at being good at something. Because thankfully, I represent only half of their DNA.

*And for the record, I did become involved in something fantastic in high school that kept me practicing and active 30+ hours per week in addition to school, and I fully recognize how much it shaped who I am today. I just want a positive experience – like I ultimately had – for Mac and Graham, regardless of whether it’s through sports, the arts or even backpacking with friends through the wild.

The wild south side of Pittsburgh, only, of course.

-Melissa

Five Sentences

A few weeks ago Colin turned four. Four! Four? Not possible.

His teacher sent home a paper the week before his birthday asking for me to provide five pictures of Colin (one for each year of his life) along with one sentence that described an event that occurred during that year.

Five pictures! Five sentences? Not possible.

I take hundreds--make that thousands--of pictures of my boys on a monthly basis. I Instagram our life...daily...with hashtags. I write blog posts on huge milestones (like when my youngest learned to walk) as well as the minute details of life (like when my oldest discovered his pockets). As a writer and avid photographer, minimalism isn't my forte; documentation is. I could write a novel, a trilogy, a miniseries on Colin, accompanied by photos from close to every day of his life. This is not an exaggeration. You take your kids for a walk around the block? I do, too, but I bring my camera, take 100 photos, and write an essay relating stopping to look at bugs and being in the moment.

I joked with his teacher, telling her that I could put together a quick slide show (set to music) instead. She responded that five photos would be adequate. Humph. It took me days to comb through my painstakingly organized photo collection, year by year, month by month, to select only five photos. It took so long to make my final choices that I had to settle and get the pictures printed at Walgreens in lieu of my normal professional quality photo lab. So even though I had the perfect pictures, the color, tone, paper quality, and cropping was sub-par. Humph.

Next I started filling in the worksheet. I kept it simple, as the directions specifically stated in two separate places.

Birth: Colin was born on April 1. April Fools Day!

1 Year Old: Colin took his first airplane ride to Florida when he was one.

I stared at the page, over and over again. How could I possibly jump between birth and flying on an airplane?

So much happened between those two simple sentences.

Life changed. Life changed in ways I can tangibly put to words, and it changed in ways I will never be able to articulate on paper. My priorities shifted. I became calmer, more loving, more attentive, focused, and protective. I lived through sleepless nights, milestones, and the joys, pride, confusion, frustration, and excitement of that first year. I quickly learned that I, in fact, knew nothing. Four years later, I still don't. I leaned on those around me, gathering their wisdom. I stayed humble. Every day was a new challenge, opportunity, and adventure, and if I've learned anything in these last four years, it's that every day will include all of the above. 

In that first year, I learned to trust myself, my instincts. Although filled with fears (rational and more commonly irrational), I gained a new confidence. And most importantly, we survived. 

No.We thrived.

He is my greatest adventure, and I'll continue to marvel in his development, his vocabulary, and the little person he's becoming. I look forward to the big events of the next four years, and every single moment in between. 

So yes. There is so much that happened between those two simple sentences.  So much in fact that even a quick slide show (set to music) probably wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface.

-Laura
Pssst. Honest Mom Project is now on Twitter! If you tweet (we have no idea what we are doing) follow us! @honestmomproj

The Evolution of Grocery Shopping

I know lots of people dread the grocery shopping chore, but in our house, it's always been our "thing."

We've been doing it as a family since my wife and I were first dating. The Sunday morning tradition always began with a perusal of new recipes in new cookbooks to create an extensive shopping list, and it continued at the store with a cup of coffee and a leisurely stroll through produce.

It used to be other shoppers that made my blood boil. The soup aisle is notorious for folks parking three cars wide to search for the impossible-to-find Progresso Light Minestrone.

But then Will was born. Our routine changed slightly in a few ways. (And I found other things that made my blood pressure sky rocket.)

Our sunday mornings started a little earlier, since Will's alarm clock went off at 5:30 every day of the week. It was fairly easy to put him in his pumpkin seat and cruise the empty store that early in the morning (Starbucks red eye coffee in hand), despite the fish counter grumbling at us (we think their latest "Fish Market Hours 9 a.m.-9 p.m. Daily" sign is a direct result of our early morning salmon orders).

But then Will graduated to the car cart. Its issues don't need to be explained.

And then Reid came along.

Suddenly, what was once pleasant grocery shopping is more frustrating than ever. I'll take slow pokes mulling diet soup choices any day over the amount of whining I have to endure in the middle of a grocery store.

Let's start with that formerly extensive grocery list full of new recipes from cookbooks. Those cookbooks are still in boxes in our basement from last summer's move, and we have a weekly rotation of tacos, pasta, and soup. We don't even need a list.

The boys argue over who gets to sit in the car cart (since now they both don't fit together). There are little sneaky hands who find--and often unwrap--candy in the checkout that we then have to purchase. I have eaten so many sleeves of Rolos as a result of this. (But I feel it's my duty, after all, to go ahead and consume them. I'd hate to see them go to waste.)

Back in the day when they both fit in here. Barely.

And the free cookies. Every time I see a bakery lady standing next to an empty customer cookie dome, I want to ask her what on earth she thinks she's doing. I mean, it's EMPTY. You think free asparagus spears in produce is going to appease these kids?

And the balloons. If they don't pop before we leave the store, then they get sucked out of the moonroof of the car, or popped as soon as we get home. (But I do thank the fine people at Kroger for providing me with an unending supply of chip clips which they use as balloon weights.)

There have been at least two occasions in which we have abandoned a full cart mid-aisle, because we couldn't beat the clock against toddler meltdowns. Or lunchtime.

(Had they just restocked the cookie container, we may have made it...)

But this Sunday event, it's our tradition.

There will come a time when the boys will both be snoozing past noon and will miss the trip. Or a day when a baseball game conflicts and one parent will be making that trip solo (and if it's my wife, then she will feel like she is on vacation).

But if it's me, I will miss this current routine, car cart arguments and all.

It's what we do.

The day when I can stroll and sip a hot coffee will mean that my family isn't with me, and no matter my frustrations in what the present grocery trip is like, the thought of the future trips makes me, well, nostalgic already.

-Greg

Pssst. Honest Mom Project is now on Twitter! If you tweet (we have no idea what we are doing) follow us! @honestmomproj

Date Days

Like the necessity of date nights, today Greg and I discovered the necessity of date days.

We planned nothing except that we would both take a day off but still send the boys to school.

We did our usual Sunday errands, postponed because of Easter. The grocery was empty and quiet, even more so without fights over cookies and begging for balloons and the wails that follow the shove out of the car cart.

After a spin through the car wash and the purchasing of a new phone, we came home, went for a run sans the 100 pound jogging stroller, and then the real romance begin.

First stop: Home Depot, where I got to ride home with a bouquet of lumber on my lap.

A few repairs to the deck (I held screws, wedged lumber, and moved the ladder) and we were off to lunch. Tacos (extra beans!) and iced tea in the warm sun.

The fun didn't end there--Greg brought out the chain saw and cut down the half-dead tree in the front yard.

Are you swooning yet?

Have you ever done a day date? It's strange, isn't it? The first hour is like the deepest breath you've ever taken. And then slowly, it starts to creep in: the desire to want to hug your kids and play with them and read them books and draw pictures and watch a movie and play Uno. I tried to ward it off with the reminder that they'd run away from my hugs, beg me to play superheroes, whine about the movie selection, and throw the Uno cards across the room before hitting each other.

Honestly, I didn't have to try too hard to keep that mom guilt away. (Yesterday's Easter sugar crash tantrums fulfilled my quota for the month.)

No marriage is perfect, and the addition of any amount of children seems to intensify its complexities. What upon first glance appears to be just a day of errands and home improvement projects was sprinkled with the familiar inside jokes and phrases and conversation that often disappears when the attention of little ones is so present.

It is such a simple way for us to reconnect. I think one day he will surprise me with some plane tickets to a far-off destination (hint-wink-nudge-kick to the shins), but for now, I am content (and not just saying it) to simply set aside time to be with one another, in whatever form that happens to take.

-Kristin

Actually, I'm Not Fine--My Messy Beautiful

This essay and the Honest Mom Project are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

I don’t like to complain.

And as I re-read that, it may be too bold of a statement. 

Let me clarify. I don’t like to complain about the important things in life. I certainly do my fair share of complaining. Last week it was about the never-ending Cleveland winter, and just this morning, I was lamenting with a co-worker over the price hike in monogramming at Pottery Barn Kids (which is highway robbery if you ask me, although the additional $1.50 won’t deter me from personalizing everything I purchase there…but I digress). 

But the important things, I keep quiet. Or to my most inner-circle. 

Lately? I get a lot of, “How are you doing with your husband working in North Carolina?” It's usually followed by an overly exaggerated grimace.

And my response is the same every time. In an upbeat voice I say, “I’m managing! We look forward to Fridays in our house!”

And it’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. 

I am managing. And I do look forward to Fridays. But being a Monday-to-Friday single mom is challenging, more than I ever imagined. I’m outnumbered. I’m exhausted. I don’t get a break. I don’t get to breathe. I yell too much. We watch too much TV. We don’t read enough books. I microwave dinner. Or order pizza. I don’t give the boys baths every single night. I count down the hours, minutes, and sometimes seconds until bedtime. And when my bedtime finally arrives, I can’t sleep. My mind is racing with tomorrow’s to do lists and I lay awake for hours. I’m lonely.

But I don’t want to burden YOU with that. I don’t want you to think I’m struggling, that I can’t handle this. I’m not trying to create the illusion that I’m a perfect mom, or that I can handle this effortlessly. Because I’m not. And I can’t. 

I just don’t want to rehash my daily grind in casual conversation. I don’t want to talk about how lonely I am.  I just want to talk to you, about the weather, and your garden, and how much candy your kids are going to consume on Easter Sunday, and do you have a good deviled egg recipe? 

And I don't want to feel lonely.

As hard as my Monday thru Friday is, it’s easier than being on the other side. Because I know the other side. I was the one that used to travel. Before I left my corporate job for a job that truly promotes a work/life balance, I spent the better part of 10 years as a road warrior. I'd travel for weeks at a time, across the world. I saw the sights of Vietnam, yet I missed my son crawl for the first time. The night my son spent in the hospital, I was in China with a Blackberry that didn’t work. And every picture my husband sent me while on a trip to Singapore and Malaysia, I cried.  Because I was missing out. On life. On the big moments, and the very little moments. And every moment in between.

I know that’s how my husband feels. I think that kind of heartache is worse than any hectic day as a single parent. Hands down. 

So on my toughest days--the days I’m exhausted, discouraged, defeated, and alone--I look around at all that I have, embrace the support that so many have offered me, and escape in the conversations I'll have with you about those crazy cute and overpriced Pottery Barn beach towels. 

And there's always comfort in the fact that Friday is never more than six days away. 

-Laura

We're giving away a free copy of Glennon's book, Carry On, Warrior. To enter to win, share this blog on your social media pages and tag @thehonestmomproject. 

Broken Open--My Messy Beautiful

This essay and the Honest Mom Project are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

For many of us, this has been a seemingly endless winter. As April spreads its sunny weeks before me, I start to see, and feel, the fringes of a season change. Light fills the room of my evening yoga classes a little longer each day, the sun creating criss-cross patterns across my mat. 

About a month ago I was taking one of these classes with one of my favorite teachers who tapped her practice into the season change, describing the coming of spring as a time of “breaking open”—winter “breaking open” to spring, spring to summer, and the visual struck me as both violent and kind. 

A woman about seven months pregnant was practicing a few rows ahead of me. At the end of class I overheard my teacher asking her when it would be time for her “breaking open.” Fifteen or sixteen weeks pregnant at the time and not quite showing yet, I thought silently about her question. In six-month time, I too, would be broken open, the visual both violent and (after nine months of lending your body to another being) kind. 

Our lives, dictated by the seasons, are built upon a foundation of “broken open” moments, some painful, some of which bring with them immense joy. After a decade of battling breast cancer, after a decade of persevering and refusing to allow herself to ever be defeated by the disease, a time came when my mother got really sick, and would not recover. Those dark days in brightly lit hospital hallways were endless and raw. My husband described that time as the wound wide open, broken open, red and angry and untouchable. In the days after my mother passed, he described it as a time in which that wound could now slowly close, a stitch for every year that passes. I still think about his beautiful analogy often, and how right he was in understanding how we heal, and our capacity to feel whole again after pieces of ourselves have been broken open. 

In September, there is a new “breaking open” waiting for us. But instead of a wound, it’s a broken open body, a broken open heart, as we make space for new life. I think about how everything will change, be rearranged and turned upside down. I think about how grateful I am for this opportunity to be vulnerable, and frightened, and joyful, and scared, all at once. 

I’ve carried my teacher’s words with me these past few weeks, unable to let them go. I think about the cherry blossoms in downtown Washington, D.C., a mile away from my home, blooming now after a stalled “breaking open,” their pink-pedaled glory peaking for a fleeting few days, their short window a violent show of color, a kind reminder that spring, and change, and new life, are finally here.

Springtime blossoms in Washington, D.C.

   -Yaz
We're giving a way a free copy of Glennon's book, Carry On, Warrior. To enter to win, share this blog on your social media pages and tag @thehonestmomproject. 

Thank You

Here's what I learned from the readers of yesterday's post (short and sweet).

You guys get it. You completely get it. And I thank you for not judging. (And even if you did, you kept it silent--away from my eyes and ears--and I thank you for that as well.)

There are so many of you that said in a confidential way (emails, messages, texts), "Me too." For every teensy little bit of fear that I had in putting it out there, you have those same fears. You have had similar experiences, and I thank you for reaching out and sharing them. Thank you for allowing me to provide that outlet for you.

Lastly, many of you pointed out something that had not yet occurred to me, and something I will keep echoing in my heart: even though it may feel like it, what is happening to my kids is not happening to me. It is their experience on its own; for as painful as it may be for me, it isn't for them, and I need to really separate the experiences.

I appreciate your support of The Honest Mom Project, and our writers/mothers/fathers/fearless warriors, and our sharing of experiences. You have made this a safe community of mutual support and that--above any far-reaching dreams I may have for this--that is number one.

Achieved.

Thank you.

We'll post our second Momastery Messy, Beautiful Warrior essay tomorrow.

-Kristin

When My Four-Year-Old Went on a Diet--My Messy Beautiful

This essay and the Honest Mom Project are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

This is one of those posts that you let the mouse hover over the “publish” button multiple times before you actually click it.

Putting something so incredibly personal to the world takes a strength I know other people think I have, but one my heart teeters on and says, “Maybe you don’t.”

Be brave, little self.

This community exists for honesty, so honest I will be.

Brutally, beautifully honest.

Brutiful.

The battle began when I was eight. The pediatrician sent my too-much-ice-cream-not-enough-exercise belly to a nutritionist and cholesterol doctor. I was asked to pick my favorite plastic foods to make a complete meal (cake and pizza anyone?) and shown a chart of lines and curves while I heard a skinny old man tell me I would always be "heavy."

When I was twelve I had some sort of soccer progress parent-coach-player conference where my coaches told me if I “dropped a few pounds” I'd be a whole lot faster.

While attempting a back handspring in high school, a coach remarked that "Maybe if you work on toning that core this would get easier for you.”

Without dragging you, dear reader, into the details that followed, I think it will suffice to say that those things build inside your head.

And they stay with you.

They stayed with me.

A really good therapist, a supportive family, an encouraging husband, and a whole lotta yoga classes have taken most of it away.

But it stays with me--a teensy little bit is always there.

When my oldest son, Will, was an infant I was obsessed with the food that went into his body. My mom gave him lunchmeat at 10 months old and I nearly flipped out. Okay no, I totally flipped out. We were organic, all the way, baby. All. The. Way.

But then I came out of that newish parent fog and realized that hot dogs and mac and cheese were a freaking Godsend, and so were lollipops and cookies for bribery, and I began incorporating them into our weekly grocery lists.

When Will was three, he was heads above his peers. “He’s only three?!” people at the park would remark. “He’s so BIG.” My five-foot-half-inch frame (only short people add the halves) would sarcastically shoot back, “He gets it from me.”

At about three and a half Will also became pounds heavier than his peers.

“Keek, you were the same way,” my dad reassured me. “Do NOT let this get to you. He is NOT abnormal.”

“Keek,” my husband would say, “You can’t let your own neuroses about weight and body image start to affect your perception of Will.”

Oh they were right. They were right right right right RIGHT.

But there were days I’d swear Will was just fine, and the next he would look, well, BIG.

At his four-year well visit he was one percentage point on the side of “normal” on that ugly curved chart.

At four and a half, we had a problem.

I was concerned. It wasn’t right. I didn’t want this to be just my neurotic damaged brain, but I also didn’t want him to be asked what football team he was going to be playing defense for “with a build like that” (thank you pea-brain muscle man at the gym).

So we went to his pediatrician.

And she showed me that curved chart.

She mentioned something about “two hundred pounds in high school on this curve.”

And the part of my brain that had been through this 25 years ago wanted to run from the room; it wanted to cry; it wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore; it wanted to wrap up my little big kid in my arms and tell him that he didn’t have to go through this, too.

But honestly? The only person going through this was me.

She nodded as I spilled a lot of my experience, family history, and the stuff that has stayed with me. I wanted her to pat me on the arm and tell me it was okay.

Instead, she put him on a diet.

(Really, in her best Dr. Phil, she was saying, “It’s not about YOU!”)

She recommended a nutritionist.

We had to go get blood work.

This was déja vu at its finest. Or worst.

For the blood work he was a champ, while I winced (okay, nearly passed out) in the corner--mostly because I hate blood and needles and that’s usually the case--but partially out of fear for him.

What would this do to him?

But that’s this brutiful thing, you see, because it hasn’t done anything to him. Just me.

This isn’t 1988. Today, in the same breath in which we talk about this crazy obesity epidemic going on in our world and berate the country’s fattest city, we also have a sensitivity to weight issues that didn’t exist so many years ago.

My husband and I, we pump up Will, like a personal trainer with Rocky theme music and arms-in-the-air victory dances. We’re not handing him trophies with every vegetable eaten, but we are parading more than ever that it’s cool to be strong, and strong is eating healthy, and strong is feeling GOOD.

Hear that, self? Strong is good! Eating healthy is good! YOU, therefore, are strong and healthy! That feels better than good--it feels amazing!

Know what else feels good? Doing the right thing for him.

Doing the right thing for him with the right approach--one that builds his self-esteem and makes him feel strong.

In helping him transform both his lifestyle and ours, he has made me strong.

He doesn’t even know it.

-Kristin

We're giving a way a free copy of Glennon's book, Carry On, Warrior. To enter to win, share this blog on your social media pages and tag @thehonestmomproject.