Summer Bucket List

"Hope today goes okay," Greg whispered as he kissed my forehead goodbye this morning.

"It's day one," I said. "In the bag."

Summer break officially began today, and we hit the ground running--barber shop at 8:30 this morning was smooth sailing and things were going so well I just kept pushing that luck--Target AND Kroger. We made it home long enough to unload before what I assumed would be a quick trip to the vet with our newest kitty who is annoyingly peeing in baskets of clean laundry.

"Oh we will totally just run there and then eat lunch when we get home," I thought.

Only when we got there, sitting in the waiting room was an old couple with red-rimmed eyes and a pile of crumpled kleenex surrounding their very old cocker spaniel, and my boys immediately began using the dog scale as their own mini trampoline/body building pose stage and I knew we were doomed.

Doomed.

An hour later, we were home (and the old cocker spaniel was not) and since it was too early for wine, I made lunch.

Table ready, I wrangled the boys and then I put this in front of them:

We filled this little "summer bucket" a few weeks back on a Sunday evening when Greg asked me what I was going to do with them all summer.

So as a family of four we brainstormed a few ideas and they were horrific.

Like, seriously, am I really going to successfully do any of these?

Let's be honest: no. No I am not. Because the key word is "successfully." I am going to attempt the heck out of them, that I promise.

So on that brainstorming night, I asked Greg to go get me a piece of paper to write these awesome ideas down.

Generally, when you ask someone to get you a piece of paper, they return with a clean piece of paper that has space for which you can put words.

He returned with this:

I took it as an omen, that it was not only the crazed minion, but a drawing that Will had taken aggression out on and scribbled on angrily.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Why can't you use the back?" he replied.

Yeah no.

So I retrieved paper on my own and wrote down those (mostly) far-fetched summer bucket list ideas.

The idea is this: every Monday, the boys and I will select an idea to be completed at some point that week (most of the ideas are sort of a day-long adventure), and then each Monday, you can read about our adventure right here, all summer long.

Maybe we will inspire you to create a bucket list of your own.

Or not.

Maybe you have a bucket list full of ideas that are far easier than ours--do share in the comments below!

Let the summer begin!

-Kristin

Right Where We Need To Be

Last week on the Honest Mom Instagram feed I posted a photo about not wanting to wallow in anymore sadness from the bad news that seems to be hitting our family from every angle. We unplugged from everything that night and drank orangeritas--heavy on the tequila--and made a dinner that we typically reserved for December holidays that made our house smell like home and familiar while a thunderstorm rocked the trees outside our house and I hoped that this little life storm would pass quickly. Reid put on goggles and danced his pants-less self around the family room with a pirate sword in hand and I let myself laugh from a place that wasn't anticipating the next piece of sadness.

But like this year has been, it found us again on Friday, and I began to wonder if this house we moved into not even a year ago was cursed. Did we pick a house that was full of rotten karma? Did we pick a spot in the world with a permanent gray cloud over it? And yeah, I blamed the house, because...Because!!

I spent the weekend with our neighbors--yard working, happy houring, brunching, laughing, crying, hugging; and I spent it with my momma friends--birthday partying, snow cone eating, nose wiping, band-aid applying; and I spent it with those extra special twenty-plus-year-long friends--coffee drinking, belly laughing, reminiscing, story-telling--and I had the most wonderful epiphany that I so desperately needed:

We are exactly where we need to be, bad year or not, placed just so because of the people that are nearby, that we share the life with.

I'm getting a lot of comfort from that.

Life and storms and dancing in the rain and blah blah blah--that's all grand to do by yourself, but who's going to hold your hand and do it with you? Who hands you the umbrella and the Wellies and finds the biggest puddles and brings the wireless Bose speaker with the pre-made iTunes thunderstorm soundtrack?

I need these people, and I'm feeling oh-so-grateful not just for them, but for this new mindset of weathering the storm with them.

-Kristin

Glennon, Momastery, and Baes

As is usually the case in the middle of May every year, I am furiously cramming present tense verbs and vocabulary phrases from October in preparation for final exams.

To keep things interesting when reviewing adjectives, I pull up photos of celebrities and we take turns professing undying love and adoration for people like Justin Timberlake and crying foul and declaring hatred against such poor souls like Justin Bieber.

While reviewing today, I pulled up a photo of Jennifer Lawrence, and my female students declared (in English) that she was “bae.” (Pronounced bay.)

I consider myself pretty “hip” to the “lingo” (and using those words right there makes me so.not.cool at all) and I was stumped.

“Use it in a sentence,” I said.

“You know, like, she’s bae,” they replied.

“Can you spell it? Like, is she a body of water?” I asked.

“Bae is an acronym, Mrs. Kauffman. It means ‘Before Anyone Else.’ Jennifer Lawrence is someone you would pick before anyone else. She’s bae. Your bestie is someone you would pick before anyone else. She’s bae.”

“Got it.” I said. “It’s the most important people in your life--the ones who mean the most to you.”

“Totes,” they said.

(They really talk like that. They do.)

Yesterday afternoon, I got to sit with 500 baes. We all came together to hear Glennon Melton from momastery speak (recall our collaboration on her Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project here, here, and here).

For two hours I sat snuggled among three of my favorites, friends from forever ago and friends from now.

My baes.

So many things Glennon said came to me again and again throughout the rest of the evening and through today--so many one-liners and quotes and words of wisdom, not only on parenting but on marriage, and family, and faith, and being good and kind and love.

"We belong to each other," Glennon said.

I have processed and I am sure I will continue to do so as I read and re-read her words and contemplate what aspects of me I should apply them to in this moment, but there’s a story I’ve been wanting to share for a few weeks, and now seems appropriate.

Last week, momastery launched another Love Flash Mob, in which they tell people’s stories and then the momastery community gives--monetarily--to support the cause.

This Love Flash Mob in particular went to families with cancer--families who lost, families still fighting, but above all, families who need.

I gave--I had to--and I did so because two weeks ago, our next door neighbor (who also happens to have two boys and I don’t know about you but I have a really hard time these days not putting myself into someone else’s shoes--Elizabeth tackled that topic last week) was diagnosed with breast cancer.

She called me in the middle of a school day and I thought our house was on fire so I answered and there she was and even though I haven’t even known her for a year, I’ve mulled decorating choices with her and laughed with her at happy hours and a christmas party and launched things from a catapult in her front yard and borrowed a thermometer from her and drank more bottles of wine with her than I would even be able to count and so I let those silent tears roll down my cheeks as her voice said all it needed to say.

That night, our little cul-de-sac of women, we stood in someone’s driveway in a circle--six of us little motherhens protecting our bae.

As women do, we laughed and we cried and we shook it out Flo and the Machine style and we sort of silently declared in this circle of power that she would beat it. There really isn’t any other option in our minds or hers and so that is what it will be and as she begins treatment next week, and for as long as she needs us to be, she will be Before Anyone Else.

Among the many things Glennon said yesterday and has said since she began momastery: We belong to each other. So whether it’s cancer, or pre-school car pool, or the PTA, or five-year-old soccer, or yoga class, or running groups, or after-prom committee, or a blog that we set up so that people feel a little less alone, we are the community that we create.

We are each other’s baes.

-Kristin

The Class of 2027

After our great Kindergarten debate a few months ago, last Monday I found myself listening to Will's future kindergarten teachers coo at me (literally--they were cooing--those voices!) about making sure my kid knows how to button and zip his own pants, and about how he has to know his letters and sounds by Halloween because kindergarten isn't about play kitchens and dress up anymore. I attended the meeting with another mom who introduced me to some "veteran" parents--this meeting was for their last kid, their baby, and they were so NOT apprehensive or nervous that one might even call them "Cool as a cucumber."

Then they played this

and the entire room was full of mascara-stained cheeks and sniffles--the veteran parents more than anyone!--so much so that the next person to speak was the school's guidance counselor and even she was having a hard time composing herself. I had this sudden realization that sending Will to kindergarten is only the beginning of hard things, I think, especially when they promised us we could follow the buses to the building and they would have extra boxes of Kleenex available on that first day.

They suggested we practice those must-know letters and sounds on plates of rice or sand, "Or you can find plenty more ideas on Pinterest," as though every mother in the room spent daily naptimes on there anyway (and they probably do), and I began to frantically plan out our rapidly approaching summer: breakfast, immediately followed by thirty minutes of "school" and then rewarded with a show, and I'd better dust off that Pinterest account and start finding literacy ideas because come November 1st, there would be intervention groups for kids who don't know their lower case letters and sounds and to my teacher's brain, that sounded horrifying.

Satisfied with my plan (which also included memorizing our home address, adding numbers one through ten, and being able to spell "Kauffman"--all things the teachers recommended!), my thoughts moved ahead in time, in no particular order to:

• transition meetings from elementary to junior high and junior high to high school
• college prep meetings
• college visits
• prom photos
• driver's license
• graduations
• moving in to college

and before long I had bawled my way through milestones that are literally a decade or longer away. 

I mean, he's the class of 2027. Is that even a year?!

Now would be a good time for me to say something appropriate about savoring the moments of him being so small, but those moments are past, friends. I don't even have to bend over to kiss the top of his head, and he'd much rather fly through the sky jumping off a swing then sit in a stroller and take in the sights. Oh sure--he's still young, and he loves a good hug and a snuggle during Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and he needs me and Greg, and he cries when we take away the sword for hitting his little brother or when we serve green vegetables for dinner--but my little whispers to "Stay small!" aren't audible at all. 

Instead I will keep gawking and exclaiming every time I buy another shoe size up, or notice his pants are too short; I will marvel at his vocabulary (and ability to spell his last name because we will get that, too, dammit!); I will clutch that bus pass in some adorable cartoon animal shape with yarn attached on August 25th and think, "No freaking WAY are you big enough to do this!" in much the same way I will clutch car keys and Algebra tests and acceptance letters and diplomas (I'm being assuming here, but I'll just call it "positive" and "optimistic").  

And there in front of me will be my big kid, whispering, "But I am." 

And that will inspire 987 more blog posts. 

-Kristin

Wanna Do Yoga?

I get tired of being the baseball pitcher.

And sometimes I get bored being the swing pusher, the scooter balancer, the Robin to the Batman, the damsel in distress, the traffic police officer, the Lego fuel truck builder, the worm inspector, the stink bug flusher, the fort wrecker, the obstacle course developer, the water balloon filler, and the one who comes up with the next creative activity we are going to do next.

With Greg out of town more often than not these days, I look around for new ideas that are easy, to keep me going, especially as the witching hour is winding down and I need to make it just twenty more minutes to bedtime.

So a month or so ago, when Reid grabbed a book we hadn't read in ages, and I asked Will if he wanted to join us, our new bedtime routine began.

Wanna do yoga?

At Will's baby shower, a long time friend gave us this book:

which I have now sent to many friends. It has been the greatest vehicle in introducing yoga to my kids, despite the fact they have both been exposed to yoga since they were the size of peanuts. Both kids tumbled and flipped as I taught nine months of yoga classes with them in my belly. Both kids have run barefoot around a yoga studio and flown airplane with me in partner yoga stunts.

Both kids could point out Buddha in a cheap gift shop, and tell you that "namaste" (and even pronounced "mamastay") means something about light in everyone.

And both kids can OM, and they close their eyes tight, and they shout out a person's name ("Daddy!" "Jorgie!" "Uncle Shawn!") and sometimes they open their arms wide and squeeze themselves as though they are hugging whoever they are thinking about.

It's in the split second after we OM as a little group that I think I'm doing an okay job (those moments are fleeting, aren't they?), and that the roles I play every day in their lives--baseball pitcher and sidewalk chalk artist, and even yogi--aren't nearly as important as the role I play as "mom."

Addendum: Last night I was thinking, What if we are raising the next generation of yogis? What if kids of yoga teachers and yoga doers started following in their parents' footsteps the same way soccer players and football players and singers tend to do? Wouldn't this be a calmer, more peaceful and loving world? I think so.
-Kristin

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

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

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. 
 

Tell Me A Story About You

Recently, Will has departed from his typical bedtime routine of three books read aloud--those beautifully illustrated, short, kids-section-at-the-library books at bedtime--and he has found an interest in chapter books, poems, and auto-biographies.

Let's start with those chapter books.

Really. Long. Chapter books.

And although I at first shuttered at the thought of reading Captain Underpants (hand-me-downs from a friend and there are no chapter breaks!) I am now perfectly content because I hid Monsieur Underpants and dug out all of my favorites as a child--we are nearly finished with Judy Blume's Superfudge, and I have loved reading aloud every word--even having smile-inducing flashbacks to some of the voices my first grade teacher, Mrs. Bennett, used when she read it to our class so many years ago.

#nostalgia

(I did have to censor a certain part concerning the truth about Santa.)

Because there are no pictures to look at, I find instead that Will is looking at me.

He watches my mouth move. And occasionally he stops me to point out that my teeth are a bit yellow.

"If you slept past 6 a.m. on any given day, I wouldn't have to drink so much coffee and my teeth might be whiter," is what I want to say, but instead I remind him it's okay to notice people's flaws, but not okay to tell them.

One chapter is all he gets, as they are quite long, but lately he has begged for one more little thing to be read, and so we found my old Shel Silverstein books. I am in charge of picking the one poem we get to read (to receive power from a four-year-old is divine), and I have a hard time selecting my favorite old poems from Shel. Ickle Me Pickle Me Tickle Me Too, anyone?

Post-poem, we turn out the lights and he immediately demands, "Tell me a story about you!" He picks the age, and I rack my brain for something even remotely interesting that happened when I was seven.

Or thirteen.

Or twenty-two.

(I have a particularly difficult time finding stories when he gives me the age of sixty-eight.)

It's a random little routine, but one that works for him.

Last night, after reading about Fudge's new bird, Uncle Feathers, I selected Shel Silverstein's poem, The Bridge.

“The bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.”

I closed the book. I was all kinds of choked up. 

"You know how you always ask me to tell you stories about me? And I share with you all of the things I've done and the places I've been? Those stories will only get you halfway there. You have to take the rest of the journey alone, and experience things so that they are stored in your memory and you can share them one day." 

"Why do I have to go alone?" he asked. 

"Because I can't hold your hand forever," I said. 

Little tears were forming in my eyes and that lump was in the back of my throat and I was picturing sending him off to kindergarten, high school, college, and releasing his little hand from mine and sending him into the great big world waiting to hand him his next adventure.

It was a moment. I was having a moment. It was beautiful.

He quickly took both of his hands, put them over his eyes, and paused. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

"PEEKABOO!" he screamed. 

He laughed.

"Poems are dumb," he declared. "Tell me a story about you!" 

Moment over. Clearly, he's not ready for me to release that hand just yet either. Back to the routine.

-Kristin

She Let Go

Sometimes as parents we have struggles that we want so desperately to share but never do.

Sometimes we just want someone to take our hand and say, "Me too," or at the very least, "I have a friend who," and just hearing that makes us feel a little less alone.

Sometimes we just keep the struggles to ourselves, out of fear in sharing or fear in sounding like a burden.

Sometimes we work through those struggles and we triumph. Or not.

Sometimes we just need to read the most perfect words at the most perfect time.

I love these words. Hope you will, too.

Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of fear.

She let go of judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.
She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.
Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She just let go.
She let go of all the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.
She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.
She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t utter one word.
She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations.
No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing.
Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her.

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.

Here’s to giving ourselves the gift of letting go…

There’s only one guru ~ you.

The author of this poem is unclear.  A few sites list Ernest Holmes as the author, another Jennifer Eckert Bernau and still another Rev. Safire Rose.

-Kristin

The Spring Break SAHM Shower

I get to play the SAHM role quite a bit during my various teacher holidays.

Today started Spring Break.

I decided to "sleep in" (7 a.m.) and enjoy a leisurely morning.

At 9 a.m., it was time to shower. While my usual work day showers start at 5:30 a.m., and I'm groggy and tired and sad that I'm not still in bed, I'll take it over the 9 a.m. SAHM shower.

First I sat--nearly naked--on the cold tile floor to read Hop on Pop to Reid, who was crying that I was even getting in the shower in the first place. You know that glass door that would separate us is pretty much the same as me being in another country.

I then ran into the water before he could reattach those little fingers to my wrist and whack me with the book, but the glass door just made him cry harder. (So at this point, I'd actually rather be in another country.)

After attempts at singing to him and playing a lame game of hide-and-seek with my washcloth, I decided to send him on an errand.

Which turned into ten errands.

Which is how I ended up with an assortment of nail polishes, and the chapstick and moisturizer from my nightstand with me. In the shower.

I think I'll be getting up at 5:30 a.m. tomorrow to shower in peace.

-Kristin

Spilled Milk

Last week, one of my eighth grade students posed this question:

"Mrs. Kauffman. What do you, like, DO, on Instagram?"

I thought--but not for too long--and asked her to clarify. So she did.

"I mean, like, what do you look at on there?"

I decided this was a valid question. Teachers sleep at school, never go home, never wear pajamas, and they certainly don't take selfies OR peruse social media.

So I rambled off a list of people I follow, in this order: DIYers, photographers, fashion bloggers, and moms.

Which brings me to today's post.

I was perusing my IG feed yesterday when I read a mini blog posted by a photographer (I happen to love the IG mini blog--an anecdote of inspiration) about spilled milk.

Her father had given her a story about a mom who, when her son spilled a gallon of milk on the floor, used the experience to teach a lesson: well, how should we clean it up? What tools should we use? And further, upon completion of the clean up, she let him practice carrying a full jug outside so he could get used to the awkward shiftiness of it.

Genius.

So you mean, like this mom?

I so want to be her.

I do. 

I wish wish WISH that I could repel flying orange soda with the hose from the kitchen sink and BE COMPLETELY OKAY with that. 

I wish that when milk goes tumbling across my kitchen table to form a lake so that the table looks like an enormous boat sailing in a sea of white that I DO NOT GET ANGRY. 

I wish that when these things happened I would laugh and say, "That's what paper towels are for!" 

Or even just maybe say, "Son, tell me, what do you think we should use to clean this up? No worries if you get it wrong the first three times and we actually end up just smearing warm milk film or better yet--sticky apple juice--all over the floor and into the crevices of cabinets. Mistakes happen. Let's learn!" 

I can't. 

Before we had kids, I watched one of those mom paper towel commercials and I said to Greg, "That'll be me. It's just milk. You clean it up. I will never get mad at my kids for doing that." 

Greg laughed hysterically and promised me he'd remind me of that declaration time and time again.

And he has.

But the truth is--me being honest, here--there are usually 38 other things going on when the milk spills, and it is usually preceded by a "PLEASE don't do that" (or ten) and someone is at the door, the dogs are barking, my pants are being yanked on because grapes are not cut up into miniscule pieces quickly enough, and the absolute last thing I want to do is STOP and clean it up. The chaos that was 38 things becomes the chaos that is now 39, and the whining intensifies and the dogs bark louder, and what was just a little Fred Astaire tap dance across my nerves becomes an all out marching band stomp and the only thing I want to do is YELL. 

If I did just stop, and take that deep breath, and ignore the 38 things, and gain a little perspective on the fact that it's JUST spilled milk and no one is choking or bleeding or with dangling appendage, then maybe I would find myself responding to more teachable moments and less moments of anger.

I would also have more time to take selfies. 

#chaos

#honestmom

#widn

I think the first step is being aware. Thank you, random photographer on my IG feed, for reminding me that I need to spend more time teaching and less time yelling. It's the truth in my classroom and needs to be the same in my home. 

We are so not starting these moments with a busted gallon of milk in the kitchen.

-Kristin